Get Even (13 page)

TWENTY-SIX

“ANY IDEA WHAT MR. CUNNINGHAM’S GOING TO DO WITH US
non–acting types?” Bree said as she and John trudged across the quad.

“Personally,” John said, holding the door open for her, “I’m hoping you get put on wardrobe detail. I’m sure Amber Stevens and Olivia Hayes would love to have you as a dresser.”

Bree gagged. “Barf.”

“Everyone take a seat,” Mr. Cunningham called from the front of the house. “I’ve got crew assignments to hand out before we jump into staging act three.”

John leaned down so his lips were inches from Bree’s ear. “Wardrobe,” he whispered.

The feel of John’s breath against her neck sent a chill racing down Bree’s spine. What was that all about? She laughed uncomfortably as she spun away from him. “Yeah, perfect.”

“We’ll begin with the set crew,” Mr. Cunningham said, consulting his clipboard. “Does anyone—”

“Mr. C!” Shane raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. White?”

Shane shot to his feet. “Can I make an announcement?”

Mr. Cunningham sighed. “I don’t know, can you?”

“Um . . .” Bree cringed as Shane scratched his chin, missing Mr. Cunningham’s grammatical commentary.

“Proceed, Mr. White.”

“Awesome.” Shane turned to face the class. “There’s a Bangers and Mosh show next Sunday night at the Ledge. All ages, and we’ll be premiering the new songs for the play.” He looked at Mr. Cunningham. “Cool?”

“Absolutely cool, Mr. White. I think that will be a mandatory field trip for all drama class members.”

Bree elbowed John in the ribs. “The Ledge? Seriously?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“John.” Bree turned to face him. “Stop downplaying this. A gig at the Ledge is a big deal.”

“If you say so.”

Bree narrowed her eyes. “I do. Enjoy it for once in your life, okay?”

John’s face softened. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Now it was Bree’s turn for a smart-ass comeback. “Do or do not,” she said, throwing the
Star Wars
in his face. “There is no try.”

“Crew assignments,” Mr. Cunningham said, picking up where he left off before Shane’s announcement. Olivia tuned out as he rattled off a bunch of names, appointing people to sets, props, wardrobe, lighting, and sound duties.

While she waited for her first scene to be called to the stage, Olivia wandered around the expansive wings, basking in production glory. A graveyard of old stage lights had been removed from the rafters, their aging color gels awaiting replacement before they were remounted. Carpenters assembled set pieces, the cacophony of drilling and staccato hammering more sublime to her ears than a Mozart symphony. A group of student crew members gathered around scenery flats, paintbrushes in hand, ready to turn empty canvases into retro Harlem.

Olivia leaned against a wall behind the electrical grid and smiled to herself. This was home.

Footsteps clacked against the concrete floor and Olivia instinctively pressed herself into the shadows.

“I don’t understand,” Jezebel said. “Why do I have to lie?”

Amber tsked her tongue. “I told you, my dad might ask where I was. Just tell him I stayed at your place.”

Jezebel stopped and folded her thick arms across her chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t want Daddy to know where I was that night.”

“Fine.” Jezebel sighed. “What night?”

“Tuesday,” Amber said.

“You slept over at my place Tuesday night,” Jezebel recited, her voice intentionally monotonous. “Good?”

Amber turned and dragged Jezebel onto the stage. “Perfect.”

Olivia stayed in the shadows, confused. Amber bragged all the time that her parents didn’t care where she spent the night, implying that her sleepovers at Rex’s house were frequent and condoned. So why would she be suddenly worried about a cover story for Tuesday night?

Olivia stiffened. Tuesday was the night Ronny was killed. Could the two things be related?

Bree stared at the anarchy of stage lights in dismay. “We have to do all of these?”

“I think so,” John said.

The heavy black lights were all coated with dust and grime, and several of them were so corroded, they looked as if they’d been buried in a swamp for a decade. “This makes wardrobe look like fun.”

“You want me to go tell Mr. Cunningham?” John asked playfully.

“No!” She peeled off her hoodie and plopped herself in the middle of the chaos. “This kind of dirty is much more palatable, thank you very much.”

