Chapter 20
VARDA HIGH
At school the vibe has definitely shifted.
I don’t know if it was the image of me in the cop car that did it, or if it’s just that the rumors have reached a kind of critical mass.
Either way, people are openly staring now.
This time last week, I could barely make it through the halls on time for class because everyone wanted to say hi or chat with me.
Now, no one says a single word, and I can feel them watch, silent and bloodthirsty, as I pass.
People on all sides hold their phones at angles that make me certain that I’m being filmed; everyone’s hoping to catch me doing something strange or pathetic or maybe even violent.
My locker is still busted, so I end up carrying all my textbooks with me.
In my classes I try to make myself small, to vanish.
The teachers finally seem to be aware that something is happening, though I can’t tell if they know what.
In English Mr. Blanton holds me back for a half second after the bell to ask if I’m okay.
I tell him I’m just fine, and he seems grateful when I hurry away.
In world history, though, I keep catching Ms. Daltry watching.
She’s one of the younger teachers and has always been a little too fascinated with all our gossip, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s on Sekrit herself.
At lunch, I make my way to the central courtyard.
Most days that is where I meet Sophie and Hayden, and sometimes the other cheerleaders, if they’re not off with their boyfriends.
Outside, the air is sweltering. Before my eyes can adjust to the outdoor light, a figure moves in front of me.
Ashlynn Duvall, fists balled up against her sides.
The sun’s behind her so I can’t read her face.
I lift my hand to say hello, but she is first to speak.
“You can’t eat out here,” she says. Her voice is just loud enough for everyone around us to hear.
The buzz around us trails off. It’s bizarre to see the courtyard this quiet. It reminds me of some postapocalyptic movie scene where the city is empty and abandoned, surreal in its silence.
I take a moment to consider my options. Make a scene? Ignore her? Say something cruel? I finally land on flippant disregard.
“Get out of my way,” I say, angling my body to the left to push past her.
But she blocks me. Her body is too close to mine.
Close enough to scratch me, to pull my hair.
She’s a volleyball player with a frame like an oak tree; she’s got at least five inches on me.
If she decides to get physical, I’m cooked.
“You’re not welcome out here,” she says, more insistently.
It’s nothing I haven’t been reading on the app for the past few days, but it’s different, hearing it said out loud.
My stomach turns to acid. Someone behind me laughs and it’s a strange, grating sound.
What do I do if this turns into a fight?
Should I take off my earrings now or wait for some kind of cue?
I’m spared the decision by the sight of Sophie and Hayden waving from their seat.
They’re at a small table by themselves today.
Without another word, I slip over to Ashlynn’s other side and step around her.
I refuse to let myself look back, even though I can tell from Sophie and Hayden’s faces she’s still watching me.
Slowly, the sound starts to return to normal.
“What was that about?” Hayden asks, scooting over a half inch to let me sit.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Pathetic.” She dips a french fry into its little tub of ketchup.
“She’s always been an attention whore,” Sophie says carelessly. “Remember how histrionic she was when Marliz Sanchez had leukemia freshman year? Crying in the halls nonstop.”
“Oh, that’s right. Wasn’t she’s the one who had all the panic attacks after Hurricane Harvey too?
” Hayden asks. She clutches her hands in front of her.
“‘Oh, my cousins all live in Galveston, I’m so worried for them,’” she says in a fake sob.
“There’s never been something that girl couldn’t make all about herself. ”
I grimace. I’m not particularly close with Ashlynn, but we’ve always gotten along. She was my lab partner last year in biology, and we always worked well together. And now she believes I’m a killer.
You think you know someone, dissecting a fetal pig with them.
“Hey, you guys have room for one more?”
I look up to see Max, his brown paper lunch bag clutched in his fist. I’m more startled than I should be. It’s not like Max doesn’t know Hayden or Sophie, but they tend to occupy different circles. I slide over and gesture to the spot next to me.
“The more the merrier,” I say. “Where’s Katy?”
He nods at a table across the courtyard. There she is, at a table with a few other girls, all of them staring daggers at me. I’m honestly a little surprised. She’s never been openly hostile like this.
“Aren’t I popular today?” I say, trying to sound flip. “I’m not liking my homecoming chances, guys.”
Sophie grins. “That’s okay. I was planning to win anyway.”
“Is she trying to explode your head with her mind or something?” Hayden says. She gives the other girls a quick nasty sneer before turning back to us. “You gotta tell us if we’re going to get caught in the crossfire.”
“I’m pretty sure you two are safe, but if she can figure out how to turn on the X gene, Iris and I are screwed.” Max looks at me. “How’re you doing?”
“Loving my new life as a reality TV star,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. He doesn’t flinch; his pale blue eyes hold steady on my face, and I get the feeling he can see me clearer than I’d like. “It sucks, but I’m hanging in there.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I heard Ramos took you in yesterday. That guy swaggers around like a cowboy, but he doesn’t do shit. He’s gotten by on the bare minimum because nothing happens in Varda.”
“That’s what I told her,” Hayden says with a nervous glance toward me. “I mean, if he’d bothered to investigate to begin with…”
“… this rumor wouldn’t have teeth,” Max says. “Yeah, exactly. And now he’s just trying to cover his ass.”
“So you think it’s all just for show and I shouldn’t be worried?” I ask.
He looks at me seriously. “Actually, no. I think now you should be a little more worried. Because Ramos doesn’t care what the truth is, he’s just got to look like he’s doing something. So he’s going to make life harder for you at every turn.”
I can feel the blood drain out of my face. “But there’s no evidence. He … he can’t just accuse me of something I didn’t do.”
