The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove (19 page)

“I know that all of us will continue to deal in our own ways with the loss of Justin Balmer. He is in our hearts and minds every day.”

“I call
bullshit
on that!”

Wait a minute, I recognized that voice. Slightly boyish with just a hint of a twang. But no, that was impossible. I looked over at Mike to see whether he was thinking the same thing I was thinking. He looked back at me and smiled. Didn’t he hear it?

“I want to thank the entire student body for cooperating so fully with our wonderful Officer Parker,” Glass said.

“Anyone had a full cavity search yet?” the voice in the audience leered.

I stood up from my throne and stepped forward on the stage. I had to figure out where it was coming from.

“Nat,” Mike whispered. “Sit down. What are you doing?”

“I have to find him,” I whispered back.

“I don’t think now’s the time. We can deal with O.P. later.”

“Not O.P.,” I said. “That voice . . . it’s—”

J.B.

Feverishly, I stumbled backward, hitting the ground on all fours, just in front of the throne. Justin was walking toward us, but his feet weren’t touching the ground. Instead, his steps moved slowly over the heads of the rest of the students. It was like he was lit up from inside. And he looked so sexy in his tux. There was a handkerchief tucked in his lapel—the same deep purple as my dress.

He held out his hands as if to offer them to me, but then I saw that they were bound by rope and one long, fast-growing tendril of Spanish moss. Both his palms cupped a fistful of pills.

“Unbind me,” he mouthed, his emerald-green eyes boring into me.

“NO!” I screamed.

Principal Glass chuckled into the microphone. “Now, Natalie, don’t be modest. I’ve had the honor to preview your documentary tonight, and I can safely say that we are all in for a very special treat.”

“He’s here. He’s watching us,” I wailed. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about J.B.? “He’s going to—”

Mike stood up and put his arm around me. “She means Justin,” he explained calmly to the audience. “Of course, he’s watching over us tonight, baby,” he cooed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Nat’s just exhausted. She’s beside herself. We all are,” Mike said, nodding.

I could hear the rest of the school whispering. My chest was sweating, and I could see red stars in front of my eyes. Before them, J.B. was hovering directly over our heads. He was reaching for Mike’s crown.

“You can have it,” I screamed, wrestling the crown from Mike’s head. “Here, you can take mine, too!”

My crown had been fixed in my hair by an hour’s careful placement of bobby pins and at least a can of hair spray. It was going to take all my strength and half of my hair follicles to yank it off my head.

But then, I’d be rid of it for good.

I threw both crowns like star-crossed Frisbees as far away as I could. In the breathless silence, they clattered on the stage in front of us.

“I can’t breathe,” I said, clutching my throat. “I took off the crown, and I still can’t breathe. What else do you want from me?”

Then Mike hoisted me up in his arms and started carrying me offstage.

“Enjoy the film,” he called over his shoulder to the audience.

“What’s happening to you?” he whispered when we were alone behind the curtain.

I looked back toward the stage and could hear Principal Glass nervously stammer, “Everyone please remain calm,” just as my crown came to a rolling stop in the middle of the stage.

CHAPTER Eighteen

“Is my crown in there?” I asked the nice lady hunched over the trashcan behind school on Monday morning. I’d never seen anyone other than students out here before, but it was nice to have a companion.

“Find your own treasure chest, Princess,” she snarled at me. “This is my turf.”

When she stuffed her head back inside the bin, I noticed she was wearing an oversize nylon tracksuit and the kind of flip-flops they give you after you get a pedicure. But I still envied the determination in her voice. She knew what she wanted. She knew what was rightfully hers. It reminded me of someone I used to know. . . .

“Hey.” She popped back up again, holding the dirty carcass of a fish, wagging it like a finger in my face. “Aren’t you the kiddo who won that little contest, Queen or something? Shouldn’t you be inside, in class?”

I sniffed, inhaling the all too familiar fishy odor. “I was just looking for my crown,” I said. “I lost it.”

“Here.” She cackled, digging through the bin. “Wear this.”

