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GIVING LITTLE THOUGHT to the glances and outright stares of the kids he passed, Peter gripped the straps of his backpack at the chest and raced down the hallway like a madman. He could see it in his mind: walking side by side with Brice Maddox to their woodworking class. Unfortunately, he just got out of a class clear across the building from her last one. Having memorized Brice’s schedule, he knew exactly which route to take to intercept her.
Unless . . . she stopped at her locker first.
Did she ever carry extra books to Woodworking? No, just one worn composition book with doodling on the cover. Of course, she stopped at her locker first!
He had to recalculate. Different routes flashed in his mind until he realized which hall he needed to take for the most direct route to her locker. He neared that hall now.
Sneakers squeaking, he rounded the corner.
Roadblocks stood in the way, a huddle of girls on one side and Caitlyn juggling her books directly in his path. One book almost slipping from her hand, catching it, another almost slipping . . .
Desperate to avoid crashing, Peter put on the brakes, sneakers squeaking again. He came within a foot of Caitlyn.
As if he’d just emitted an invisible force, her books tumbled to the floor and she groaned. “What’d you do that for?” She stooped for her books.
“What were you doing? You looked like a clown.” He snatched a folder from the floor, glanced at the big-eyed owl on the cover, and handed it to her.
“I was trying to organize my books, but they kept shifting.” She regrouped her books and folders on the floor and stood up hugging them, strands of red hair hanging over one eye. “What’s your hurry?”
“I, uh, gotta . . .” No way was he gonna tell her, not unless Brice officially became his girlfriend. Then he’d tell the world. He’d shout it from the rooftops. But for now . . . “Never mind.” Anxious to get going, he adjusted his backpack and squeezed between her and the wall of lockers.
“See you at lunch,” she said as he passed.
“Yeah.” They could share what they’ve each discovered and hope no one overheard them. Or maybe— He turned to her, walking backwards as he spoke. “Hey, let’s all meet outside for lunch.”
“Oh, okay.”
He bolted. As he rounded the next corner, he saw her.
Dressed in camouflage joggers and an olive-green t-shirt, she slammed her locker with her combat boot and strode away, her single composition book at her hip, don’t-mess-with-me in her step.
Picking up his pace, Peter came within a few yards of her. “Hey,” he said too loudly, drawing the attention of a group of kids and another guy at a locker, but not Brice’s attention.
She strode along like a girl with purpose. Nothing bothered her. She had her destination in mind and nothing would stand in her way.
Peter jogged again, closing the distance between them. He was about to slap her arm with the back of his hand in greeting. Not sure she’d like that, he looped his thumbs in the straps of his backpack and simply said, “Hey, what’s up?”
She looked him up and down, let out that cocky laugh, and—wouldn’t you know?—she punched him in the arm in greeting! “Worried you’re gonna be late to Woodworking?”
“What? No.” He rubbed his arm where she’d punched it and forced himself to stop breathing hard as he walked alongside her.
“So why were you running?”
“Uh . . .” I wanted to walk you to class. No, he couldn’t say that. She’d run from anything that hinted of a typical boy-girl relationship. “Getting some exercise.”
Facing forward now, she laughed again, her smile lingering. “Right.”
His insides leaped. The sight of her smile . . . the sound of her laugh . . . he needed more of that. “So, you’re coming over tonight, right? To help bleed the brakes?”
“I guess so. Unless you’ve rigged something up so you can do it yourself.”
“Yeah, I saw a video on the Internet, explained how to go it alone. I’m sure I totally could. But for my first time, I’d rather have someone who knows what they’re doing. And that’s you.”
As they walked along, Peter became vaguely aware of heads turning toward them. A girl at her locker watched them as they passed. She whispered to the girl next to her, who also turned and looked. Two guys glimpsed them too, one doing a double-take.
Peter puffed up inside. Brice never walked through the halls with anyone. But right here, right now, she was walking with him.