They worked in silence. For each light, Bree had to unscrew the gel frames from the rig, then extricate the little square of colored plastic from its holder. Some slid out easily, while some had melted to their metal holsters and required a vigorous scraping and tearing in order to dislodge. There was something mind-numbing about the process that Bree found soothing, and after half an hour, the backstage looked as if a piñata had exploded, littering the floor with its multicolored skin.

“I heard the police will be on campus indefinitely,” John said, apropos of nothing. His eyes were fixed on his pile of lights.

“Whatever,” she said dismissively.

John sat up straight. “You do realize how serious this is, right? If Father Uberti tries to frame us, there will be real consequences. There’s more at stake now than forcing Daddy to pay attention to you.”

Bree winced. Is that really what he thought of her?

John sighed. “You know, there are better ways to piss off your dad than getting arrested, Butch Cassidy.”

Bree seriously doubted that.

“Your dad would probably freak the hell out if he knew you had a guy up in your room three days a week”—John struck a laughably sexy pose and tossed his hair out of his face like Fabio at a romance-novel cover shoot—“without parental supervision.”

Bree burst out laughing.

John swung around onto all fours and crawled through the sea of lighting rigs toward her. “That’s right. I make you laugh with passion. We’re the hottest couple in school.”

“Oh my God,” Bree managed, blurting out the words between heaves of laughter. “No one thinks we’re a couple.”

John stopped his gyrations. “No one thinks we’re a couple,” he repeated. He planted his boots on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. His face was drawn as he looked down at her. “Especially not you.”

Without another word, he slipped through the curtains onto the stage.

Bree sat there, staring at the empty space that John had vacated. “Shit,” Bree said to no one in particular.

Was Mercury in fucking retrograde or something? Her entire world seemed to be falling apart. What would be next: Earthquake? Meteor strike? Seven hours of religion homework?

She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

Maybe she should text John? But what would she say—
sorry people don’t think of us as a couple, we’re still cool, right?
Yeah, no. She felt as if a chasm had opened up between herself and her best friend, and she had no idea how to bridge it.

She sat on the cold concrete floor, her eyes searching the backstage wings as if an answer to her problem might magically appear amid the discarded light gels. Eventually, they landed on her ammo bag. The flap was open, and something was sticking out.

Something flat and long and antique yellow in color.

Manila envelope? Back the truck up. No way had Bree put that in her bag.

The fine hairs stood up on the back of Bree’s neck. She glared at it, no longer a mundane office supply but a harbinger of doom.

Really, Bree?
Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it. Like the last one, this envelope was probably from one of the girls, trying to tip her off on John’s investigations into DGM without telling the others. Nothing ominous. She whipped it out of her bag and popped the seal.

A piece of computer paper slid out onto the floor. It was a printout of an email to John from an anonymous account.

Bree quickly scanned the contents, and her stomach dropped.

There’s a photo of DGM if you know where to look. Check the school library.

Olivia was halfway to fifth period when Peanut came tearing after her. “Liv! You forgot this.”

“What?” she asked, turning around.

Peanut shrugged. “Dunno. It was under your purse in the theater. You left it on the seat.”

“Oh.” She reached out and lifted the object from Peanut’s hand. It was a plain manila envelope.

Olivia stared at the envelope as Peanut ran back down the hall. It was exactly like the first one. With a shaky hand, she broke the Scotch-tape seal and peeked at the contents.

It was a photo of Kitty and another girl, both in volleyball uniforms and knee pads. It was definitely a younger version of Kitty, taken a year or two ago. The other girl looked familiar, but Olivia wasn’t sure why.

There was no note on the photo, no hint as to why it had been sent to her. One thing was for sure—this photo had nothing to do with
Twelfth Precinct
, which meant Mr. Cunningham hadn’t left it for her.

What the hell was going on?

TWENTY-SEVEN

OLIVIA LAMINATED HER SHOULDERS WITH SPF
85;
THEN,
confident every square inch of her skin was adequately protected from the bright September sun, she pulled a wide-brimmed hat over her short curls and snuggled back into the chaise longue.

Jezebel sniffed the air disapprovingly. “What’s the point of sunbathing if you wear all that crap?”

Olivia tightened the halter straps on her cherry-print bikini top. “I like the way the sun feels.”