Max starts counting off on his fingers. “No, but he can interview every single person you know, he can get a warrant for your house and your computer and your phone, he can follow you, he can bust every party you go to, he can pull you over for petty bullshit to try to catch you in a lie…”
Hayden lets out a sharp laugh. “Okay, we get it. But don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
Max just shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that the cops around here have nothing better to do. They can harass you nonstop, at all hours, and claim it’s their job.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask. My voice is too shrill, too loud; I swallow, trying to get it back to a normal volume.
“We’ve got to figure out who OP is,” Max says simply. “Rockytruther. Whoever they are.”
For a moment we’re all silent. Hayden stares at Max as if transfixed. Sophie sets down her bag of baby carrots, forehead dimpled in a frown.
Max is the only one who seems able to eat with his usual aplomb.
He seems impervious to the attention. But then, he’s always been like that.
I remember in middle school there was a year and a half that he was the unofficial whipping boy.
I don’t know exactly how it got started—probably just middle-school nonsense—but it’s hard to forget the image of him making his way down the hall, a hunched, lonely, skinny boy dressed all in black.
I have one clear memory of him sitting stoically alone in the lunchroom, pelted by the cherry tomatoes Braden Nederbrock catapulted his way.
Even then I was impressed. Now, watching him sit there and eat chips while half the courtyard gives us the evil eye, it seems actively heroic.
“We’ve got to figure out who OP is,” Sophie finally repeats. “Okay. Any idea how we’re supposed to do that?
Max shakes his head. “That I don’t know. But I think it’s Iris’s best shot at clearing her name. If we can figure out who the troll is, maybe Ramos will have to accept it’s an unfounded rumor.”
“If,” I say. “We’re staking a lot on the word ‘if.’”
“Do you have a better idea?” he asks.
I don’t answer. He knows perfectly well that I don’t.
“So,” he says. “I guess the first question to ask is … who hates you?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Well, everybody, now,” I say.
“Okay, okay, fair enough. How about before the post, though?” he asks, leaning across the table. “Before last Friday, who would you have put on a list of people that hate your guts?”
Ever since sophomore year I’ve been on the varsity cheer squad, which attracts a certain amount of envy.
So maybe it’s someone from JV. Or someone who didn’t even make the team.
Or someone who hates cheerleaders because they think we’re all vapid sluts.
Or someone who hates cheerleaders because none of us will sleep with him.
None of which narrows it down.
Everyone loves it when a cheerleader falls from grace. Poor Sydney Moss, for instance, hounded out of the school.
And of course, Lynette.
Lynette, who, by the end of it, hated my guts.
I exhale heavily, pushing the thought away.
As true as that was, she was the one person who couldn’t be behind this.
But who else would do this? Who else could hate me this much?
Who else would want to destroy my reputation?
Last Friday I thought I was on top of the world.
Well, maybe not the top—the Koenigs showed up at the game.
And then I sit up straighter.
“Well. Maybe … the Koenigs?” I say.
Everybody stares at me.
“I mean … I don’t know if they do. They’ve never said anything openly,” I say. “But maybe they feel like what Rocky did was somehow … my fault?” I say.
Sophie makes a face. “That’s such bullshit,” she says, but I hold up a hand.
“Don’t lecture me, Soph, please. I know. I know it’s not my fault, I know I’m not responsible for whatever was wrong with Rocky. I’m just saying it’s something they could think.” I bite my lip. “I don’t know, maybe that’s a long shot. They’re so nice, it’s hard to imagine.”
“They’re nice,” says Hayden. “But what about Kendra? She was already pretty antisocial before the murder, but these days she’s straight-up weird.”
“I mean, I’d be feeling antisocial too, if my brother turned out to be a monster,” Sophie mutters. “She might just be grieving, you know?”
“She might. But then again…” Max hesitates. “It doesn’t hurt to have her on your radar. Just in case. Who else?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m sure there are people that think I suck for whatever reason. No offense, but Katy’s never been a huge fan of mine. And, um, Carter,” I say, glancing at Hayden.
Max does a double take, but then looks thoughtful. His eyes slide over to Katy—still watching us angrily from her own table across the courtyard.
Hayden’s shaking her head.
“For one thing, Carter doesn’t hate you, he’s just … confused right now,” she says. “And for another, he was right next to me when that first post went up. I would’ve seen him on his phone.”
“You can schedule posts, though, right?” I look at Max, who nods. “Sekrit lets you prewrite a post and put in a time, and then it automatically posts for you. He wouldn’t have had to do it manually.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but before she can say anything, the lunch bell rings.
“Well, that was relaxing,” I say, zipping up my backpack. “I love listing off all my mortal enemies during my lunch hour.”
“If you know who’s got it out for you, you have a better chance of seeing them coming,” Max says.
“That’s a fucked-up way to live. But he’s probably right,” Sophie says. She squeezes my elbow. “Come on, Hay, if we’re late for trig again Mrs. Garcia’s going to take us down a grade level.”
“Yeah, okay,” Hayden says.
I’m still fumbling with the enormous stack of books I have to carry everywhere with me now. Max watches for a moment, his lips somewhere between pity and amusement. Finally he snatches my history book off the top of the pile. “Here, let me carry a few.”
“No, I got it,” I say.
“You can use my locker,” he insists. “It’s halfway between here and choir. I’ll give you the combination and you can use it until yours is fixed.”
I hesitate for another moment, but he holds the textbook up just over my head like he’s playing keepaway. “Come on, if you hurt your back you won’t be able to cheer this Friday. And I would never forgive myself if you couldn’t jerky.”
I grin. “That’s ‘herkie.’”
“Sure, whatever.”
I follow him through the bustle of kids packing their things and throwing away their trash. It’s nice to have him at my side—to know he’s going to help me. But it’s also impossible not to feel everyone else’s eyes on the back of my neck.
To feel certain that some of them, at least, are looking for a place to put a knife.