Chapter 8

Our band director, Mr. Scarberry, was late, so kids were chattering all over the place. One said the two girls had been beaten up and had lots of bruises. Others said they knew who the girls were but weren’t allowed to tell. Skeeter Messler, who has a thing for my sister, handed Ashley a fresh tulip. It looked like one of the flowers that grew outside the building.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” Skeeter said.

“Thanks,” Ashley said, looking like she was trying to smile.

I knew she hated the attention, but the guy just couldn’t help himself. He treated her like a princess. I wanted to shake him and say, “Hello? This is Ashley! She burps and picks broccoli out of her teeth!” But I knew that wouldn’t stop him. He seemed in a trance every time he was around her.

Mr. Scarberry finally walked in with a cup of steaming coffee and said hello to each section of the band. As usual, he opened his black book and called roll. When he came to Tracy Elliot’s name, he stopped, put the pencil to his tongue, made a mark, and moved on.

Everybody knew Tracy was a party girl. She was last chair in a long line of clarinets, even behind Skeeter, who was affectionately called Squeaker by the other woodwinds. Tracy hung around with an eighth grader named Cammy Michaels, and their parents let them stay all day at the bowling alley, the arcade, or the Chapel Hills Mall in Colorado Springs. I guessed they were the ones who had been attacked.