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Authors: Chelsea Pitcher

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BOOK: The S-Word
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She pouts. “I thought this was our secret place.”

“Not anymore,” I say. I can’t help it. If she did something to Lizzie, I don’t want her on my side.

“Fine.” She slides out of the chair, all grace. “You’re welcome for the copies.”

MARVIN PLAYS INVISIBLE
for the rest of the day. Maybe he’s afraid of invoking Cheer Wrath. Or maybe he’s just full of it. I don’t know. Something about his tone rang true, and not because I want to blame Kennedy for Lizzie’s harassment. He seemed to genuinely hate her. I’m not sure he’d be able to fake that.

Still, I can’t confront Kennedy yet. I have no evidence. Just Marvin’s implication that she’s guilty. If I’m going to go head-to-head with the most powerful girl in school, I’ll need more than that.

Besides, we saw what a rumor did to Lizzie. I want facts.

When the last bell rings, I do a quick survey of the rooms accessible to students. Lizzie’s epithet has been scrubbed clean from the lockers, but that hasn’t stopped it from showing up in other places. The upstairs girls’ room is its new favorite. The black scribbling mars a nearby stall. I slide my finger over the inscription.

No smudges.

That means the inscription’s been sitting a while, at least half an hour. But I know it wasn’t here yesterday. It doesn’t take a genius to decipher my next course of action. If the writing only shows up in the girls’ room, the clues point to the culprit being a girl. But if it shows up in both rooms . . .

I know, I know. Sneaking into the boys’ bathroom is not every
girl’s fantasy. But it’s not like I can trust a guy to do it for me. So that’s how I find myself leaning against the door to the boys’ bathroom, fingers pinching my nose, using my elbow to ease open the door, when Jesse passes by.

“Hey.” I try to keep my voice casual.

Jesse stops, slowly, and pivots to face me. I can’t help but notice his outfit, which is funny because I could barely tell you what I’m wearing without looking down to remind myself. My fashionista days have fallen by the wayside.

Not so for Jesse. Today his clothes could have come from the girls’ or guys’ department. He’s got on pinstriped black pants and a crisp white shirt, not unlike the one Kennedy was wearing. Add to that suspenders and a pinstriped black fedora, and he’s ready to take on Hollywood in the Golden Age. Naturally, the hat’s pulled down.

All hail the king of covert existence.

Everyone can see the flashy clothes. No one can see the eyes.

He makes an exception for me. “Oh, you remember me?” His voice is not hopeful. It’s full of disdain.

“I need your help,” I say conspiratorially.

He does a fluttery bow. “How can I be of service, Princess?”

Ah, so I’m the Princess of Verity High. And apparently I treat my subjects like shit. Nice of him to inform me.

I beckon for him to come closer. He glides over effortlessly. “Somebody’s written something in the girls’ bathroom,” I say.

“Scandal!”

“In Lizzie’s handwriting.”

“Oh.”

“As you know, I’m trying to catch the culprit.”

“And send him to the guillotine, no doubt.” He makes a dramatic gesture, pointing off into the distance.

“Try to stay with me.” I snap my fingers.

He shows a hint of a smile. Maybe he likes sassy?

I smile back, and it’s actually genuine. “So I’m trying to figure out if it’s just in the girls’ bathroom, or if it’s in the boys’ too. You dig?”

“I follow you. You want me to check out the little boys’ room for you.”

“No. I want you to give me the all-clear so I can check myself.”

“Trust issues,” he sings. Still, in one fluid movement, he slips into the boys’ room. He’s back in less than a minute.

“All clear?” I ask.

“Clear as can be. But I didn’t see any of that writing in there.” He leans against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. His shirt looks bright against his golden-brown skin.

I dip my head toward him. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

“I guess you don’t.” He taps my nose with a finger. It startles me, how warm he is. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“No offense,” I say, surveying the empty hall, “but I’m not in the mood lately.”

And then I’m gone, into the abyss of toilet-papered tiles and rust-stained urinals. The only possible explanation for a smell this bad is a fountain of urine and a pile of old socks.

I’m in and out as fast as can be.