“Hey, whatdya think you’re doing?” A petite, lanky girl in a hoodie shot from a locker and stood superwoman style directly in their path. Black eye makeup surrounded dark, angry eyes. She tilted her head to one side.
Brice turned to stone, her mouth becoming a grim line. She gripped her composition book, the muscles in her arm rippling. “Get outta my way.”
“You know who he is, right?” The girl threw Peter a cold glance.
A wave of heat smacked Peter. “Wait? Me? You’re talking about me?”
“Yeah, I know who he is. He’s my partner in Woodworking. Which is where I’m headed. So move.” Chin lifting, Brice stepped toward her.
The other girl held her ground. “He’s one of the Fire Starters, you know, that Catholic group, the ones who probably did that to your house.”
“Wait, what?” Every muscle in Peter’s body tensed. “You’re blaming us? We would never do something like that. In fact, we’re the ones—” He slammed his mouth shut before more words flew out. We’re the ones trying to find out who did it.
“Drop it, Tessia.” With a hand to the girl’s shoulder, Brice shoved her out of the way. “I don’t care who did it.” She moved past her, Tessia flattening herself to the lockers so Brice could get by.
Peter stood stunned for a moment, his gaze connecting with Tessia’s. They glared at each other, communicating nonverbal threats. Don’t even go there, Peter said in his mind. Then Peter doubled his steps to catch up with Brice. “Hey, you don’t believe the Fire Starters had anything to do with it, do you? ’Cuz we would never—”
Walking double-time, Brice flung her hand up, palm towards him. “Chill, brother.”
“Well, I don’t want you to think—”
She stopped outside the woodworking shop and faced him, the hum of machines traveling through the open door. “I don’t think that.”
“Okay. Good.”
She pivoted, turning toward the open door.
Needing to know one more thing, he reached out—doubting that he should’ve, even as he did it—and he grabbed her arm . . . warm, smooth, muscular. “Wait.”
She looked at his hand and then at his eyes, the golden brown around her pupils flaring into smoky green irises. “What?” she asked in a cold, low voice as she tugged free of his grip.
“So, who do you think did it?” His heart hammered erratically.
One eye narrowed and one side of her lip curled up. “You, maybe. To get my attention.”
“Wha . . .” Peter shrunk back. “I-I would never.”
A genuine smile replaced the crooked grin and she laughed. “I’m joking. But it doesn’t matter who did it.” She swung into the classroom.
He followed. “Yes, it does. Just because someone doesn’t like you, doesn’t give them the right to tear up your yard. Besides, they don’t even know the real you. Probably judging you based on rumors.”
“And do you know the real me?” She slapped her composition book onto a workbench and folded her arms across her chest.
“I . . .” A smile forced its way to his face. “I’m trying.”
~ ~ ~
HE’D ASKED MOM TO PACK a Baby Ruth candy bar in his lunch. Where was it?
Peter dug through his insulated lunch bag as he headed to the back doors of the school. With a hip to the crash bar, he opened the door. A pleasant 77-degree breeze ruffled his hair as he strode across the schoolyard. Kids played basketball off to the left, racing with cloud shadows across the court. Kids sat at picnic tables to his right. And more kids, mostly girls, walked by twos and threes along the perimeter of the paved area.
He pushed aside a plastic bag of celery sticks and a wrapped slice of Italian bread and maneuvered a plastic container of lasagna onto its side. There!
As he glimpsed the Baby Ruth, someone bumped his shoulder from behind, and the lasagna fell back in place, hiding the candy bar.
“All right, who—” Feigning anger, he turned around. But then he swallowed the rest of his words.
That lanky girl in the hoodie stood behind him, shooting hate through her black-rimmed eyes. She looked angrier than when she’d stopped him and Brice on the way to Woodworking. Brice had called her Tessia, right?
“You.” She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets as if trying to keep herself from shoving him again—or worse.
“Uh, yeah?” Peter swung his lunch bag to his side and shifted his weight to one leg with attitude. “What about me?”
