RILEY

After Dez drops me off, I hunker down at home. I go upstairs and take Ms. Dunn’s box over to the window seat in my room. Outside, I can see Dez helping Mrs. Andre with her windows, just like he does every year. The trees, blowing in the breeze, are still holding on to half their leaves, but the green has given way to orange and it seems to make the sky glow around them.

The wind picks up, stirring the fallen leaves and blowing on all the campaign signs staked in the yards. Devlin’s face expands and contracts all over our block. He’s everywhere—watching.

You don’t even see the signs for Roger Michelson—the only person brave enough to run against Devlin. Mr. Michelson owns the auto parts store in town. His heart is in the right place, but he’s not cut out for politics. As far as our citizens are concerned, Devlin’s got the election in the bag.

I open the box and take out Ms. Dunn’s Degas statues one by one. The dancers are in various poses: an arabesque, fourth position, and one stands examining the sole of her foot. Ms. Dunn’s initials are engraved on the bottom of each one. She loved these statues. They’re just replicas, but she always said they reminded her of her childhood, sitting backstage while her mother danced. There’s a statue missing, though. Ms. Dunn’s favorite—The Little Dancer. I dig through the box but it’s not in here. I remember playing with it while Dez was setting up the camera, that last day we filmed in her classroom.

Who would have taken it?

I continue to search through the box, and all that remains are books and CDs. I examine each item, hoping it will tell me something about who hurt her. It’s intimate and personal and I feel like I shouldn’t have this stuff. I’m just about to shut the box when I find the framed photograph of Ms. Dunn’s parents, the one she proudly displayed on her shelf. She told me they died when she was sixteen. I don’t think she ever got over it. She had no other family, and she never hung out in town with friends or even with other teachers. She was a loner. Our school was her life.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. I miss her so much.

The photo is black and white. Ms. Dunn’s mom is dressed for the ballet, clad in toe shoes and a tutu, and her dad has his arms wrapped around her waist.

It’s beautiful.

I bring it over to my own shelf and set it next to my collection of Audrey Hepburn movies. When I pull out the stand attached to the back of the frame, it wiggles.

I turn it over to secure it, and find a piece of yellow paper sticking out of the back. Carefully, I open the back of the frame.

And nearly a dozen papers flitter to the ground.

They’re covered in names and dates. Notes to attorneys, school board minutes, correspondence with Ron Devlin.

I pour over every scrap of info. I don’t understand all of it, but one thing is obvious: Ms. Dunn had to be scared to hide it.

“Chica!” Libby yells as she storms into my room.

She wakes me up and I jump, knocking the frame and papers to the floor. I’ve fallen asleep in my pile of clues. The nightmares are catching up with me.

“Sorry I’m a little early,” she says. “I had to get out of the house. Our dinner tonight was something they’d have on the space shuttle. Most of it came from a powdered substance, Riley. Powder. Instant potatoes and fake gravy. Even the milk came from powder, if you can believe it. And then there was the vacuum-sealed mystery meat. I can’t begin to tell you what it smelled like. I think my family has hit an all-time low.”

I blink myself into the present as Libby talks. Once she comes into focus, I pick up Ms. Dunn’s papers, throw everything in the box, and slide it under my bed.

There’s no way Libby could be involved, and I feel so bad for even thinking it. She’s had such a hard time at home.

“What’s that?” Libby points to the box.

“Uh, nothing.” I stand in front of my bed, guarding the clues.

“Right.” She takes a step forward. “Come on, tell.”

“Just some of Ms. Dunn’s things.” I keep my eyes glued to hers.

“Oh, why?” Libby plays it cool, not frazzled at all.

See, she didn’t have anything to do with it.

“Homer wanted me to have her stuff. They finally cleaned out her classroom.”

There has to be a perfectly good explanation for why Libby was there that day.

“Really.” She flushes and swallows.

Or, maybe not.

Libby quickly changes the subject. “Well, forget about all that for tonight—we need to get moving.” She claps her hands together. “We have plans, remember?”

I take inventory of her and immediately know what she has in mind. She’s dressed in black from head to toe and has a bag of supplies.

“For real, Libby?” I crash into my pillow. “Dirty Deeds, tonight?”

I reach for my phone and it tells me I slept for over two hours. It also says I’ve missed three calls from Dez.

“Yes,” Libby says. “I’m so itching for a little Tori revenge. Aren’t you?”

When we were in junior high and had too much time on our hands, we came up with a new pastime called “Dirty Deeds”—it consisted of activities from TPing houses and stealing beer from garage refrigerators to other, more creative pranks. We like to bring back those good ol’ days every now and then. For fun … or revenge. Tonight, however, I want to pass.

I break it to her. “I’m so not up for it. You go, have fun, send me a postcard.”

“Nuh-uh,” Libby says, pulling me upright. “Come on, I’m not letting you go all suicide hotline on me. You need to get out.”

Ah, she thinks I’m upset because of Emma—but I haven’t even thought of her tonight. Okay, I’ve thought of her but I haven’t obsessed over her. It’s Libby who has me stressed.

Knowing I won’t win this battle, I grab my phone and put out the SOS, hoping Dez will pick up.

He does, so I put him on speaker.

“Dude, you need to help me,” I tell him.

“Ah, dude,” Dez says in his I’m irritated but not going to admit it tone. He hates when I call him “dude.” “What happened? I thought we were going to hang out tonight.”

“Sorry, I fell asleep, and now Libby is kidnapping me.”

I don’t want to ditch Dez. Still, I need to spend some time with Libby and find a way to ask her about the video. It’s not just something I can bring up between classes at school.

Libby leans into my phone. “Dez, we need to do something, stat. Our girl here is depressed. She’s even talking about going back to boys again, if you can believe it. This is serious shit.”

I can’t believe my ears. So much for discretion. I push Libby away from the phone, killing her slowly with my death glare.

“What?” she whispers. “It’s only Dez.”

“Wait,” Dez yells. “Riley, what is she talking about?”

I can hear Dez’s stepdad, Bernie, in the background, “Stop yelling, Desmond. You know, you two are just like an old married couple.”

“Uh, privacy?” Dez yells back. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I tell him, trying to do damage control. “Libby’s just being dramatic.”

“Oh,” Dez finally says. He sounds almost disappointed.

“Hey, why don’t you come with us tonight?”

“I’m actually meeting Allie later,” he says.

Right—Allie, the film camp girl. It’s nice at least one of us has a love life. “This late?”

“Yeah, well, while you were sleeping, she called. Her parents are out of town for the night.”

I close my eyes, not even wanting to think about what he has planned. I hate that I feel that twinge of jealousy again.

“You sure?” My voice is weak. Pitiful.

“Yeah. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He doesn’t even wait for an answer before he hangs up.

Click.

Libby grunts. “That guy is so moody.”

“Not moody,” I say, defending him. “That’s just Dez.”

“Well, if you really decide to go back to boys, promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“That you won’t date him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too controlling, and I know I’d never get to see you.”

Not controlling. He just doesn’t trust you. “Don’t worry. I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening.”

“Good.” Libby looks at me and grins. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I get up with a terrible feeling of dread. As much as I want to hang out with my friend and find out what she knows, get a little revenge on our resident mean girl, and forget about everything from the week, I can’t help feeling that something bad’s going to happen.