Social Suicide (14 page)

MY EYES WHIPPED AROUND THE ROOM FOR SOMEWHERE TO
hide. Under a desk? At the back of a cabinet? Behind the poster of the seven different types of triangles?

Chase must have done the same thing as he grabbed me by the arm. “Quick. In here,” he said, pointing to a supply closet at the back of the room. Thank God it was left unlocked at night, and the door opened easily as Chase shoved me in front of him then stepped inside, quickly closing it behind him.

Just as we heard the door to Mr. Tipkins’s room open.

I sucked in a breath in the stuffy dark space. It was small, just big enough for the two of us to fit, though not big enough to afford either of us any personal space. Meaning Chase’s body was right up against mine, creating a warm, unsettling feeling in my belly that felt very . . . personal.

As I tried to decide if I liked the feeling or not, the classroom light turned on.

I shifted to look through the crack in the closet door, feeling Chase do the same beside me. (Very close beside me, causing his leg to rub against my leg in a way that had me leaning slightly closer to a “liking it” decision.)

A figure moved across my field of vision, and for a quick moment, I thought maybe we had been lucky enough to catch the cheat stealer in the act. But as he shifted to the right, I saw a familiar plaid, short-sleeved, button-down shirt and pair of baby-poo brown corduroy slacks cross the room.

Mr. Tipkins.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer that he didn’t need any supplies tonight as he moved to his desk and sat down. He grabbed the stack of uncorrected papers I’d seen earlier and shoved them into a brown leather briefcase with scuff marks along the edges. He opened his top drawer and grabbed a couple red pens. Then he pulled a couple papers from the desk, uncapped a pen, and started marking.

Oh no. Please tell me he’s not settling in for a night of correcting papers here!

I shifted, my right leg rubbing against Chase again.

The air in the closet was getting warm. It was dusty and smelled like old wood.

Though I noticed, as the minutes stretched on, there was another scent mingling with the old closet smells, too. Fabric softener, soap, and a faint woodsy smell that was surprisingly like the men’s department at Macy’s. Cologne? Body spray? Deodorant? Whatever it was, I found myself not entirely hating being stuck in the closet with Chase.

He shifted, his body pressing up against mine, and I felt the lean muscles of his chest against my arm, his breath warm on my neck. Irrationally, I started thinking of all the things we could do in a dark closet together to pass the time while Tipkins corrected.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but my left foot was starting to fall asleep (crowded up against a stack of textbooks), and the air in the closet was getting seriously warm (or maybe that was just me. Was it my imagination or was Chase leaning closer?), when I felt Chase’s breath tickle my skin.

“Tipkins is moving.”

I looked through the crack in the door, forcing myself to focus despite the way too personal quarters. Chase was right. Mr. Tipkins had gotten up from the desk and was moving . . . toward the filing cabinet.

“You locked the cabinet, right?” I whispered.

I felt Chase shake his head. “I didn’t have time.”

Oh, fudgecakes.

I watched, dread curling around in my belly as Mr. Tipkins leaned down to unlock the cabinet. He stuck the key in the hole, turned, then frowned. His bushy eyebrows furrowed together as the realization hit that the cabinet was already unlocked.

He straightened up, glancing over both shoulders, surveying the room for a possible answer as to why it was open.

I shrank as small as I could, hoping he didn’t see the guilt emanating from the closet.

Luckily, he simply shoved the key into his pocket and opened the cabinet. He removed a couple sheets of test answers, stuck them in the briefcase, then shut and locked the cabinet. He dropped the key back in his desk, then gathered the briefcase in his hands and walked out of the room.

A second later the light went off, and I let out a sigh of relief as I heard footsteps retreating down the hall.

“That was close,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Chase said. I could feel his breath coming hard beside me.

“Think it’s safe to leave the closet?”

“Probably.” But he didn’t move.

“So . . . do you want to?”

“Not really. I kinda like it in here.”

I rolled my eyes in the dark and shoved him out ahead of me.

Even though part of me kinda agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, we were outside again, jogging around the far side of the school to where Sam and Kyle were still standing under the oak tree. Though it was hard to distinguish one figure from the other as they were firmly stuck together at the lips.

