Chapter 1 #3
He shrugged, palms up, mouthing back, “I don’t know!”
He was almost relieved when Mrs. Haffenbeck handed out the pop quiz. At least then his death would be quick.
—
After English, Rick and Martina headed to the cafeteria.
“You’re real smooth, you know that? Your game is top-notch.”
Rick ignored her, grabbing a tray.
Martina followed him but didn’t let the topic drop. “Why are you so awkward with her? You’re not usually shy.”
He plucked an apple out of the fruit bin. “She’s really smart, okay? It’s intimidating. What if I say something stupid?”
“I hate to tell you this,” Martina said, grabbing her own apple. “But you’ve already done it. Hellody, Rick. Hellody.”
He scowled, snagging the last raspberry yogurt. “Not my finest moment, I admit.”
“It was not,” Martina confirmed. She picked up a blueberry yogurt and swapped it with his raspberry one.
“Hey, that was mine.” He reached for it, only to have Martina hold the tray out of his reach.
“I gag on blueberry, Rick. You want that on your conscience?”
Rick sighed. “I do not.”
Martina nodded, reaching for a chocolate milk. “Your performance earlier was on par with that time we went to the beach and I tried rollerblading to impress that hot girl at the ice cream place.”
Rick hummed thoughtfully. “Yours might be worse. Mine didn’t end in stitches.”
Martina opened her mouth to respond, then scowled at something behind Rick. “What’s happening over there? It’s like a feeding frenzy.”
Rick peered over his shoulder. One of the wide tables at the back of the cafeteria was covered in boxes, where several parent volunteers were being directed by Ms. Macnamara as they unpacked and handed something out.
One of the school janitors—Mr. Cooper, it looked like—was breaking down boxes for them.
Rick squinted, trying to see what exactly it was.
“Oh, last year’s yearbooks finally came in, I think. ”
They stood and watched for a second. People were lining up, chatting noisily as they grabbed their books.
“Ugh,” Martina said. “No thanks.”
“Besides, we don’t want to get out of line,” Rick said, waving at the wrapped sandwiches before him. “Or we might miss out on this glorious bounty.”
Martina’s lip curled up. “Mystery meat?”
“You wish it was a mystery,” Rick said. “But you know the truth.”
“I can’t eat that.” Martina gagged dramatically, clutching at her throat.
“I’d slow clap, but my hands are full of my tray and the second-best yogurt.”
Martina set her food down, digging into her pocket. “I have a few bucks on my card. We can share a thing of Tater Tots.”
Rick gave her his best puppy dog eyes. “I have never loved you more than I do in this moment.”
“You don’t love me,” Martina said, in a performance that would have done one of her grandmother’s telenovelas proud. “You love…potatoes.”
“I can love both. I’m—”
“A complex individual, right.” Martina handed over her card to the lunch lady. “As a basic individual, I’d love some ranch to drown these tots. Mind snagging me one?”
Lunch secured, they took two empty seats at the end of a table as far from the bustle as they could.
Martina dunked a tot into the ranch with an expression of smug contentment on her face. “We need to get you over this thing with Nika.”
“Or, and I’m just spitballing here, we can ignore the situation, and I can eventually die alone.
” He bit into his apple, waggling it at her as he chewed.
“I happen to think I’d make an excellent hermit.
I can be the eccentric uncle to your children.
You know, the guy that shows them how to change their oil but also has an overly elaborate puppet theater in his backyard. ”
Martina popped another Tater Tot into her mouth. “You’re afraid of puppets.”
“Just the ventriloquist kind,” Rick said, taking another bite of apple.
“Because that makes it less weird.” She rolled her eyes. “Look, I just hate seeing you think you’re not good enough. She’d be lucky to have you.”
Rick shaped his hands into a heart in mock gratitude. “Thanks, Teeny.”
A wolfish grin unfurled on Martina’s face. “Despite your weird puppet fetish.”
“Aaaand, there it is,” he said, pulling his heart-hands into a broken-heart shape. “You know, you can stop after you say the nice thing. You don’t have to keep going.”
“I do, actually. It’s a medical condition. I—” Martina huffed, looking over her shoulder. “What’s going on over there?”
Rick took another bite of apple, chewing it slowly as he stared across the cafeteria.
The atmosphere around the yearbook table had shifted.
People yelling, some laughing. He could see Kylie Mason, her face red and angry as she waved her yearbook in front of Ms. Macnamara.
Rick couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was made Ms. Macnamara snatch the yearbook out of her hands.
Next to her, Mr. Cooper turned away to hide his laughter, shaking his head as he fished a box cutter out of his coveralls to break down the empty boxes.
The crowd had doubled in the short time since they’d grabbed their food.
The parent volunteers looked frazzled, one of them trying to snatch the yearbooks back.
Mrs. Haysmith, the only one Rick knew by name because she volunteered for everything and was head of the Booster Club, fluttered around, a concerned look on her face.
He could hear her syrupy voice even from there, but he couldn’t make out the words.
“Maybe someone rearranged the letters in Mr. Halosse’s name again like last year,” Rick offered.
“Or photoshopped barnyard animals into the faculty pictures again, like someone did in junior year.” Martina had been rightfully proud of her Photoshop skills, not that she ever boasted about it in school.
Her mother’s first rule was to never admit guilt on anything, and the cafeteria was full of people who would rat them out in a hot second.
“Mr. Eastlick made a really good alpaca,” Rick said absently. They watched for several moments, a thread of unease winding its way through Rick’s nervous system. “Whatever it is, some of them look really pissed.”
They continued to watch, food forgotten, until Martina saw a blond-haired figure coming their way. She groaned dramatically. “Oh no.”
“What?” Rick straightened, weaving in his seat as he tried to figure out what she was talking about. Then he saw who was coming toward them. Now it was his turn to melt in his seat, groaning. “Oh no.”
