Fourteen

Minutes later I’m in homeroom, pretending to work on a history assignment but actually sneak-reading my notes. No matter how many times I calculate the dates and names, I come to the same conclusion.

Ruby has to be guilty.

Only she isn’t …

How could I make such an epic mistake? I go through the list again, but the dates don’t fit any of the other girls—they were all too thin last spring. Yet someone is guilty. It’s no accident that the day after I flaunt the locket, it gets stolen. The hidden curl is more than a memento; it’s evidence.

So which girl is guilty?

I read through the list again, swearing, crossing each name off until there’s no one left. But how is this possible? And I have a feeling, like an itch I can’t reach, that I’m missing an important clue …

The first batch of Singing Star auditions are today, and Amerie is a blur rushing through halls. While she doesn’t have time for friends, I’m sure she’s making time for Philippe. I’m relieved we don’t have to audition until tomorrow. If we make it, we’ll perform in the finals on Friday.

Word must have leaked that the “freaky goth” is now a Cotton Candy Cowgirl. Kids and teachers stop me in the halls to wish me luck in the contest. When I see Ruby studying in the library with a chubby blond girl wearing pink braces, she tilts her head toward her friend (Gabrielle, I assume) and gives me a thumbs-up. My comforting status of “outsider” has shifted to “involved.”

But the weirdest moment occurs between classes. When I’m crossing the quad, I pass five guys in blue letter jackets. Wiley doesn’t even notice me, or maybe he’s forgotten we met in detention. But Jay’s dark eyes find me. He offers me a gloating smile and a sly wink. Then he swaggers down the walkway with his friends.

I’m sweating, even though the weather is close to freezing and I’m bundled in layers. My emotions tumble in a landslide of confliction. I’m intrigued, disgusted, insulted, and yet oddly excited. Jay is so arrogant, assuming I’m no threat to him. But no one controls me.

The Grin Reaper better watch out.

When the bell rings for lunch, I hurry to meet Rune. But I don’t make it far before I hear my name. I look up just as a rush of pink enthusiasm shoves papers into my hand.

“I’ve rewritten the lyrics,” Skarla announces proudly. She’s wearing her CCC outfit even though our group isn’t scheduled to audition today.

“No way!” I object. “We’ll only have a day to practice this.”

“A day is enough. I changed the first and last stanzas so they make more sense.”

“We can’t change everything at the last minute,” I tell her.

“A lot can get done in a day.” Skarla’s smile never falters as she points to the paper in my hand. “Don’t you love these new lyrics?”

I skim the sheet music, groaning because if our song was sappy before, now it’s sappy enough to be bottled and poured over pancakes. I tell Skarla I prefer the old version, but she waves away my objections and insists on a group vote right now.

“Can’t,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”

“This won’t take long,” she insists.

“Five minutes,” I concede, then I reluctantly follow her into the cafeteria.

We join Micqui and Barbee at a back table and immediately get into a heated argument about whether the word “heart” can be rhymed with “breath.” No, the answer is no. But does anyone listen to me? Nope.

By the time I escape to finally join Rune, I can’t find her.

Just great, I think in frustration. Rune will be mad I stood her up. She has a short fuse and can hold grudges forever. I want to explain, but she isn’t by her locker. It’s better to let her cool down, anyway. After watching the auditions, I’ll find Rune and sweeten my apology with donuts.

The auditions are held after school so that everyone can come and cheer on the contestants. When I enter the auditorium, the vast room is packed and echoing with noisy voices. I’m straining my neck looking for the CCCs when they find me.

“Wait till you hear our brilliant new idea!” Skarla’s wearing her pink hat and the brim bounces over her shining eyes.

“What?” I brace myself, still annoyed by her last “brilliant” idea.

She glances around, then tucks her head to whisper, “Too crowded here. Someone might overhear and steal our idea. I’ll explain everything at my house.”

“I thought we weren’t meeting until seven?” I frown.

“Change of plans. We have so much to do we’re practicing right after auditions. My grandparents are making dinner. I assume you like Italian. We have to whip our act into shape, which means working extra hours to win.”

Not so interested in winning, I think. More interested in repairing any damage to my friendship with Rune. But I give up and agree to come.