“Ahem!” I said in an exaggerated throat clearing.

Sam detangled her tongue from Kyle’s long enough to look up. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” I said. “You guys are supposed to be our lookouts not make-outs.”

Sam blushed in the moonlight. “You guys were taking forever. We had to find a way to keep warm out here.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Besides,” she pointed out, “we did warn you someone was coming.”

“Did he see you?” Kyle asked.

I shook my head, relaying our brush with Tipkins.

“But you found the test answers?” Kyle pressed when I was done.

Chase nodded. “Yeah. The custodian is the way in. As long as you go in a door he’s opened, it’s unlocked. I’m guessing it’s the same every night.”

“And the file cabinet was easy to get into. The key is in Mr. Tipkins’s desk.”

“So, really, the only lock you’d have to pick is the one to the classroom,” Chase added.

“And Chase got in there, no problem,” I said, telling them how he’d used his driver’s license.

“So, anyone could have stolen the answers?” Sam said when I was done.

I nodded. “Right. Meaning any one of our suspects could be the person who killed Sydney over them.”

Which left just one very important question: Which one was it?

THAT QUESTION PLAGUED ME THE ENTIRE WALK BACK HOME
as I considered the info we’d gathered over the last week. Clearly the test answers were the key to who had killed Sydney. But how had she found out who was stealing them? Did she know the thief personally? Was it one of her friends? Or an enemy? Clearly I was missing something here, and the empty spot where that something should be was burning a hole in my brain.

The next day, Mom agreed to drop me at the front entrance of school and not walk all the way in. (Thank God!) I felt slightly guilty that her trust in me was based on the erroneous assumption that I’d been tucked up in my room all last night like a good prisoner. But only slightly. (She had, after all, tortured me with Bon Jovi at top volume the whole ride to school.)

As soon as I walked into the main building, I saw a table set up in the hall with a clipboard of names and a cardboard ballot box on top. Jessica Hanson was manning it, handing out little slips of paper to anyone who passed by.

“Hartley!” she hailed me. “Have you voted yet?”

“Voted?”

“For homecoming court. Duh!” Jessica rolled her eyes at me.

I had to admit I hadn’t.

“Today’s the last day,” Jessica said, handing me a slip of paper as she crossed my name off her clipboard.

“Wait—today?” I asked. “I thought we had until Thursday?”

Jessica did another eye roll, and I could see she’d doubled up on the blue eyeliner today. “Earth to Hartley? Today is Thursday.”

I blinked at her. Really? I’d been so caught up in trying to track down Sydney’s killer that I’d totally blanked out the rest of the world. If today was Thursday, that meant that the big football game was tomorrow and the homecoming dance the next night.

Not, mind you, that I was planning on going. Dances, especially homecoming dances, were a date kind of thing, and considering I was currently guy-less, I’d planned on a nice quiet night at home with a package of Oreos instead. I looked down at the slips of paper next to Jessica’s ballot box. Four guys and three girls were named. I noted with a pang the conspicuously empty spot where Sydney’s name might have been. Beside the remaining nominees were empty circles to fill in for king and queen. At the very bottom there was a spot for a write-in vote.

I looked at my choices. There was a football player/cheerleader couple that looked like they probably stood a good chance. There was a Color Guard girl and soccer player combo that could be a close second. Then there was the Connor, Jenni, and Ben trio. My money was on Connor and Jenni. But honestly? I really didn’t want them to win. Something about the way they’d played girlfriend musical chairs just to get the vote hit me the wrong way. So I decided to have a little fun and write in a couple instead. I dropped the ballot in Jessica’s box and headed toward first period.

I was halfway there when my cell buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out just outside lit class.

it’s jenni. we need 2 talk.

I quickly texted her back.

about?

connor.

I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t sure what Jenni could tell me about Connor that I didn’t already know, but I was certainly interested in listening.

@ lunch? I asked.

sure. meet @ *bucks.

cool. c u then

I flipped my phone shut just as the bell rang and quickly joined the swarm of people dispersing to their classrooms.

