Chapter 3 #2
“Yeah.” Martina shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Or I wish something else would happen so that people would move on. My social media feed is nothing but reposts of the yearbook and wild conspiracy theories.”
In an act of desperation, the school had tried taking back all of the yearbooks, but it had been too late the instant the first book had been set into a student’s hand.
People had taken pictures of the pages. They’d sent them to each other and posted them on their socials.
Rick didn’t even have to look up the one for Mr. Stephens—it was burned into his brain. Most Likely to Sleep with the Fishes.
Martina’s mom had explained that was a term old mobsters used to use for killing someone—sleeping with the fishes.
“My favorite so far is the one where we sacrificed Mr. Stephens to our dark god as part of a pact to make us prom king and queen,” Rick said absently, still staring at the dripping red paint.
“Wait, why are we the killers?”
Rick could only shrug.
Martina huffed in mock irritation, but Rick felt her hand curl around his elbow, letting him know she was more freaked out than she was letting on. “That’s a lot of work for too little return. If I’m sacrificing someone, it would be for something much bigger and something I actually wanted.”
Rick rubbed a hand over his face. “I just want this to go away.”
There was a flash behind them, making Rick and Martina automatically turn.
Paxton Embry, Associated Student Body President—and as he was known in the yearbook, Life of the Party, Dead in the Bathroom—lowered his camera.
Martina had once described Paxton as sentient slime mold that had discovered styling gel, which at the time Rick had thought to be strangely accurate.
There was something sort of primordial and oozing about Paxton that Rick couldn’t put his finger on.
“Isn’t the yearbook already in trouble?” Martina asked, her voice pure acid.
Paxton lined up another shot. “School photographer looks good on my college résumé. I’m not going to quit just because you two freaks wanted to get your jollies.
” He snapped several more photos. “And I’m thinking Wildcat Roar for this shot, anyway.
” He straightened, face lighting up. “Maybe I can sell it—”
“Leave them alone, you grubby little weasel.” This came from Alexis Vargas, her arm slung around Landon Parker’s waist. (Best Dramatic Death Onstage and Best Audience Participation Death, Applause All Around! respectively.)
Rick had always thought they looked like an ad for something promising health and vitality.
Alexis was tan, athletically lean, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Landon had dark, curly hair, brown skin, and dimples.
They were both wearing their letterman jackets, hers for football, his for cheer, and for a split second, Rick wondered what it would be like to have the kind of money to spend on a jacket like that.
He wouldn’t have bought one if he could—he thought they were ugly as hell—but it would have been nice to have the option.
“Yeah, Pax,” Landon said, jutting his chin out. “Leave them alone.”
Neither Landon nor Alexis had ever been mean to Rick—not that they’d interacted much, but both seemed to be genuinely good people, and it made him wonder why they’d been singled out in the yearbook like him and Martina.
He couldn’t think of anyone who hated them that much or wanted them dead.
Then again, Rick didn’t pay much attention to the people at his school.
Instead of arguing, Paxton took a few quick shots of Rick and Martina. He held up his camera and grinned. “These will make great before photos to go with your mug shots.”
Rick, worn thin by the day of stress, of comments, whispers, and stares, was lurching forward before he even knew what he was doing.
He wasn’t sure what he would have done if Alexis hadn’t put her arm out, stopping him.
He’d punched people before—there always seemed to be someone who wanted to take him on for some reason or another—but he hadn’t initiated a fight since second grade.
Instead of scuttling off like the insect that he was, Paxton leaned forward, smirking. “What are you going to do, Hicks? You going to throw hands?”
Martina grabbed Rick’s wrist, squeezing a warning.
Swallowing down his sudden rush of anger, Rick stepped back, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Paxton slowly shook his head, disappointment stamping his features. “Tsk-tsk, Hicks. Nasty temper and no follow-through.” He stepped closer, baring his teeth in a vicious smile. “That’s why I’ll be Ivy League, baby, and you’re going to rot in that little hovel you squat in. I finish what I start.”
“Then finish fucking off,” Martina said, sounding bored. “Because we have things to do today, and neither of us are so stupid as to announce our plans in front of witnesses.” She turned, pulling Rick in her wake. “Landon, Alexis, always a delight.”
“Same, Lopez,” Landon called after them.
They were halfway to the exit before Martina let go of Rick’s belt, corralling him into a nook between a bay of lockers and a bathroom.
“The exit is that way,” Rick said, pointing.
“Shut up.” She jabbed him with a finger. “You need to pull your shit together, Rick. Right now they’ve got nothing on you. If you start throwing down in the hallways, they can suspend you, possibly expel you.”
Rick shoved his hands into his pockets, his jaw clenching.
“I know.” He breathed deep, letting it go in a whoosh.
“I know.” Rick’s mom would yell if he got kicked out, or even just suspended.
He could deal with that. It was the part later, where she got this tired, defeated look, that he couldn’t handle.
The disappointment. He knew how much she wanted him to graduate.
She’d hit the roof when he’d suggested dropping out so he could work full-time.
She’d been so angry she got quiet. He hadn’t brought it up again.
He ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. No. Okay. Sorry. And thanks.”
“Now that you’ve covered every base, let’s go home,” she said, letting him out of the alcove. They were almost to the Beast before she spoke again. “Do you think they’ll find him? Mr. Stephens, I mean. Do you think he’s actually dead?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said, slinging his arm over her shoulders. “I hope not. I hope he had enough one day, put the town in his rearview mirror, and started a new life as an exotic dancer or one of those people who make sculptures out of balloons.”
Martina scrunched up her face. “Dude.”
“What?” Rick asked. “I just want him to follow his heart.”
“And you think his heart said, ‘Exotic-dancing balloon sculptor’?”
“I do,” Rick said hopefully. “I really do.”
—
But as the days passed, Rick’s optimism for Mr. Stephens’s fate wilted and died along with the flowers left for the counselor in the shrine outside his office.
Whispers grew from a trickle to a river as the police were seen searching his office.
Talking to teachers. Rick even saw them himself when he’d stopped in the office one morning to exchange his school laptop when it was acting up.
One of the officers was speaking to Ms. Macnamara.
The officer’s back was to Rick, so he couldn’t see her expression, but Ms. Macnamara was facing him.
She looked pale and fragile, like a loud noise would be enough to cause her to shatter.
He hadn’t been trying to listen, but the office was quiet, and Ms. Macnamara’s voice rose suddenly, sharp and quavery. “The email said he had a family emergency. That’s all we knew—”
The officer murmured something, their tone placating, but Rick couldn’t catch it. He could guess what had been said, though, by Ms. Macnamara’s strangled response. “What do you mean, he hasn’t got any family? Then where the hell did he go?”