She pulled out a jester hat, trashed after someone’s Mardi Gras party, and tossed it at me. It was coated in something green and sour-smelling and it landed on my chest with a moist thump. I peeled the hat off my old Palmetto sweatshirt and held it out in front of me.

“Suits you,” she burped, before digging into a bucket of chicken tossed into the trashcan. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s breakfast time.”

“Sure,” I nodded, dropping the hat. I heard a bell ringing in the distance—then remembered: I still had to go to school.

I was Natalie Hargrove, and I was kicking off my first week as fallen Palmetto Princess by taking fashion cues from the dispossessed.

“Ugh,” I said, dropping the hat and racing inside to wash my hands.

“God, what is that smell?” Kate Richards said, holding her nose when I barged into the closest bathroom.

“Shut up, Bambies,” I said, lumping Kate right in with the rest of them. I turned on the hot water. “Just move.”

“Sick. Gladly,” Steph Merritt said, backing away. “Do you want to borrow a brush or something?” she asked.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Maybe it had been a few days since my last shower. I guess my roots did look like you could toss a salad in them. And this sweatshirt, even with the green-jester-hat stain, still didn’t really match my dark green jeans. And I knew if my mom could see my splotchy foundation right now, I would probably be grounded.

But I wasn’t taking charity from anyone—not the bums outside, not the Bambies with their brushes.

“I’m fine,” I lied, for about the hundredth time since my breakdown at the Ball on Friday.

It had been a long weekend. Mike came by, but I wouldn’t see him. The phone rang and I turned it off. My mom knocked and I locked the door. All I could do was watch our original “Path to Palmetto” DVD on loop and obsess over what might have gone down at the Ball after I’d left.

Also: I wasn’t sure how to erase the fact that I had seen a ghost. It seemed like only a matter of time before J.B. returned to haunt me again—forever.

This morning came too quickly, and now it was starting to dawn on me that I had two identities: There was the Natalie these Bambies saw before them—ragged, strung out, and unbathed. The fallen. And then there was the real me—the one consumed by nothing other than waiting for J.B. to come back.

I left the bathroom and walked numbly down the hall. Was I really going to go to my first class, sit down, and open my embossed Palmetto binder to take notes? Was I really going to sit thought another week’s rumor mill?

“Nat.” I felt a hand tap the back of my shoulder. It was Amy Jane, looking worried. “I’ve been calling you all weekend.”

I nodded, holding my tongue.

“I’m trying to organize a viewing party for your ‘Path to Palmetto’ film, and I need to get your availability.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I murmured.

“Of course, it is. You and Mike worked so hard on P2P. To have your big moment cut short just because you had a badly timed drop in blood sugar . . . um, is that split pea soup on your sweatshirt?”

“Wait.” My head shot up. “What did you say? They didn’t air the movie Friday night?”

“’Course not.” Amy shrugged. “It didn’t seem right without the royal couple. After you fainted, the rest of us just kind of tapered out.” She leaned in. “Are you okay? Your pupils look a little dilated.”

“You’re telling me Ari didn’t play it?” I gripped the straps of my backpack for support.

Amy Jane nodded, concertedly biting her lip.

So all the old enemies still stood. Nothing had been accomplished Friday night. And now, it was only a matter of time before Baxter reared his doped-up head again. With Kate Richards’s fickle track record, he could easily lure her in again. Worse, I had no collateral to coerce Officer Parker to nab Baxter instead of me. There had been one shining moment Friday night when all the stars seemed aligned to keep Mike and me afloat. Because of J.B.’s ghost, everything we had going for us had slipped right through our fingers. We’d have to start all over. At this point, I knew we didn’t have a chance.

“So I can pencil you in for Wednesday at four, Thursday at six, or Friday at—Nat?” Amy Jane called after me. “Where are you going?”

I turned the corner to the hallway where Mike and all the other football players had their lockers. His was empty.

“Where’s Mike?” I said to the next group of students I passed. I didn’t know any of their names, but they would know me and they would know who my boyfriend was. But instead of giving me any kind of helpful answer, the whole crowd of them scooted nervously away from me, backing up against the lockers.

