Chapter 2
Martina shoved the yearbook toward Bryce. “We’re not responsible for this nonsense.”
“Right.” Bryce continued grinning, winking at her. “Of course not. Just like you didn’t hire that mariachi band to follow Paxton around after he called Rick trailer trash…”
It hadn’t been an actual mariachi band—those were too expensive—but a few of Martina’s cousins who happened to be in a metal band and would do it for beer money.
Bryce was still talking. “Or wrap Mr. Powell’s entire office in tinfoil after he gave you detention.”
“Allegedly,” Martina said, her voice cool.
Rick gave up eating his yogurt, his stomach curdling.
Someone called for Bryce, and he waved at them. “Got to go.” He plucked his yearbook off the table, holding it in front of him like a trophy. “Seriously genius.”
They watched him leave, once again weaving through the lunchroom like a fish born to the local waters.
“There goes a dude who believes his own hype,” Martina muttered. She turned to Rick. “You think they’re all going to believe it was us?”
“Bryce did.” Rick tried to finish his apple. He wasn’t sure why the yearbook was freaking him out so much. It was a joke—a mean, crappy joke, but that was it. What else could it be? “Was it you?”
Martina side-eyed him. “And not tell you?”
Rick took a final bite of his apple, the juicy sweetness suddenly feeling almost obscene as he chewed. He choked the bite down and tossed the core onto his tray. “It was a stupid question.”
Martina shrugged. “I was in yearbook for, like, two weeks so I could get Lana Greene’s phone number before I figured out it wasn’t worth it.
Not exactly a lot of time to mastermind something like this.
” She kissed her finger and pressed it into his cheek.
“But thanks for thinking I could pull this off.”
“Well, Mr. Stephens did say you had great potential.” Rick poked at his yogurt, wishing he could eat it. “We’re going to end up in the office for this. All it takes is one person saying, ‘Hey, maybe it was Teeny and that trash kid she hangs around with,’ and the whole school will take it as truth.”
“You’re not trash,” Martina said, her attention flicking to his face for a second before it went back to the yearbook frenzy.
The parent volunteers were desperately trying to take the yearbooks back while Ms. Macnamara continued to lose control over the situation.
Mrs. Haysmith and Mr. Cooper were boxing the books back up as quickly as they could.
“I don’t like how many people are looking at us, though.
I hate the gossip chain so much. We didn’t create their stupid murder list.”
She turned and started gathering up their food. “I think it’s best we make ourselves scarce for the rest of lunch.”
Rick didn’t argue but started gathering up their now-cold, greasy tots and everything else. “To the van?”
“To the van,” Martina echoed, tossing her garbage in a nearby trash can. “And it might be a good idea to text my mom.”
“You really think it’s that bad?” Rick silently agreed that it was a smart move, but normally Martina would consider such an action to be “running to Mommy.” She liked to handle her own business.
“Maybe not, but if there’s even the remotest chance we’re going to get accused of this, it’s best to tell her now.
There’s no way I’m getting expelled for threatening the student body,” Martina said.
“If I’m going down, it’s going to be for something I actually did.
Like the bong I allegedly made in shop.”
“Allegedly,” Rick said, “is a really useful word.”
“Isn’t it?” Martina asked as she looped her arm through his and practically dragged him from the cafeteria.
—
When they came back after lunch, the halls seemed extra loud after the relative quiet of the Beast. Rick couldn’t decide if more people were actually looking at him and whispering, or if it was paranoia.
“Really wishing I wasn’t stoned right now,” Martina whispered.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Rick mused, but his palms were sweating.
Martina licked her lips, her gaze darting around the halls. “Just keep your head down and deny everything.”
“About what?”
“Exactly.” Martina punched his shoulder. “I’ll see you after ceramics.”
Rick waved her off and headed down the hall to his next class.
—
They were halfway through shop class, where Rick was sanding the jewelry box he was making for his mom, even though she didn’t really have any jewelry, and Martina was painting her hummingbird feeder that definitely, absolutely was not a bong, when they were paged to the principal’s office.
“That cannot be good.” Rick set down his project, worry etching his features.
Martina stood, quickly packing away their projects in their cubby. “Remember what I said. Admit to nothing.”
“I didn’t do anything—we didn’t do anything.” Irritation had invaded worry’s territory, making Rick feel agitated and angry. He chucked his sandpaper back onto the table. “Our pranks are full of whimsy. We’re not ghouls.”