Her eyes narrowed even more. “Whatever game you’re playing with Brice, it’s over.”
“What game? I-I’m not playing a game.” On impulse, his hand flew up in a gesture of innocence.
“Right.” Tessia took two steps back. “I’m watching you.” She turned and stomped off toward the back doors of the school.
Dazed, Peter stared until she disappeared inside the building. Then he ran a hand through his hair and resumed walking out to his friends.
Everyone had beat him outside. Roland leaned against the sole tree in a big stretch of grass that ended at a farmer’s field. Caitlyn faced Roland, holding onto a branch overhead and twisting from side to side as she spoke. Whatever she said had Roland dipping his head like a shy nerd. Kiara and Phoebe sat in the grass, eating their lunches and scanning the schoolyard. Phoebe’s gaze connected with Peter’s and he gave a nod. They were far enough away from the rest of the students that they could hold a private meeting. Although people would see them. Fortunately, Tessia had gone back inside. He definitely didn’t want her realizing Brice was the subject of their investigations.
What was her deal anyway? Judging by Brice’s cold attitude earlier, Brice didn’t like her. Maybe they were friends once and had a falling out, but Tessia still cared about her.
“About time.” Phoebe tossed something at Peter as he drew near.
He caught it: a fancy chocolate wrapped in orange foil, probably leftover from Trick-or-Treat last year. “Great. You’re all here.” Peter plopped down in the grass, at an angle from Kiara, and unwrapped the chocolate. After a few generic greetings, he got down to business. “Anybody discover the guilty party?”
“No, but we’re working on it.” Caitlyn let go of the tree branch and sat in the grass in her long flowing skirt, near Phoebe and opposite Peter.
Roland remained leaning against the tree, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his dark jeans.
“What’d anybody find out?” Peter popped the chocolate into his mouth, dumped his lunch in the grass, and grabbed the Baby Ruth.
“Well . . .” Kiara leaned forward, resting her arms on her crossed legs. “I asked about ten people today. And most of them think the pranksters are responsible, not just for Brice’s house but for the stinky locker and the warning to outcasts too. And everyone expects more to come.”
The pranksters, often led by Doug Baxter, a member of the Fire Starters, were notorious at River Run High. They once taped a bunch of balloons inside the window of the principal’s office to give the impression the room was filled with balloons. They’d rearranged classrooms, putting the teacher’s desk on the opposite wall. They’d used crime-scene tape to make body outlines and to block off classrooms. And a dozen other harmless pranks.
“I don’t think so.” Peter grabbed the bread from his lunch. “They don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” In fact, he’d helped with more than a few pranks last year.
“Right,” Phoebe said. “They’re just having fun. They’ve never done anything dangerous or mean.”
“And they don’t target specific people.” Still leaning against the tree, Roland shifted his position and stood with his feet apart.
“So, you’re in charge of investigations,” Peter said to Roland. “What’ve you got?”
Roland shrugged.
“How was the Empowerment meeting?”
He glanced upward and shook his head, shadows of leaves playing on his pale face.
“Something go badly?”
“No. But we wanted a list of possible outcasts—er, targets, right?” Roland pulled his phone from a pocket of his jeans. “Got it.”
“Good. But who’s on our list of suspects?”
“What do we know about Gavin Wheeler?”
“That jerk? He’s in our speech class, right? Why?”
Roland shrugged again. “Just a hunch. Might be nothing.”
“Okay, so who else is on the list?” Peter said.
“I discovered just how much the stuck-up girls don’t like Brice.” Phoebe pushed her blue-streaked hair off her forehead.
“What’d they say about her?” Caitlyn said.
“The ones in gym class with her seemed jealous over how many pull-ups and stuff she can do.” Phoebe laughed. “Guess it makes them look bad when they struggle to do just one.”
“Okay,” Peter said, “who else is on our suspect list?”
“The mean jocks,” Caitlyn said. “We know for a fact they attacked . . .” She froze, her eyes popping open, then she glanced over her shoulder at Roland, probably wishing she hadn’t brought it up.