“We don’t know,” one of them cried. “Don’t hurt us.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that what you don’t know
can
hurt you,” I spit and kept walking.

“Ms. Hargrove, a word?” It was the secretary, Mrs. Runner, sticking her head around a corner out of nowhere. I jumped like I’d seen a ghost all over again.

“A word?” I repeated. “
Deposed.
”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there any other word?”

She scratched her chin. “I really couldn’t say. But Principal Glass would like to see you in his office,” she said. “Now.”

“I—” I looked over her shoulder through the fishbowl glass dividers and saw Officer Parker in a huddle with the principal. Another policeman was there as well.

My heart started hammering so hard I could barely think. Was it over? Did they know?

“I can’t,” I finally said, taking a step backward, and then another. “I have . . . another meeting.”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Runner said. As thankless as her job was, I guess she wasn’t used to being told no by a student.

“Tell Glass I’ll have to take a rain check,” I said, quickly walking past her. “Sorry.”

Actually, I did have another meeting. There was only one person I could think of who might be able to help shake me out of this haunted cloud. I headed upstairs to the junior bathroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Tracy,” I said, barging in the door. A cluster of whispering juniors broke up and looked at me. “I need to see you.”

Suddenly, there were a whole lot of pierced raised eyebrows in the room.

Tracy was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She’d released her long black hair from its braids, and now it grazed the ground. Her sapphire sunglasses seemed to place a barrier between us that was icier than normal. She looked at her watch. “Sorry, the bell’s about to ring.”

“Skip class,” I said flatly.

“I’m reading cards for someone else right now,” she said coolly. “Why don’t you come back during lunch?”

“I don’t think so; I’m here now.” I dared not glance in the mirror again, but I suddenly wondered if holding my ground and pulling my senior privilege was less effective when I looked the way I did.

We faced off for a good thirty seconds, until the other juniors started to get uncomfortable, packing up their hemp bags and pulling on their dreads.

“You know what, Tracy?” Portia Stead said, shrugging her bare brown shoulders. “We can just come back next break.”

“No,” Tracy said, sounding nervous. “Why don’t you all stay—”

But the girls quickly filed out of the bathroom and soon, Tracy and I were alone. She shook her head at me.

“What happened to you?” she asked. She said it not with disgust the way the Bambies had this morning, or even the way Mike had on Friday night. Tracy asked with genuine wonder.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, lowering myself into one of the beanbag on the floor. It felt so good to relax, to sink back and close my eyes.

“Cut the cards,” she said.

When I opened my eyes, she was holding out a tarot deck. I’d seen her do readings for other girls, lots of times, but I’d never really bought into it. Her prophecies to me always came via word of mouth, Tracy just seemed to know how to get the gossip first and vet it for lies better than anyone else at Palmetto. But if she wanted to get into the heavier stuff today, I wasn’t going to argue.

I reached forward and cut the deck in half, leaving it for her to deal. I almost expected to feel some sort of magic tingle when I touched them, but it was just like we were playing old maid or go fish.

Tracy lined up six cards in two rows of three. She stared at them for a few minutes, running her fingers along the edges. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out. The bell rang and neither of us moved.

“I don’t know what you did,” she said finally. “But you have a very guilty conscience.” She squinted and rubbed her forehead. “Things were going well for you, but you took advantage of someone, someone vulnerable.”

My throat felt parched. I couldn’t swallow. She looked up at me. “This isn’t me talking here, Nat, okay?”

She cleared her throat. “You’re, uh . . . you’re running out of people you can trust.”

“Well, tell me what to do,” I said. “Just look at the cards and tell me how I can fix things. I can still get them back.”

Tracy bit her lip. “Some of them are already gone,” she said slowly.

“You have to help me, Tracy. I trust you.”

She shrugged and shook her head. “I can’t tell you anything else, Nat. I only see what’s in the cards.”

“Read them again,” I offered. “Here, I’ll cut.”