“I know that and you know that, but they’ll need to pin it on someone and we’re an easy choice.” She scowled as she slipped on her hoodie. “We should just get matching T-shirts that say ‘We’re number one!’ on them and be done with it.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, stretching it. “If they call my mom—” She’d miss out on sleep she desperately needed, and Rick didn’t want that.
Martina reached up and patted his cheek. “My mom will help. Don’t worry.”
Rick wondered if she was consoling him or trying to convince herself. Probably both.
Principal Bell’s office looked like it was trying really hard to be reassuring while simultaneously failing to reassure anyone.
A few faded motivational posters picturing eagles and mountaintops with words like believe and resilience were on the wall along with framed certificates and a calendar full of nature scenes.
The smell of old coffee and disappointment haunted the room so deeply that Rick thought only an exorcist would be able to remove them.
A few plants languished in their pots. Rick’s mom sang to their houseplants.
She said it helped them grow. The only songs these plants inspired were funeral dirges.
It was that thought that made Rick consider that he was probably still stoned.
He tried to look calm, but fear had burned all the thoughts out of his head, and his palms were still sweaty.
“Have a seat.” Principal Bell ushered them into seats in front of his desk while one of the school counselors, Ms. Macnamara, hovered behind him.
He wasn’t smiling. Ms. Macnamara was frowning so hard that Rick wondered if her face was going to collapse in at a central point, leaving only a sinkhole of frustrated wrath.
After a moment of awkward silence where they all stared at each other, Principal Bell folded his hands onto his desk and cleared his throat. “Do you know why I called you two in here?”
They shook their heads.
He set down a copy of the new yearbook in front of them, the silver embellishments glinting in the low light. “What can you tell me about this?” He tapped one finger on the cover.
“It’s a yearbook,” Martina said.
Silence oozed through the room like an oily puddle.
Rick was well versed in the wait-them-out tactic, as this wasn’t his first time in the principal’s office.
The temptation was there, to fill that empty space and get the weight of their expectations off him, but he was taking his cues from Martina.
She hadn’t wavered a centimeter. In that moment he could almost hear Mrs. Lopez’s voice: Don’t ever offer up information to the authorities. Don’t do their job for them.
After a long moment ticked by, the principal flipped pages before shoving the yearbook toward them.
Rick took the bait, leaning forward to read.
It was a picture of Mr. Stephens. The yearbook staff had posed him in front of one of the brick walls.
His hands were on his hips in a superhero pose.
Underneath his name scrawled more of that hateful font.
Mr. Edwin Stephens, Most Likely to Sleep with the Fishes.
Rick’s stomach twisted, and he swallowed hard. Next to him, Martina appeared cool and unaffected, but her hands in her lap were white-knuckled in their grip.
“Anything to say now?” Principal Bell sat back in his chair, expression stern, while Ms. Macnamara looked like she was two seconds away from either bursting into tears or yelling.
Rick clenched his jaw. Both of them remained quiet.
Ms. Macnamara leaned forward, planting her hand on the desk. “This is very serious business. I hope you two understand that.”
Principal Bell looked irritated over the interruption, his brows furrowing until his eyebrows collided like two caterpillars butting heads.
Martina tilted her head to the side. “Why are we here?”
Ms. Macnamara jabbed her finger at the smiling photo of Mr. Stephens, but before she could open her mouth, Martina held up her hand in a stopping motion. Ms. Macnamara’s expression hardened.
“I know why you called the meeting. I meant why are we”—Martina waved her hand between her and Rick—“here and not, I don’t know, the yearbook staff?”
“We’ll be speaking to them, too,” Principal Bell said. “But that’s not your business. We need you to answer our questions.”
Martina slumped back into her chair, annoyed. “We’ve already made it clear we don’t know anything, and honestly, I have no idea why, out of the entire student body, you pulled me and Rick into the office.”
Which was only a partial lie, Rick thought. They knew exactly why the principal had dragged them in here, they just didn’t think he had any proof about past allegations, and Rick knew for a fact that he didn’t have any proof for the current one, either.
Ms. Macnamara put her hands on her hips. “Can Rick talk for himself?”
“Yes,” Rick said, almost wanting to smile at the visible irritation from her when he didn’t say anything further.