Gretchen took a seat in the third row of the auditorium next to Ana. She turned to gaze down the rows of seats as kids filed in for the morning assembly. She looked for Sid. He had said something about sitting with her. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Ana held her phone in her lap and was busily texting someone with both thumbs. She held the phone low behind the seatback in front of her because students weren’t allowed to use their phones during school hours.
Gretchen glimpsed at Devra at the far end of the row. Devra saw her, too, but quickly glanced away. She and Courtney began talking animatedly, their faces close together.
Ana finished her text and slid the phone into her bag. She shook her head hard, straightening her bangs. “How’s it going?”
“A little better,” Gretchen said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking about Friday night.”
Ana nodded solemnly. “I still hear Stacy’s screams in my ears. Last night, I dreamed my house was on fire and I was trapped in my room.”
Gretchen shook her head. “Oh, wow. That’s terrible.”
The auditorium lights dimmed. Principal Hernandez, in his gray suit, strode up the stairs at the side of the stage.
“Did Coach Walker tell you?” Ana asked. “Hernandez banned fire batons. We can’t perform with them anymore.”
“I guess he’s right,” Gretchen murmured.
It’s all my fault, she thought.
She realized Ana was staring at her intently, studying her. She wondered what Ana was really thinking. Did she think Gretchen was a careless idiot who should be punished for what happened to Stacy? Is that what everyone in school thought?
Or was Gretchen being paranoid?
Stacy was so pretty and lively and funny and energetic. Everyone likes Stacy. And now I’m going to be remembered for the rest of my time here as the idiot girl who set Stacy on fire.
“Have you been to the hospital?” Ana asked. “Did you go see Stacy?”
“Well … no,” Gretchen answered, avoiding Ana’s gaze. “But Sid gives me reports about her.”
Ana’s eyes widened in surprise. “You talk to Sid? You’ve been hanging out with him?”
“Kind of.”
Gretchen swallowed. Did she just say something wrong? Ana seemed more than surprised. Her questions sounded like an accusation.
Ana appeared to be studying her even more intently. Gretchen was glad that the auditorium had gone dark, and Hernandez was stepping up behind a podium at the side of the stage.
Four musicians, two men and two women, wearing black suits and white shirts, had taken their seats, facing each other on folding chairs in the center of the stage. The woman holding a tall cello was busily tuning it. The two men sat casually, chatting, violins perched in their laps.
It took Hernandez a while to get everyone quiet. Some guys in the back row were loudly doing a rap song that Gretchen had heard on the radio, pounding the seats in rhythm with their beats, and others were laughing and cheering them on.
“We’re going to enjoy a different kind of music this morning,” Hernandez told them, bringing his mouth too close to the microphone so that his words made popping sounds as he spoke.
“But that’s a classic!” a guy in the back row shouted. Laughter spread down the rows of seats.
Hernandez raised both hands above his head and kept them there until everyone was silent. “We have a special treat this morning,” he announced. “The four members of the Chicagoland Arts String Quartet have graciously come to our school to perform for us.”
A mild burst of applause greeted his announcement. Onstage, the four musicians sat upright, readying their instruments.
“And to make this concert really special,” Hernandez continued, “one of the eleventh-graders from our orchestra will be joining the quartet.”
Gretchen suddenly felt tense. This was Madison’s big moment. She must be so nervous now, Gretchen knew. Maybe that’s why Madison wanted me to come over last night. Just to help her get over her nerves.
Gretchen was suddenly feeling it, too. “Go, Madison! Go, Madison!” she chanted to herself.
“Let’s bring Madison Grossman out to join the quartet,” Hernandez said. He motioned with both hands, and everyone applauded.
Madison strode onto the stage. She wore a white blouse, pleated in the front like a tuxedo shirt, and a long black skirt. She had put her hair up high on her head. She took a funny, exaggerated bow, reacting to the applause, and everyone laughed. The laughter seemed to relax her, and she smiled for the first time.
“Madison is going to join the quartet to play…” Hernandez raised a sheet of paper to his face and read, “… the first two movements of the Mozart Viennese String Quartet Number Eight.”
A pleased smile crossed his face. He gestured to the musicians, turned, and walked off the stage.
Madison sat down on the empty chair facing the cello player. Her violin case stood beside the chair. She bent and raised the case to her lap. One of the women said something to her, and Madison laughed.
She opened the case and lifted out the violin and the bow. Then she snapped the case shut and returned it to the floor beside her chair.
The cello player said something to her. From her seat in the third row in the audience, Gretchen couldn’t hear what they were saying. Some kids shifted in their seats impatiently.
The musicians raised their instruments. The male violinist tapped his bow twice on his instrument. They began to play.
Gretchen watched Madison. Madison’s face was tight, intense, her eyes narrowed on the music stand in front of her. Sitting up straight and stiff, she counted off several measures. Then she raised the violin to her chin.
Gretchen relaxed a little. Madison is doing it. She’s going to be great.
The melodic flow of the strings floated over the auditorium. Gretchen slid down in her seat and raised her knees to the seatback in front of her.
The music was sweet, gentle, very rhythmic and precise.
It lasted only thirty seconds. Then a hideous, high animal scream, a shrill bleat of shock and pain, shot over the auditorium and rang off the walls.
It took Gretchen a few seconds to realize that Madison was the one shrieking and crying.
Madison leaped to her feet and tossed her violin across the stage. She grabbed her neck and dropped to her knees. Cry after cry burst from her throat.
The four musicians jumped up, too. They stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, staring down at Madison as she held her neck and screamed.
“I’m burning! It’s burning! Somebody! Help me! Help! I’m burning!”
Screams rang out across the auditorium. Teachers ran toward the stage.
Gretchen jumped to her feet. She could see that Madison’s neck was a flaming red. Madison gave out one last shriek and, gripping her neck, fell sideways, collapsed to the floor. Bright red blood gushed up from her neck like a fountain. The blood shot up in a wave of scarlet and then splashed down on the stage floor, splashed all around her. Madison didn’t move.
Principal Hernandez was running across the stage now, his necktie flying over his shoulder. He pushed one of the shocked musicians aside and dropped to the stage floor beside Madison.
A horrified hush fell over the auditorium. It was as if someone had taken the volume knob and turned it all the way down to silent. Students stood, gaping wide-eyed, pressing their hands over the seatbacks in front of them.
It was so quiet, Gretchen could hear Hernandez’s imploring pleas as he leaned over Madison, his face close to hers. “Madison? Madison? Please answer me. Can you hear me? Madison?”
Gretchen realized she’d been holding her breath. Her hands were clenched into tight fists. Her stomach had knotted in dread.
“Call a doctor!” a teacher shouted from the edge of the stage.
“Somebody—call 911!” someone else cried.
Leaning over Madison, Hernandez raised a hand. “It may be too late,” he said. “She’s not breathing.”