“I’ll give you a ride, and we can stop by your house to pick up your guitar,” Skarla says.

“I brought my guitar along. It’s in a friend’s car.”

“Good thinking.” Skarla nods in approval. “I hope you’re a quick learner, because I’ve come up with a fantabulous idea. We’ll dazzle the judges by doing more than singing.”

“What?” I ask suspiciously.

Skarla folds her arms to her chest and kicks up her feet. “Clogging.”

I stare at her like she’s talking in a strange language.

“Haven’t you heard of clogging?” Skarla asks. “It’s like tap dancing, country-style. Barbee performs at festivals with a clogging group and she taught me. It’s easy-peasy! You’ll pick up the steps quick like I did.”

“Not going to happen.” I purse my lips together.

“Why not?” Skarla’s hands fly to her cheeks.

“I signed on to play the guitar. Period.”

“But playing the guitar while you clog will wow the judges.”

I want to “wow” her—right in her mouth with my fist. That would be the quickest way to end this torture. And why am I even standing here? I only joined the CCCs to find out which contestant owned the locket. But I haven’t been accused, or arrested for a crime, and only one person at school knows I found the grave. And now I don’t even have the locket anymore.

So I tell them I quit.

“I knew you’d bail on us,” Barbee says angrily.

Micqui gently touches my arm. “Please reconsider. Your playing makes everything sound so good. We need you. you,” she begs. “Please don’t go.”

“You need someone who can play guitar and dance too,” I say. “That’s not me.”

“You’re better than Priscilla,” Micqui says. She looks over to Skarla for help. “Tell her she can’t go. You told me yesterday how impressed you were with her playing and that her talent could help us win.”

Skarla nods. “It’s true. You’re an amazing musician, Thorn. With you playing for us, our chances of winning are huge. I’ll do whatever it takes to win.” The desperation in Skarla’s voice surprises me; it’s like winning the competition is life-and-death important to her.

Something clicks in my head.

I visualize the photograph of the seven fan girls sitting on stage around Philippe. I started off with those seven suspects: Barbee, Micqui, Jessika, Amerie, Ebony Mae, Veronique, and Ruby. Each one has been crossed off my list. No one is left.

But I overlooked someone. How could I miss something so obvious?

There was another girl on stage with Philippe that day, but she wasn’t in the photo—she was behind the camera.

I study Skarla in a new way. She’s friendly, but she’s guarded when it comes to her personal life. I wouldn’t even know that she had a bitter breakup with her boyfriend last year or that her mom’s in prison and her father is dead if Barbee and Micqui hadn’t told me. Skarla is much deeper and more secretive than people know, I now realize. Her cheerful smile is a mask hiding her pain, like the Grin Reaper’s ski mask hides his identity.

“I’ll stay,” I announce abruptly, without actually thinking it through. I just know I need to find out more about Skarla.

“Great! Unlike some people who have no faith, I knew you wouldn’t really quit.” Skarla glances triumphantly at Barbee, who turns away with a scowl.

“But I absolutely positively refuse to dance,” I add firmly.

“As long as you play your guitar, we’ll do the clogging.”

Would she look so relieved if she knew I was only staying in the group to spy on her? If she’s hiding the golden locket and a tragic baby secret, I’ll find out.

Skarla, Barbee, and Micqui take seats close to the stage, but I stay in the back, away from the noisy hustle. Collette, wearing her usual red suit, comes to the podium.

“Welcome to the first round of auditions for the Singing Star contest,” the manager announces. “Philippe and I are honored to be here among all you fine young people.”

She’s not that much older than us, I observe wryly. Maybe ten years, tops.

“As you all know, this fine school is Philippe’s alma mater.” She sweeps her hand to gesture at Philippe, who flashes his mega-watt smile. The audience screams and shouts “Philippe!” so loudly I have to cover my ears.

Collette waves her hands for silence, then wishes all the contestants good luck.

Overhead lights flash, then dim, and the first entrant goes on—a girl with long black braids that she twirls nervously as she squeaks out a Mariah Carey song. And I do mean “squeaks.” The audience groans and there’s silence instead of applause. The girl runs offstage in tears.