Jesse’s standing guard when I come out. Unfortunately, Drake is with him. My heart starts to race. I want to bolt, but I can’t leave without thanking Jesse. Plus, my legs have gone all wobbly. “Listen, Jesse—”

“This is why you’re guarding the door?” Drake interrupts, brushing Jesse aside like a shopping cart. “What the hell, Angie?”

“You were right,” I say to Jesse, taking small pleasure in sharing a secret with him in front of Drake.

“Told you it was clean.” Jesse winks for added effect.

“You and I have a very different definition of that.” We share a smile.

Next to us, Drake is fuming. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Relax.” I almost touch his chest, the way I used to when his jealousy would surface. “We were out of TP in the ladies’.”

If he knows I’m lying, he won’t call me on it. He’s got a vested interest in staying on my good side. He still thinks he might find a way back into my pants.

What a waste.

“Thanks for your help,” I say to Jesse, touching his shoulder lightly.

He jumps at the touch. I think it surprised him more than it surprised Drake. “No problem,” he says.

I turn to leave but something stops me. I’m wary of leaving the two of them alone together. “Don’t you have something to do?” I ask Drake. I motion to the bathroom.

“It went away.”

“Right.”

“It did.”

I wish I knew what he was thinking. Most people I can read, but Drake is locked tight with a padlock and chains. It’s hard to find a way in.

“Fine,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Jesse, can you help me with one more thing?” The longer I look at the pair of them, the more I’m certain it’s a bad idea to leave them unsupervised. I’m pretty sure Drake would sucker punch Jesse in a heartbeat.

Jesse looks at me funny, like he knows what I’m up to. “Sorry, I can’t.”

I wonder if I’ve insulted him. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“Sorry,” he says again. He begins to walk backward, lowering the bill of his hat. I let him go.

“I need to talk to you,” Drake says when he’s, like, three feet away.

“Not today, Drake.” I make a move to leave.

He catches my arm. “It’s really important.”

I slide out of his grasp, trying to pretend I hate the feel of him. “I have somewhere to be.”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

“I don’t think you want to.”

He comes up beside me, tucking a hair behind my ear. He leans in so only I can hear. “I want to.”

Oh no. Not the voice. Gruff and tough Drake gets sweet faster than you would believe. That voice has melted me on many occasions. Soft in my ear. Lips tickling me. But it’s not going to get to me today. I don’t love him.

I hate him.

“Baby, please,” he murmurs, and my legs go wobbly again.

God, do I hate him. I try to think of the bad things.
Did he use those eyes on Lizzie? Did he use that voice?
But I can’t. I’m falling.

I crash right into the truth.

You don’t fall out of love with someone just because he betrays you. That love stays inside you, battling against the hate. Right now my love is battling my hate so hard I can barely breathe, and all I want to do is get away from him.

Or fall into him.

There is only one way out of this. I have to scare him away.

“I’m going over to Lizzie’s,” I say. “I promised her dad I’d go through her older belongings. He’s running that charity thing for underprivileged kids.” I look up and meet his eyes. “He can’t even go into her room.”

“Okay.” Drake nods, but his voice has the shakes. “Well, I’d go, but he doesn’t exactly—”

“He’s not going to be there.”

“Oh. Well, okay. I can . . .” He’s looking around, as if searching for signs of escape. I wonder what about this makes him so nervous. Is it simply the thought of being in a dead girl’s bedroom? Or is it the fear of facing the reality of Elizabeth Hart, the fear of seeing her as a human being? I think after they slept together he kept her as a fantasy, someone who drifted into his life for one night and then disappeared. I think it was a lot easier that way.

“I wasn’t inviting you,” I say, backing away.

He chases after me. “Do you really want to go there alone?” he asks, and it’s the worst thing he can say. I don’t want to go there alone. Not without Lizzie’s dad. Not with just myself and all that emptiness. I might sit down on the floor of her bedroom and never get up again.

“I’ll be fine,” I lie.

“Come on, Angie.” He’s close, but he’s not touching me now. And I’m just lost enough to believe it’s out of respect. “Let me help you. You always do everything alone.”

“There was a time when I didn’t.” A time, like two months ago. “But I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Don’t punish yourself for my mistake,” he says, hand sliding up my neck.

“I’ll keep my distance,” he says.

“I just want to help,” he says.