Roland sucked in a breath and shifted his position again, taking the weight off his healing leg.
“Right.” Phoebe tossed her lunch bag and leaned back on her arms. “C.W., Trent, and Konner fall under that category. A few people told me they suspect them. Only one thing doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s that?” Peter pried open the plastic container and stabbed a fork in his cold lasagna.
“When they attacked Roland, they didn’t care who knew.”
“Oh, right.” Peter studied a forkful of lasagna, not sure he wanted to eat it cold. “So why are they now attacking secretly?” He shoved the lasagna into his mouth, the cold flavors making his mouth water and not tasting too bad.
Kiara rocked forward. “Maybe they meant to attack Roland secretly, too. They did pick a quiet hallway.”
“So, what’d you find out, Peter?” Roland blurted, no doubt anxious to turn the subject away from his mortifying experience. “You were going to talk to Brice, right? See what enemies she has?”
“Oh, and ask her about the bracelet?” Caitlyn added.
“Right. I did that. Well, I didn’t ask about enemies. She’s new here. How would she have any? But I did ask about the bracelet.” Peter paused, deciding how much to reveal. Brice had told him in confidence. Did he really want to tell everyone?
Peter motioned Roland over.
Roland pushed off the tree, weaved past Caitlyn without the hint of a limp, and sat next to Peter in the grass. “What’cha got?”
“I . . .” Peter glanced at everyone in turn. “I can’t share this yet. It’s kind of personal to Brice. Don’t get peeved.” Then he leaned toward Roland and cupped a hand to his mouth to block anyone from reading his lips. “Brice’s sister made the bracelet, but she’s . . . she’s dead now. So I figure Brice must’ve left it on the porch and the wind probably blew it to where Caitlyn found it. Or something. But it’s probably not a clue.”
Roland shifted his gray eyes to Peter, the gears in his mind almost visible. “Someone in Empowerment has one like it,” he said to Peter but loud enough for the group to hear.
“Really? Who?” Peter said.
“Her name’s Tessia. Thin girl, wears a hoodie.”
“Oh, I know exactly who you mean. She confronted Brice on the way to Woodworking, told her she shouldn’t be hanging out with me. And she just now threatened me.”
“You?”
“Yeah.” Peter glanced at the back doors of the school. “She said whatever game I was playing with Brice, it’s over.”
“What game?”
Peter shrugged. “She probably sees me talking to Brice now and then, maybe thinks I’m out to get her or something.”
“You could always tell her the truth.”
Peter locked eyes with Roland for a second. Was he serious? He didn’t want anyone to know how he felt about Brice until the day Brice agreed to be his girlfriend. “She can’t handle the truth,” he said, imitating Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men.
Roland looked away, laughing.
“Anyway, I gather she and Brice used to be friends.”
“Brice is new here,” Phoebe said. “How can they have been friends?”
“Maybe Tessia’s new here too,” Caitlyn said. “Does anyone know her?”
Peter shrugged. “Okay, so let’s find out where Tessia came from. I’ll see if Brice will tell me how they know each other. Maybe one of you can get to know Tessia.”
“Why would she care if Brice hangs out with you?” Kiara asked.
“Maybe because he’s a Fire Starter.” Phoebe said, irritation in her tone. “And Fire Starters get the blame, even though we were the only ones out there trying to repair the damage.”
“Right. Which is why we’re going to find out who really did it.” Peter turned to Roland.
“Before the police turn to us,” Roland said.
“Right.” Peter nodded. If the police didn’t find the true criminals, would they believe the rumors and blame the Fire Starters too? “So what’s our next step? I mean besides finding out about Tessia.”
“Well, we can’t just decide someone from school did it. We need to consider other options, so I think we should question the neighbors. Anybody with me?” Roland’s gaze shifted to Caitlyn.
Her face lit up. “I am. When are we doing it?”
“Tonight.”
15