“See, Jez,” Amber said, “I’m not wearing any sunscreen. You know why? Because I noticed when I watched
The Warriors
that the women were all amazingly tan.” She had reclined the lounge so it was completely flat and lay on her stomach to work on her back tan. “As a serious actress,” Amber continued, turning her head toward them, “I think it’s important to fully embrace my character.”

Behind her enormous sunglasses, Olivia rolled her eyes. “As a serious actress,” she said, effortlessly mimicking Amber’s tone, “I think it’s important to fully protect my skin so I don’t look like a shriveled old prune by the time I’m thirty.”

Amber lay on her stomach for a moment longer; then, without a word, she reached out and dragged over a large umbrella, engulfing her lounge chair in its shadow.

“It’s good to have priorities,” Jezebel said, picking up a fashion mag.

They sunbathed in silence while Peanut prepped some nibbles in the kitchen. The conversation Olivia had overheard between Amber and Jezebel was still fresh in her mind, and she realized this might be the perfect time to do some digging.

“Can you believe,” Olivia began in an offhand manner, “it’s only been like four days since Ronny was killed?”

“Three and a half,” Jezebel said, flipping through an article on fall makeup trends.

“Are you trying to ruin my Saturday?” Amber asked.

“It just feels so strange,” Olivia continued, undaunted. “Tuesday night when we all went to sleep, we never imagined that someone we knew would be dead the next day.”

“I didn’t know him,” Amber said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Jezebel and Amber exchange a glance. What secret were they hiding?

“But I thought,” Olivia said, pushing herself to a sitting position, “Ronny and Rex knew each other? I heard—”

“Snacks!” Peanut trundled out through the patio door, her arms laden with bowls and plates.

Perfect timing as always, Peanut.

Peanut flicked the screen closed with her big toe and waddled over to the outdoor table. “It’s Mom and Dad’s new health-food line,” she said, laying out the spread. “Rhubarb oatmeal bars, veggie bacon-wrapped Tofurky skewers, savory quinoa cakes, and kale chips.”

Olivia scanned the plates of organic, vegan, gluten-free snacks that were the staples of Mr. and Mrs. Dumbrowski’s fresh-food-delivery empire, and was secretly thankful she had half a pack of crumb cakes squirreled away in her bag.

Amber leaned over the table and wrinkled her nose. “It looks like dog food. Can’t we order a pizza or something?”

Peanut’s face fell. “Oh, I . . .” Olivia might worry about the never-ending string of bizarre diets Peanut’s mom inflicted on her only daughter, but Peanut was proud of her parents’ business.

“I think it looks fantastic.” Olivia picked up a fake-bacon-and-Tofurky skewer and took an enthusiastic bite. “Mmmm.” She plastered a smile on her face as she forced herself to chew.

“Why not?” Jezebel grabbed a rhubarb bar, but Amber turned up her nose.

“At least the boys will be here soon,” she said.

Peanut caught her breath. “The boys?”

“Of course.” Amber readjusted her bandeau top. “What’s a pool party without boys?”

“Pleasant?” Jezebel said.

Peanut stared at the kale chip in her hand, then gently laid it on a napkin. She turned to the patio door and fussed with her swimsuit in the reflection, pulling at the retro polka-dot one-piece. “I wish you’d told me you’d invited them.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t even put on makeup.”

“Lesson learned,” Amber said. “You should always put on makeup.”

Olivia stood behind Peanut and looped her arms around her waist, squeezing her tight. “You look amazing. Kyle’s going to swallow his tongue when he sees you.”

Peanut flashed Olivia a clandestine smile. “Thank you,” she said under her breath.

Amber returned to her shaded lounge chair and propped it into an upright position. “Kyle’s got his eye on some junior at St. Anne’s, so you might as well let it go, PeaPea.”

Peanut shook herself free of Olivia’s embrace and raced inside the house without a word.

“Really, Amber?” Olivia was tired of seeing Amber stomp on Peanut’s dreams. “Could you be a little less tactful?”

“I’m trying to help her,” Amber said. “Better she gets it into her head now that Kyle’s not interested. So pathetic to see your friend chasing after a boy who doesn’t give a shit about her, don’t you think?”

There was something sly in Amber’s tone that made Olivia question whether she was talking about Peanut and Kyle or Olivia and Donté.

“Same way I feel when I see my friend dating a douchebag,” Olivia countered. “Unless they deserve it.”

