Chapter 13
VARDA HIGH
The universe did not come through. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, and here I am.
Because I can’t hide at home while everyone else shows up ready to talk their shit.
I have to let them see that I am unbothered and moisturized and in my lane.
I have to let them see that none of this can hurt me.
Still. I sit in the car for a few minutes, trying to psych myself up to face it all.
People are milling around the parking lot, the way they do before the warning bell rings: sitting on a tailgate eating breakfast tacos and gossiping, listening to one last song on Javier Rodriguez’s souped-up stereo.
A bunch of guys are chasing each other around with lacrosse sticks for some reason.
We don’t even have lacrosse at Varda High.
The first bell rings, and most everyone starts to make their way toward the building.
I get out of my car and stand there for a moment.
All I want is to be invisible, which is pretty much the opposite of how I’ve spent the last few years.
I’m not actually sure how to stand, how to walk, when I’m trying to fade into the background.
“’Sup, Henley?” I turn to see Max, backpack slung across one shoulder.
Relief seeps through my body. I won’t have to walk in alone, anyway. “Hey, Max. Where’s Katy? Don’t you usually give her a ride in the morning?”
“She comes in early on Mondays for swim practice.” He rubs the back of his head where the hair is short and bristly. “You okay?”
“Dreading this a little,” I say.
He looks confused for a moment, then surprised.
“You’re still worried about the Sekrit thing?” he asks.
“I mean … yeah. Have you been back on it in the last day or so? It’s still going,” I say. “People have been texting me death threats all weekend. Never mind that my parents found out, and they’re freaking out now too.”
“Oof.” He winces. “I can’t imagine. Or, like, I can imagine, given how my parents would take that news.”
Max’s parents are almost as intense as mine.
His dad is the communications director for our state representative, and he lives most of the year in Austin for work.
His mom is on a bunch of charity boards and town booster organizations.
Her biggest goal is to beautify Varda. Her second-biggest goal is to beautify Max, or at least to make him stand up straight and wear a collared shirt. It doesn’t always go that well.
He puts his arms around my shoulders and squeezes. He’s wearing a long-sleeved hoodie even though it’s way too hot for it, but the fabric is soft and worn and familiar against my cheek.
“Come on, we’re going to be late.”
The parking lot is pretty much empty now, except for the usual consistently tardy stragglers. Inside the AC blasts my skin, raising goose bumps along my bare arms. For just a moment the sight of the crowded hall makes me stop in my tracks. Max stops next to me.
A moment later I feel his fingers slide into mine. I close my eyes, then open them again, and together, we walk down the hall.
“Hi, Iris!” Lydia Haber-Jones waves as I walk past. Nothing in her face looks malicious. I glance at Max and he gives an encouraging nod, so I give her a wave back.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe people will be … normal?
As we walk I look sidelong at everyone we pass.
It definitely looks normal. A group of girls from choir say hi.
Preston Holmes asks if I’ve finished my English paper yet (no).
Olivia Chambers tells me she likes my skirt.
At first glance it’s like nothing ever happened.
Well, if they want to pretend the Sekrit posts never happened, that’s fine with me.
But then I notice little things too. A cluster of freshmen trailing behind us and giggling; a few people taking surreptitious pictures of me. Rodrigo Martinez actually makes the sign of the cross when I pass.
Then we round a corner, and we’re face-to-face with Katy.
Her hair is still damp from swim practice, combed sleekly back from her face. For a second she looks surprised to see us. Then her eyes focus in on our hands, still interlaced together, and they narrow sharply.
“Oh,” she says. “Hi.”
I try to pull my hand quickly back from Max’s, but it takes him a moment to let go. He doesn’t seem fazed by Katy’s death stare. He gives my fingers one more squeeze before he releases them.
“How was swim practice?” he asks, as if nothing in the world could’ve been so normal.
Katy looks at me like he hasn’t even spoken. “I saw all the posts this weekend. God, you poor thing, it must’ve been really hard to find out how many people hate your guts.”
I recoil. “I…”
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” she says quickly. “I just mean … a pile-on is like, grrrr, you know? Like, people you never even noticed before suddenly have beef with you, and now they can make it your problem. But gosh, who would do something like that to you after all you’ve been through?”
Her voice is cloyingly sweet, and I can’t for the life of me tell if every word is meant to be a barb or if she’s being sincere. I glance at Max, but he just shrugs.
“I wish I knew,” I say with a little laugh. She joins me a moment later, and then we’re both laughing, together, like we’re sharing some kind of joke.
“I bet,” she says. She slides in next to Max and hooks her arm through his. “I’m just glad you’ve got such a supportive friend in Max. He can be such a grump, you’d never know he’s actually a big teddy bear.”
We’re making our way down the hall together now. The crowd starts to thicken as we approach the senior lockers, and I realize we’re approaching some kind of a commotion. I tune out of the conversation and stretch my neck to see.
Everyone’s clustered around the Coke machine near my locker.
No, wait: Everyone’s clustered around my locker.
I pick up speed, double-stepping to find out what’s going on. Behind me I vaguely hear Katy’s voice drawing in a sharp gasp as she sees the same thing I do at the same time.
My locker’s been torn open, hanging off one hinge. The contents are thrown all over the floor. The photos I’d taped inside, the magnetic mirror, the Varda pennant, all trashed. Someone’s written all over the door in red Sharpie. I know what it will say before I even get close enough to read it.
MURDERER.
All over the door, inside and out. MURDERER. IRIS KILLED ROCKY. #JUSTICEFORROCKY.
People are standing around taking pictures of it, laughing, pointing.
Standing alone just a little bit back from the crowd, I catch a glimpse of pale blue hair, cut short. Kendra. Rocky’s sister. She watches with an unreadable expression. Our eyes meet and I feel a shiver cut through my spine.
“Iris!”
Sophie pushes through the crowd, grabbing ahold of my wrist. “There you are! I’ve been texting you all morning!”
Hayden’s just behind her, eyes round with horror. “They destroyed your locker!” she says, with her usual gift for understatement.
Sophie grabs me by my elbow. “Come on,” she says.
“Soph, wait, I’ve gotta—”
“Forget it,” she says shortly. “They’d love to get some pictures of you crouched down, picking up your shit. That’s worth another week of drama. No, we’re out of here.”
Hayden looks pale and stricken, but she nods. She grabs my left hand, and Sophie grabs my right, and together they get me out the door.