The Starbucks on Blossom Hill Road is only three miles from school, which is nothing if you are lucky enough to have a car. And a heck of a hike if you’re not. Thankfully, Sam had borrowed the Green Machine that day and was more than happy to give me a ride if a pre-lacrosse-practice caffeine fix was in the mix.

It was one of the larger coffee places in town, decorated in a trendy-chic style that was supposed to make people feel good about spending four dollars on a cup of coffee. Personally, if said coffee was full of creamy syrupy goodness, I thought it was well worth it. Tables lined the walls, filled with people on laptops.

In the center of the room was a circular booth surrounded by tables on all sides where soccer moms chatted in their workout clothes and older couples sat reading books. A few smaller tables dotted the rest of the floor space, and I noticed a blond woman sitting by the windows who kept looking up every time the door opened.

I blinked as she turned her profile our way.

Wait a minute. . . .

“Mom?” I asked.

Mom blinked across the room at me, surprise hitting her face for a second before a smile replaced it and she waved me over. “Hartley!”

I crossed the crowded room, Sam a step behind me.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked, suddenly insanely worried she’d somehow caught wind of my lunch meeting.

A worry that I realized was completely unfounded as she answered, “I’m meeting someone for coffee.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Someone?”

She looked down at her napkin. “Uh-huh.”

“A male someone?”

“Sort of.”

“From the internet?”

“Well . . .”

“Mom!”

“What?” she asked, putting out her hands palms up. “Match dot com says that coffee is a perfect first date.”

“You’re here on a date?” This was much more worrisome than being followed.

She pulled herself up to her full height, despite the hot pink color spreading from her cheeks to her forehead. “Yes. I’m waiting for my date.”

“This is a disaster. You can’t date!”

“Hartley, don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little?”

“What do you know about this guy?” I asked, ignoring her. “What if he’s crazy? What if he’s some psycho?”

“Hartley,” she said, giving me a head tilt. “He’s not a psycho. I know him well enough to be sure of that.”

“You can’t really get to know anything about a guy through IM, Mom.”

“Which is why we’re meeting in person for coffee,” she said.

I pursed my lips together. “Are you sure you don’t want to take up knitting?”

“Hartley!”

“Fine!” I threw my hands up. “I’m just gonna go sit in the corner now and pretend I don’t know you. But,” I added, “if Cybercreep does anything funny, call me.”

Mom grinned at me. “He’s not a cybercreep, Hartley. He’s a perfectly nice, normal guy.”

“Yeah, they all start out that way. . . ,” I said, letting the warning trail off as I jumped into line behind Sam, all the while keeping one eye on Mom. I watched as the front door opened, her eyes shooting to it with way too much excitement as a guy walked in. He was tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a suit. I held my breath as I watched him cross the room . . . then sit down at a table with another suit-wearing guy.

Whew. Not my future cyberdad.

I grabbed a skinny caramel macchiato and followed Sam to a table near the back (with a good view of Mom so I could keep an eye on Cybercreep). Sam dug into her feast of a Venti Frappuccino with whipped cream, lemon scone, and a glazed donut.

In two minutes flat, she’d inhaled the whole thing.

“Wow,” I commented.

“What?” She blinked at me.

“Hungry much?”

“Hey, this is my lunch. Besides, I need the extra calories for lacrosse,” she said, licking a couple stray crumbs from her lower lip.

At this rate, all that extra exercise was going to end up adding pounds.

Thankfully, before I could comment, the front door opened again and a familiar brunette, Bumpit-enhanced hairdo walked in.

She spotted us, then pointed to the drink line. Five minutes later, caffeinated beverage in hand, she pulled a chair up to our table.

“Hey. Sorry, wicked long line,” she observed.

I nodded. “You said you wanted to tell me something about Connor?” I prompted.

“Yeah.” She put both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Look, I know you think I had something to do with Sydney’s death.”

I paused. Was I that transparent?

“What makes you say that?”

“Hello? Other woman? Dude, I watch
CSI
, I know how this goes.”

Maybe Jenni wasn’t as dumb as I thought.

“Okay, the thought had crossed my mind,” I admitted.

“But I didn’t do it,” she protested. “The truth is I’m dumping Connor.”

