Chapter 3
The next morning, Zara Moxley, head of the yearbook committee, school journalist, and, according to the yearbook, Most Likely to Choke on Her Own Words, cornered Rick and Martina in the school parking lot.
She stood in front of the Beast, her clothes a rainbow of hues, which should have looked childish but somehow on Zara came off as artsy and sophisticated.
A headband pulled back her curls, framing the warm brown skin of her face and highlighting her stubborn chin.
Martina stared at her through the windshield, where Zara stood ready to spring, which seemed to be Zara’s normal mode. “Sometimes I wish your ride was a little more covert.”
“Staring at her won’t make her go away,” Rick said, grabbing his bag and opening his van door. “Hey, Zara.”
Zara, as usual, skipped pleasantries. “I’m doing a piece for the Wildcat Roar.” She got her phone out of her pastel messenger bag and pushed the record button. “And I’d like a statement.”
“Sure,” Martina said, leaning over the phone. “No comment.”
“We didn’t touch the stupid yearbooks,” Rick growled.
Martina shot him an exasperated look. “ ‘No comment’ only works if you don’t say something.”
Rick threw up his hands. “She’ll just print what everyone is saying. And ‘I didn’t do it’ is hardly incriminating.”
“Fine.” Martina’s mouth pinched in irritation, an expression that made her look just like her mother, which Rick was smart enough to not mention. “It’s a lot of bullshit over nothing, if you ask me.”
One of Zara’s perfectly sculpted brows went up. “You’re behind the times, I see.”
The leaden feeling returned to Rick’s gut. “What do you mean?”
Zara examined them carefully, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
“You really don’t know, do you?” She stepped closer to them, looking around to make sure they were alone.
Even though no one was nearby, she still lowered her voice.
“I heard it from a source, who heard it from their cousin, who heard it from their uncle—”
“I have not had enough caffeine,” Martina grumbled, “for any part of this conversation.”
Zara ignored her. “That Mr. Stephens can’t be found.”
Rick and Martina froze. Seconds ticked by as they stared at Zara, the sounds of the busy parking lot fading around them.
“What do you mean?” Rick’s voice sounded funny to his own ears. Like he was far away, or maybe in a tunnel.
“I mean,” Zara said, carefully stating each word, “that they can’t track down Mr. Stephens. No one’s at his house. His emergency contacts are coming up dry. He’s disappeared.”
Rick felt momentarily hollow in his own skin, his brain buzzing as the world around them took on a strange tint.
“That…” Martina frowned at Zara before she shook herself. “As we’ve stated, no comment.” She grabbed Rick’s collar. “But I’m absolutely sure Mr. Stephens will turn up soon. This is all just…” Martina seemed to run out of words.
Rick couldn’t seem to find his, either. It felt like his tongue was taking up his entire mouth.
“No comment?” Zara asked dryly, her phone shoved into Rick’s face.
He held his palms out, shrugging as Martina led him away, the uneasiness in his stomach pulsing out to every extremity, making him feel heavy and light-headed at the same time.
It was the same way he’d felt when he’d come home and discovered that his dad had left.
He hadn’t liked the feeling then, either, and he absolutely hated it now.
He let Martina drag him to class, trusting that she would get him where he needed to go.
—
By second period, cards started to appear on Mr. Stephens’s door, telling him to “come back soon” or “we miss you.” By the end of third period, people had started leaving flowers.
“The irony here,” Martina said as they passed the display, “is that Mr. Stephens would be pissed that all these people were leaving campus without a pass.” Her voice sounded dry and steady, but Rick had known Martina for a long time and could hear the underlying tension.
Rick stole another glance at the display over his shoulder. “I didn’t even think people liked him that much.”
“They don’t.” Martina grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie, urging him to move faster. “They just like the drama of it. School rumor mill must be going full-tilt.”
“Hyperspeed.” Rick tried to match her bravado but knew that he’d failed by the way Martina’s arm tightened in his.
They did their best to ignore the sudden attention as they wove through the halls.
It bothered Rick more than he would have thought.
He wasn’t used to being greeted with smiles and fist bumps—he wasn’t used to being greeted at all.
He’d been a ghost, haunting the hallways with Martina at his side, and he’d been happy.
All he wanted was to return to that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that those days had evaporated into mist, and they were never coming back.