I’m shuddering now, and it’s not because I’m disgusted. “Fine. Let’s go,” I manage. I don’t really want to be around him. I don’t want to talk to him in any capacity. But he’s going to keep following me, and calling me, and looking at me until I agree to talk to him. And since doing this alone is suddenly terrifying, I opt to give him one final chance to speak. Whether or not I listen is up to me.

Drake holds out his arm for me. I ignore it and pass him by.

It isn’t until I see Jesse posed against a nearby locker that I realize he was listening the whole time.

nine

L
IZZIE’S HOUSE LOOMS
over us, specter white and ominous. Gaping windows stare down at us like eyes. Drake’s body is pressed against me, too close, as I struggle to find my spare key. Maybe he’s scared to be here too.

Or maybe he just wants something.

My key turns in the lock. Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t. Part of me keeps thinking this whole goddamn thing is a nightmare, the house, the charity drive, Lizzie’s untimely death.

I push open the doors and think,
Untimely? That’s a laugh.
When are we ever prepared for something like this? How can we ever rectify the absence of an entire fucking person? She was here, and she was there, and now she’s gone.

And my heart knows it. My eyes know it, as they flutter to the places where Lizzie lived.

There’s the faded blue couch where she’d curl up under blankets and watch TV. Lizzie was always cold; I used to press myself against her to lend her my heat. Through the entryway to the kitchen, I see the counter where forever ago we made cupcakes
and topped them with My Little Ponies. We were too young to know what heat does to plastic. We actually cooked the ponies in the oven. When Lizzie cried at the loss of her babies, I told her we were making art.

The frosting matched the melted plastic perfectly.

“I can’t stay in this room,” I mumble, leading Drake up the stairs. His footfalls sound heavy on the angel-white carpet. The portraits of Jesus are judging me, like:
Why are you here when you treated her so badly?

But I can’t go back now.

A stack of boxes sits outside Lizzie’s door. I grab one, forcing myself to cross the threshold into her room. I’ve only been here once since she died; I came back with Mr. Hart the day of her funeral. Absolutely nothing has changed since then. Crosses decorate the walls, proclaiming a faith Lizzie was born into. Stuffed animals cover her bed. Lizzie’s room is creepier than mine—another example of parental influence on decorating—except she doesn’t even get the jailbait boy-band posters. Mr. Hart’s religious sensibilities wouldn’t stand for it.

I wonder what it was like growing up in this house, unable to talk about crushes or feelings. Lizzie’s mom died when she was a baby. She was an only child, though we used to joke about being sisters. And, as it turns out, she couldn’t even confide in me.

“Where to begin?” I ask, avoiding Drake’s gaze. This is the first time we’ve been alone since prom night. I mean, if standing speechless in a hotel room counts as “being alone.”

Drake sits on the edge of Lizzie’s pink-and-white-flowered comforter. “No idea. This room is, uh . . .”

“She liked it,” I snap, which is a total lie. Lizzie was artistic and free spirited. A wild child. This room is a page out of
Cultist Child Bride.
“You’re welcome to leave.”

“No.” He’s at my side in an instant. His eyes keep flicking to the window, like he’s checking for something. “It’s just weird being here.”

“It’s a pretty picnic for me.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and it makes me cringe.

“Do not call me that.” I turn away from his pretty eyes. “Do
not.

“All right,” he says to my back.

I start going through Lizzie’s books.
The Golden Compass. A Wrinkle in Time.
Classics blending fantasy with science. Lizzie was a skeptical Christian.

“It just seems like there are so many better worlds out there,” she used to say. “I can’t believe this is the only one.”

Somewhere, in another dimension, maybe Lizzie is alive and I’m the one who’s dead. Maybe it’s better that way.

My eyes start to sting. I turn away from Drake. When the tears stain my cheeks I wipe them away like I have an itch. It takes him a minute to realize what I’m doing.

“Hey.” Coming up behind me, he puts his arms around my waist. Tentative, like it might hurt me. He’s being gentle to make me forget his carelessness. I know this. I’ve seen this before. But it feels so nice to be held that I melt into him.

“Hey,” he says again, wiping tears from my face. Taking good care of me, damn him. “It’s okay.”

“I can’t do this,” I manage in stilted breaths. “I can’t do this with you here and I
can’t do this.

BOOK: The S-Word
3.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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