Color me shocked. “Why?”

She sighed. “Do you know how hard it is to compete with a dead girl?”

Luckily, no. I shook my head.

“All I hear about is Sydney this, Sydney that,” she continued. “Sydney was going to wear a pink dress to homecoming, and Sydney was going to thank the principal in her homecoming speech. I swear if I hear the name Sydney one more time, I’m gonna lose it. And the worst part is,” she said, leaning in, “I can’t even say anything about it! I mean, I can’t very well put down a dead girl, right?”

I had to agree, it was a tough spot.

“That sucks,” Sam sympathized.

Jenni shrugged. “I guess Connor’s going through some sort of weird survivor’s guilt, but it’s driving me nuts and I can’t take it anymore. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m leaving Connor, so you can cross me off your whole suspects list. Truth is he’s so not worth killing over.”

That I could totally agree with.

“You don’t happen to know where Connor was three nights ago, do you?” I asked.

Jenni screwed up her Proactivly-flawless face. “At home, I guess. Doing homework. We had a quiz in Tipkins’s class yesterday.”

I nodded. I knew. I also knew Connor had suspiciously aced it.

“About that,” I said. “How is Connor doing in that class?”

Jenni sipped loudly at her coffee drink through a lipstick-stained straw. “Awesome. His study partner is Val Michaels. You know her?”

Not personally, but I’d seen her name on the school’s honor roll almost every semester since freshman year.

“So Val was studying with him three nights ago?” I asked.

Jenni nodded. “They study together before every quiz or test or anything. Val is really smart and totally has a crush on Connor. She gives him all the study notes, he memorizes them, then passes with a good enough GPA to stay on the football team.”

Geez, was there anyone at our school not smitten with Connor?

I was beginning to see a pattern. First he’d studied with Quinn, then Val. We knew how the study session with Quinn had ended. Had he made out with Val, too? And how had Sydney taken the news that her boyfriend was not only making out with her best friend and going to homecoming with someone else, but also “studying” with a girl who “totally” had a crush on him? Had she really been as cool with it as Connor seemed to imply?

“How about you?” Sam asked Jenni, breaking into my thoughts. “Where were you three nights ago?”

“At home,” she said, slurping.

“Can anyone verify that?”

Jenni blinked, her eyes going from Sam to me. “My mom, I guess. Why?”

“Nicky Williams was attacked three nights ago.”

Jenni nodded. “Yeah, I know. I got, like, fifteen ‘Nicky’s down’ tweets.”

“We think the same person who hit him also killed Sydney,” Sam explained.

Jenni’s eyes got big and round. “Whoa. So the killer is out there attacking other random people?”

I would hardly call Nicky random.

“Nicky was going to tell Hartley something, and we think the killer was trying to shut him up before he could,” Sam clarified.

Jenni blinked at me. Then looked over both shoulders. “Wow. Maybe it’s not such a hot idea that people can see me talking to you, then.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think the fact that you’re breaking up with Connor is not exactly news to kill over,” I reassured her. I was about to tell her that I didn’t think Connor was going to be that unhappy (considering he’d had the same post-homecoming plan) when a familiar figure walked in the door of the Starbucks. Tall, red-haired, packing a few extra cookies around the middle. Detective Raley.

Oh, frickin’ fowl fluff.

He must have been watching me. Must have followed me here from school to meet with Jenni. Seriously? Couldn’t he conduct an investigation on his own? He had to follow me to solve Sydney’s Twittercide? Well, he could follow all he liked, I wasn’t giving up on this story. Besides, I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I was entitled to talk to my fellow students. I had journalistic rights. What amendment did those fall under again? Fourth? Fifth? Man, I really needed to study more for that American Government test.

I drew myself up as straight as I could, lifted my chin, and rehearsed a very scathing speech to give to Raley about my something-th amendment rights.

Only I didn’t get to give it.

Instead of walking toward our table and giving me the leave-this-to-the-real-cops lecture I was so familiar with, Raley looked right past me, his eyes lighting up, his mouth curving into a grin that created little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Then he made a beeline . . .

. . . straight toward Mom’s table.

Dude! Detective Raley was my mom’s date?