The second performer, Veronique, plays a mean keyboard while she sings. The audience and judges obviously love her. I notice fairy wings at a corner of the stage near the judges; Amerie sits two chairs away from Philippe. She applauds, but her gaze shift over to Philippe, luminous and adoring. She’s totally into him … does he feel the same way?

Next up is Jessika, who sings a duet with a perky red-haired girl all dressed in green like a leprechaun. They harmonize well and I’m sure they’ll make the finals.

Several more solo singers go on and only one of them is any good—Ruby. But the song she picked is for a soprano; it’s totally wrong for her, and she’s off-key. It’ll be a crime if she doesn’t make the finals because of poor song choice. After finishing she runs offstage, her face red with shame. When I realize she’ll come past me, I stand up and step into the aisle, blocking her.

“Wait, Ruby.” I gently take her arm.

She stares at me with astonishment. “You again.”

“Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Just saying good luck.”

“Don’t bother. I totally blew it.” Her face reddens and her eyes glint like she’s close to crying. “Missed the high note completely. I’m such a loser.”

“No, you’re not.” I walk with her out of the auditorium. “You were one of the best. I think you’d do better with the right song.”

Sniffling, she shakes her head. “You keep showing up and doing things that help me. What are you? My fairy godmother? Are you going to give me the perfect song with a twist of your magic wand?”

“Sorry, no wand.” I shrug. “But I can suggest some songs.”

“What’s the use? I’ll never make the finals.”

“You don’t know that. If you do make it, switch things up. Sing something deep and soulful.”

“I hate depressing songs. Upbeat songs are more fun.”

“Listen to them, then, but don’t sing them. You need a bluesy song to really belt out and show your range.”

“Like what?”

I try to think of songs, but nothing fits. Then my own melody, “Pest,” jumps into my head, refusing to leave. Ironically, it would be a great match for Ruby, except for small details like there are no lyrics and I never share my songs. But Ruby is looking at me so miserably, and I feel guilty for grilling her earlier, accusing of something far worse than she knows. So I start humming “Pest.”

When I finish, she flashes a smile that lights up her face like a spotlight shining on a diva. “Oh. My. God. That’s so … so amazing. Where can I download it?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a real song … I mean … ” I suck in a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay, if you must know—and don’t repeat this or I’ll have to kill you—I wrote it. But I can’t tell you the lyrics because there aren’t any.”

“Oh … wow. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I can’t even write words for my own songs.”

“Lyrics aren’t hard, but creating a song like that is brilliant.”

“It’s nothing.” I glance down at my army boots.

“Can I hear it again?”

“Well … okay.”

I hum my song a few more times until the final bell rings and kids pour out from the auditorium. I wish Ruby good luck again and hurry toward the parking lot to get my guitar.

The main walkway is crowded so I cut down another path. I take the long route, behind the cafeteria—and glimpse a long black jacket and dark ski mask up ahead. My breath catches. There’s no mistaking the yellow smile on the Grin Reaper’s ski mask.

I start after him, my backpack jostling against my shoulders. I have a good idea what Jay’s up to.

He turns left toward the staff parking lot, where Philippe’s bus is parked. I was right—he’s still out to get revenge on Philippe.

I reach open pavement and see the gleaming tour bus. But I don’t see the Reaper. Could he already be on the bus? But there hasn’t been enough time for him to pick the lock again. Where did he go? I scan the lot for hiding places. I remember him saying that last time, he left an “explosive” DVD for Philippe. What does that mean?

I wait forever—or about five minutes, according to my watch.

But there’s no sign of Jay.

Shrugging, I give up and head toward the student parking lot to meet K.C.

As I approach, I hear shouts and notice a crowd gathering. I wonder if there’s a fight. I don’t want to get near that kind of drama, but I have to go that way to get to K.C.’s car. As I’m wondering how long I’ll have to wait for K.C. to show up and unlock the doors, I see that he’s already there. His back is turned to me, but I know immediately that something is wrong.

Then I see his beautiful rebuilt Ranchero, slashed with ugly smears of paint.

Dark bloody letters drip crude ugly words.

Spelling hate.