—
Rick was applying his first coat of wood stain to his jewelry box when the shop teacher stopped by his workstation.
Wiry and balding, Mr. Lazarus looked to Rick like the kind of guy you saw in mug shots on forensic shows and true crime documentaries.
His appearance by Rick’s side now was something of a surprise, because although Mr. Lazarus was the shop teacher, he was usually either in the corner using one of the saws or off somewhere getting hellaciously stoned.
Historically speaking, he didn’t loom over the students’ workstations for several long seconds, watching them work.
Martina broke first. “Can I help you, Mr. Lazarus?”
Mr. Lazarus licked his lips. “Just wanted to check on your projects.” He laughed, and to Rick it sounded slightly hysterical. “Not sure we should let you two near the sharp tools, you know?”
“No sharp tools here,” Rick said, looking straight at Mr. Lazarus.
Mr. Lazarus’s expression melted into a frown, his brow furrowing.
Rick held up his brush. “See? Dull.”
Martina held up her brush, too.
Mr. Lazarus observed them for a long moment before clearing his throat. “Just be careful, you two. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, would we?” He rapped the table twice with his knuckle and walked away.
“What was that?” Martina paused, dropping her voice. “Do you think he knows what I’m making?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said slowly. “But he seemed almost…worried.”
Martina huffed, returning to painting her project. “It’s not even October yet. This school year is going to be eight million years long.”
“It will calm down soon.” Rick paused mid-brushstroke. “I mean, without anything to feed the rumors, they’ll die, right?”
“I hope so,” Martina muttered, painting a lopsided flower onto the base of her project. “Maybe if we keep our heads down, people will forget about us and this will all go away.”
“Maybe,” Rick said, though he was skeptical. He was pretty sure Martina felt the same way, and she was just trying to make them feel better.
But her attempt was only partially successful.
“Well, that jewelry box isn’t going to paint itself,” Martina said with a sigh.
“Same for your ‘hummingbird feeder.’ ” And though Rick would never make air quotes with his fingers, they were implied.
—
When lunch rolled around, they didn’t even try to head to the cafeteria, choosing to hide in the library instead.
By fifth period, the flowers and stuffed toys left at Mr. Stephens’s door were creeping so far out into the hall, the janitor, Mr. Cooper, had to box them up.
Rick took the long way to get to his next period so he wouldn’t have to go through the people who were milling about.
The general vibe of the halls reminded Rick of the ocean moments before a storm hit, the upper layer calm but, below it, whirling darkness.
Bryce was one of the few who seemed untouched, his armor of bravado staying shiny and undented.
Rick felt the dread that had been pooling in his gut all morning pound out in waves, like an internal DJ had told someone to drop the bass. He broke into a sweat, and he hoped like hell that he’d remembered deodorant this morning.
At the final bell, he darted for the door first, trying to lose himself in the halls before someone got the bright idea to confront him. He found Martina at his locker.
Someone had scrawled RIP with a drippy paint pen on the scarred metal door of his locker. The paint was dry, and Rick wasn’t sure how long it had been there—he didn’t use his locker much. He was kind of impressed that the person had even known which one was his.
“Well, that’s disturbing.” Rick kept his tone light, trying to hide how creeped out he was by the sight.
“That seems a bit premature,” Martina said, eyeing the paint. “We haven’t even died yet.”
Rick popped open the locker, grabbing his notebook. “Yet means you think it’s a possibility.”
“Of course it’s a possibility. Have you met people?
” Martina jabbed her straw into her drink, trying to get the last bits of her caramel Frappuccino.
Martina’s grandmother had slipped them a twenty this morning so they could “get themselves a little treat.” They’d taken this as tacit approval of them skipping fifth period to take a long lunch as part of the treat.
Rick’s iced coffee hadn’t made it past the ride back to school.
Martina must have really been nursing hers.
Rick sighed. “Yes, I’ve met people.” He shut his locker.
“I’m just saying, I’m a bit surprised we’ve all made it through the day,” Martina said, adjusting her bag. “Mr. Stephens is still missing. No body, no crime. Writing RIP on your locker is jumping the gun.”
“Somehow your words bring me zero comfort.” Rick couldn’t tear his gaze away from that threatening red lettering.
Not for the first time, he thought that the old saying “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” was complete and utter bullshit, because those three letters filleted him to the bone.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I would really like to see Mr. Stephens about now. ”