Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
Getting up at 7:00 a.m. isn’t a problem. Most days I’m up before five so that I don’t have to scramble to make it to the diner by six. The problem is the lump that settles in the pit of my stomach when I pick up Solina’s notebooks and realize that I don’t just have to be sweet like her, but brilliant too.
A part of me had hoped this would be open-and-shut. The ghost of a dead girl returns to campus, and her killer would have the shock written all over them. Gabe didn’t say a word to me after Hunter left, and he didn’t come skulking after me when I headed back to Kincaid alone. Poppy wasn’t hiding beneath my bed, waiting to pounce once I was asleep. Hunter texted me good night without any suggestions that we meet up alone. I’d forgotten that, wealth and privilege aside, everyone is here for a reason. The kids here are smart. Cunning. If whoever hurt Solina is here, they won’t be stupid enough to get caught that easy.
Which means it’s only a matter of time before they make their move.
Keeping myself safe means keeping a low profile. On the off chance whoever I’m looking for wasn’t in Solina’s inner circle, drawing extra attention to myself just puts a target on my back. Flunking out of all her classes the first week back is like wearing a blinking neon-red sign shouting, “BEHOLD KINGSWOOD’S LATEST FAILURE.”
Finding the building where most of the senior-level classes are held is my first test, and I make it by the skin of my teeth. It wouldn’t have been such a close call if I hadn’t spent fifteen minutes studying her schedule in confusion. She told us she had to head back to campus early for an apprenticeship—but there was no biology class listed anywhere on the page. No hint of the professor whose name I vaguely remembered.
I tell myself I must’ve heard her wrong as I shove the schedule to the bottom of my backpack. Misremembered the details. Chemistry instead of biology, with someone named Mrs. Sutherland. I repeat it to myself as I head to my first class of the day, over and over until the words lose meaning. Even in the jumble, they still feel like a lie.
By the time I make it to first period, I’m already exhausted. Mr. Benjamin, a graying middle-aged man who clearly takes his job way too seriously, based on the loafers and fresh-pressed suit he’s wearing to lecture teenagers, glares at me when I stumble into Advanced American Literature seconds before the final bell.
“Thank you for gracing us with such a dramatic entrance, Ms. Flores.”
There’s a smattering of giggles as I take the last available seat, mercifully in the back of the room. Claudia gives me a shy smile as I walk past her. I’d been asleep when she got back from rehearsal last night, almost giving her a heart attack when I leaped out of bed after the sound of the door clicking shut startled me awake. I’d excused myself to the bathroom, mumbling something about a nightmare and hoping she wouldn’t see right through me. She was in bed once I got back. By morning she was already up and gone, so quiet it’s like living with a ghost.
Still, it’s nice to see a friendly face. Meanwhile, Poppy turns around in her seat to give me a wave that feels more taunting than welcoming.
One small plus is Hunter isn’t in this class. I don’t think I could handle his constant need to touch me on top of first-day nerves. Chances are I’d chuck up my breakfast granola bar onto his blazer before third period.
“And since Ms. Flores is so eager this morning, why don’t we let her start off today’s discussion?”
My heart plummets into my stomach. I would’ve rather it stopped instead—anything to save me from the spotlight. Everyone whips around in their seats, dozens of eyes on me as my hands shake where they’re hidden in my lap. Solina once said Kingswood kids could smell fear. I must be mouthwatering.
“I—um … I didn’t, I-I mean—”
“Are you saying you didn’t do the assigned reading over break?”
I don’t even have a clue what the assignment was. All that focus on Solina’s friends and patterns, and I completely forgot to pay attention to the one thing she probably spent the most time on: homework.
Memories of the past few weeks come rushing back to mind, the same moments I’ve replayed hundreds of times, looking for the signs I’d missed. Solina huddled in a booth at the diner with a worn paperback. That Burger King receipt. A story I told myself I’d finish someday.
How the hell did I forget that book?
“I did, I just … forgot my copy in my room,” I lie through my teeth. Maybe I can cobble together an answer out of the snippets of conversation we had. Passages she read to me while I bussed tables. All I can remember is that shit was too cryptic. Why can’t writers just say what they want to say?
A hushed murmur breaks out among the class, silenced by the thwack of Mr. Benjamin’s ruler against the chalkboard. If the attention wasn’t stifling enough to kill me, the look in his eyes would.
“Then in that case, why don’t you give us your thoughts on the parallels Steinbeck draws in Grapes of Wrath between selfishness and altruism?”
I don’t even know what “altruism” means, let alone how it relates to a book I’ve never read.
Claudia’s hand whips into the air, waving until she’s practically lifting herself out of her seat. Poppy tries and fails to hide a snort behind her hand.
“Thank you, Ms. Bustamante, but I asked Ms. Flores to answer the question,” Mr. Benjamin replies without even looking at Claudia.
Her hand drops back to her side with a thunk . She turns around to give me a sympathetic frown. It may not have worked, but it at least took the attention off me for a few seconds.
Coming up with an answer feels impossible. Bolting isn’t an option. So, I go with the safest choice.
I say nothing.
Mr. Benjamin grins like he just hit the jackpot. “And I’d heard such good things about you, Ms. Flores,” he sneers, his upper lip twitching like he’s holding back a cackle. “Disappointing.”
Something breaks inside me. The thought that this—disappointment—will be his last memory of Solina, is a punch to the gut. Solina didn’t have much to leave behind, but we’ll always have her memory. I don’t know who Kingswood thought she was, but it can’t be this. Someone who doesn’t care. Someone too scared to hold their head up high. Someone who has never felt like they’re enough.
The snickers from my classmates die down, replaced by a quiet terror as the takedown spooks everyone into pulling their copies of Grapes of Wrath out of their bags. Swallowing hard, I grab my notebook and focus on the drone of Mr. Benjamin’s voice and tell myself that this is the kind of moment everyone will forget.
They do, for the most part, by the time the bell rings. People file past me without a word, too distracted by their phones and each other to remember my slipup at the beginning of class. Even Mr. Benjamin doesn’t bother to make one last snide remark as I leave the room.
“I’m sorry,” Claudia says the moment I’m out of earshot of Mr. Benjamin.
I jolt, holding a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart, but all it does is kick into double speed when I meet her eyes.
“It’s my fault for forgetting about the reading,” I reply with a shrug. Solina would never forget an assignment, but maybe no one here was close enough to her to know. Or to care. “Thanks for trying to save me,” I add with a shy smile of my own. Small as it might be, it’s comforting knowing there’s at least one person here who doesn’t want me to crash and burn.
“Of course.” Claudia’s cheeks flush as she glances over her shoulder at where Mr. Benjamin is flipping through a stack of papers before turning back and leaning in closer to me. “Everyone says he’s a huge asshole,” she whispers, and I try to ignore the way my skin prickles at the feeling of her breath against me.
“Looks like everyone wasn’t lying,” I reply with an eye roll, not caring if Solina wouldn’t call her professor anything less than lovely. The guy’s a dick. We can call it like it is.
Claudia bites back a laugh, tossing one last glance at Mr. Benjamin to make sure he didn’t overhear us. The smile she gives me as she backs away is less sheepish than before. Wide enough for me to see her dimples. She takes another step back, right into the path of the sunlight streaming in through a nearby window. Bathed in golden morning light, flecks of dust dancing in the space around her, she looks less like a girl and more like a work of art.
“Good luck today,” she calls out, and I fight the urge to follow her. To chase the feeling bubbling inside me—fizzy and warm and intoxicating. And so much better than tequila.
“You too,” I reply moments before she walks away, even though she probably doesn’t need it.
But I sure as hell do.