“Bryce Mackinaw.” Martina pronounced his name with distinct tones of doom. “The queen bee himself.”
Rick stayed slouched. “Do you think it’s too late to fake our own deaths?”
“It’s too late for me. I’ve made eye contact. Save yourself.” She reached for him, despair in her eyes. “Tell my family I love them and that I went down fighting a team of sexy ninjas.”
“Why sexy?”
Martina shrugged one shoulder. “If I have to die, I should at least enjoy part of it.”
With resigned dismay, they watched Bryce weave around tables, waving at people, his toothpaste-commercial smile flashing.
“He’s like the human avatar for Axe body spray,” Martina said, her voice low. “Do you think his parents hate him?”
“He doesn’t have parents,” Rick said, opening his yogurt. “Guys like him aren’t born, they’re spawned.” He dug his spoon in, even though he was no longer hungry. “His coat cost more than my van.”
“My dude, pretty sure my hoodie cost more than your van.”
“You’re welcome to walk home, Teeny.” He spooned a bite of blueberry yogurt into his mouth.
Martina gave Bryce the death glare as he approached their table. “What do you want?” Martina had never thought it worth her time to play nice just because someone was more popular than her, and despite how obnoxious she found Bryce, somehow he was more popular.
Bryce pressed the fingertips of one hand to his chest. “Is that any way to talk to your better?”
Rick snorted.
Martina continued to stare at Bryce as if she could set his eyebrows on fire if she just concentrated hard enough. She hadn’t managed it yet, but Rick was hopeful that someday soon her secret superpower would be revealed.
“You wound me, Lopez.” He clutched his yearbook to his chest. “I just came over here to congratulate you both. Epic prank level achieved.” He kissed his fingertips before spreading them wide. “Chef’s kiss, you two.”
Martina folded her arms while she continued to glare at him. “As usual, the noise coming out of your mouth makes no sense. What are you talking about, Bryce?”
He held up the yearbook, giving it a little shake. “This is even better than the farm animals.”
“There’s no proof that was us,” Martina said casually.
Bryce waved away her words. “Whatever. Making Mrs. Irving-King into a cow was an inspired choice.” He went back to shaking the yearbook like a preacher at a tent revival.
“Whatever you’re doing,” Rick said, “it’s not helping. Use your words.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Fine. Play innocent.” He set the yearbook down, thumbing through the first few pages. “But this is even better than when you hid that dead fish in Allison Haysmith’s locker or TP’d Mr. Franklin’s Toyota.”
They hadn’t actually TP’d Mr. Franklin’s car, but both Rick and Martina had learned early on that the more you deny something, the more people think you did it.
They had put the fish in Allison’s locker, though.
Martina had beaten her to the open spot on yearbook, which caused Allison to melt down and call Martina a “malicious bitch” before she ran sobbing to the bathroom.
While Rick had been sympathetic to her at first, that had vanished the second she started calling his best friend names.
The dead fish had been an act of revenge that neither of them could bring themselves to regret.
Finally finding the page he wanted, Bryce stepped back with a flourish. Rick and Martina both peered at the book, already knowing they wouldn’t like what they were going to see.
Rick scanned the awards section, where students and faculty posed in photos by themselves or with one other person under a banner that declared to the world who had the best smile or was most likely to succeed.
The pictures looked as they always did, the font the same, so it took a second for Rick to see what was wrong.
His stomach dropped, a chill frosting through his veins.
He glanced up at Martina, only to find her own eyes wide, her mouth pinched.
They both looked back down, like they were hoping the banners had changed when they’d looked away. They hadn’t.
“That’s kind of messed up,” Martina said.
“Yeah.” Rick liked a good joke, but this wasn’t funny. He could now see why Kylie Mason had been so pissed.
Bryce grinned at them, his smile going up several watts. “I see how it is—plausible deniability. I get it, but I don’t think I could keep this kind of thing under wraps. Prank of the year.” He shook his head ruefully. “If I’d pulled this off, you bet I’d be claiming it.”
He flipped the page, showing them more smiling faces under doom-filled banners, then tapped one of the pictures, letting out a guffaw.
“I love what you two did with me.” Bryce’s finger rested above a photo of himself, smiling his wide, cocky smile under a banner that looked exactly the same as the others until you read the words printed inside it: Most Likely to Die Poisoned by School Spirit. Go Wildcats!
“Is the whole yearbook like this?” Martina asked.
Bryce kept smirking. “Like you don’t know.” Martina glared at him until he rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll play along. No, the rest of the yearbook is the usual boring stuff. It’s just this section.”
Rick skimmed the pictures below Bryce’s, only half listening to their conversation. The first one had probably been for cutest couple, because it was a picture of Landon Parker and Alexis Vargas mugging for the camera.
Alexis Vargas, Best Dramatic Death Onstage.
Landon Parker, Best Audience Participation Death, Applause All Around!
Zara Moxley, Most Likely to Choke on Her Own Words.
Paxton Embry, Life of the Party, Dead in the Bathroom.
Camryn Jacobs, Most Likely to Stew in Her Own Juices.
Kylie Mason, Netflix & Killed.
Edwin Stephens, Most Likely to Sleep with the Fishes.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw Nika’s entry: Head-less of the Class.
Finally, down at the bottom of the page, right in the middle, was a picture of Rick and Martina sitting next to each other at an assembly. Rick was staring off to the side while Martina laughed. And there, right above their heads, was the banner Homecoming’s Cutest Corpses.
Martina shoved it away, her face pale. “Joke’s on them—I’m not even going to homecoming.”
But Rick could hear the thread of fear in her voice. He didn’t say a word, his gaze transfixed on the letters spelling out their fate in a sans serif font, wrapped in a cheerful banner.