“What are you—”

“Cannonball!”

Rex tore around the side of the house in his swim trunks and leaped into the pool, hugging his knees to his chin.

Water exploded from the pool, splattering in all directions from Rex’s impact and dousing Amber from head to toe.

“Asshole!” Amber screamed the moment Rex’s head broke the surface of the water. “Look what you did.”

Rex tossed his hair out of his face and freestyled to the side of the pool. “What? You’re in a swimsuit. Aren’t swimsuits supposed to get wet?”

“Swimsuits, yes,” Amber growled. “Hair and makeup? No.”

“Lame.” Rex hauled himself out of the pool as Kyle and Tyler dragged a cooler through the sliding door.

“Brew!” Rex called out. “Stat.”

Tyler tossed a can to Rex, who caught it midair like a center fielder.

Before he could crack it open, Amber bogarted the beer from his hand. “Why yes, thank you. I’d love one.” She swiveled her hips as she returned to her lounge chair.

“You could have asked,” Rex sneered.

“You could have offered,” Amber said, matching his tone.

Aha, the bickering had begun. “I’m going to check on Peanut,” Olivia said, and quickly slipped into the house.

The bathroom door was closed, but Olivia could hear the gentle sobbing from inside. She knocked lightly. “Peanut? You okay?”

“Yeah!” Peanut said, so overly perky it was clearly an act. “I’m fine. Just, um, fixing my makeup.”

“You should come back out,” Olivia said. “The boys are here and . . .” Olivia paused, grasping for a ploy that might get Peanut to rejoin the party. She had to start showing Amber that the bitchy comments didn’t bother her, or Amber would never let up.

“And?” Peanut prodded.

Olivia swallowed. “And Kyle was asking where you were.” Okay, it was a lie, but just the white kind. The good kind.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Peanut said after a pause.

It wasn’t always a grand DGM gesture that made a difference. Sometimes, it was the small things. Olivia smiled to herself as she padded down the hallway in her bare feet, but she stopped in her tracks as she neared the family room.

“He’s dead,” Rex said. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Olivia flattened herself against the wall. Was he talking about Ronny?

“This had better be worth it,” Amber whispered. “I want DGM fubarred, got it?”

“Calm down,” Rex said, using that silky-smooth voice that always reminded Olivia of a serial killer.

“What did that guy have on you anyway?” Amber asked, slyness creeping into her tone.

“N-nothing,” Rex stuttered. Only Rex never stuttered, was never unsure of himself for a second. Whatever Ronny knew about Rex must have been epically damaging.

“You sure about that?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Rex said through clenched teeth. Then his voice relaxed. “You talk to Jezebel about Tuesday night?”

“She’s on board,” Amber said. “And no, I didn’t tell her why.”

“Good.”

“But I swear to God,” Amber said, her voice steely, “if anyone finds out I was with Ronny that day, I’ll tell them—”

“Babe,” Rex said through a laugh. “I’ve got everything under control.”

“You’d better,” Amber pouted.

“Listen.” Rex dropped his voice and Olivia couldn’t hear what he said. She crept to the edge of the living room and caught the last few words. “We’ll make sure DGM goes down for Ronny’s murder. I promise.”

Thirty seconds of slobbering sounds indicated that an Amber–Rex make-out session was in full swing. Olivia was beginning to wonder how long she’d be trapped there when the patio door abruptly slid open, and Olivia heard two sets of flip-flops snapping onto the concrete outside.

She stood in the hallway, her mind racing. Amber was with Ronny the day he was killed. Rex was plotting to make sure that DGM went down for Ronny’s murder. And Rex’s connection to Ronny made him incredibly nervous.

Was it enough to kill for? Olivia wasn’t sure. Rex and Amber had been raised with unlimited money and freedom—they always got what they wanted when they wanted it, and that kind of arrogance and entitlement could possibly lead them to murder. A plot to frame DGM might be a stretch, but it was possible, especially if it got Ronny out of the way in the process.

Olivia would have to keep her eyes and ears open when it came to Amber and Rex. If they did kill Ronny, there must be proof, and if she could find it, she’d exonerate DGM entirely. She cringed at the idea of buttering up Rex, and maintaining her friendship with Amber was proving more and more difficult.

She’d just have to figure out a way.