13
“I can’t believe we’re not going to the mountains,” Sage whines beside me on the bleachers, examining an acrylic nail—pastel pink this time.
She pulls out a tube of lip gloss and applies it using her phone’s camera while we wait on the gymnasium bleachers for Mr. Fuller and the rest of the student council to arrive.
“At least we get to have a retreat,” I tell her, still bitter about her comment to me last week regarding the Abbotts.
She rolls her eyes. “A day on campus is literally the opposite of a retreat. We can’t even go outside because it’s a crime scene.”
“That’s not true.” Technically, we just can’t go into the woods, though they’re the closest thing we have to retreat scenery. She’s right that the school gym is less than ideal, though. “And hey,” I add, “we still get to miss class.”
“They should’ve excluded the Abbott brothers, and everything would’ve been fine.”
I don’t bother to argue with her or mention the fact that the police still haven’t made any arrests, which means the school doesn’t have cause to exclude the Abbott brothers.
It’s pointless. Plus, I get her frustration; this retreat is the highlight of student council.
Sage only has herself to blame, though; it was people like her and her concerned parents whose complaining got the whole thing downgraded in the first place.
Instead of a three-day mountain experience, we have this one Friday in the gym.
The school decided to keep the event close to home, where the whole staff could keep an eye on us.
Classes resumed on Monday, following an assembly in the gym for Kennedy, just like for Mariana last year.
Lydia spoke, not only as Kennedy’s best friend but as acting student council president.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. As student council president, Kennedy was known by all.
She was popular not only because she was pretty but because she was nice to everyone.
So even people who didn’t actually know her felt like they did.
The Abbott brothers stayed home. Adam was already asking to return to independent study, but the boys’ lawyer told them it would look like admitting culpability.
So on Wednesday morning, all three of them were back in class.
And while gossip is still plentiful, things this time around are very different.
There’s no taunting, no laughter in the halls.
This time, the football players avoid crossing paths with the Abbotts entirely. Everyone is keeping their distance.
Last year, because the circumstances surrounding Mariana’s death had been murky, people liked to speculate. They’d trade theories about what happened because they never believed it could happen again—or happen to them.
But with Kennedy, it’s different. There’s no speculating that she was brutally murdered, her body discarded in the woods just behind the school. There’s no wondering if someone killed her. Someone did, and everyone in this school believes it was an Abbott brother.
And unlike last time, I’m not sure they’re wrong.
I keep thinking about the words of revenge spoken by Victor Frankenstein’s murderous creation, underlined in red. The page torn from the photo album. Henry’s words about Adam last December: It’s his fault we’re in this situation in the first place.
“There’s no way they’ll actually show up,” Lydia whisper-yells a few rows behind me in the bleachers.
“And then this will all be for nothing,” Liam Yang says.
“And it’s like, they weren’t even on student council. No one voted for them.”
I want to turn around and tell Lydia that she’s brand-new to student council and that, technically, no one voted for her to be president. Instead, my eyes remain on the door, like everyone else’s.
When Mr. Fuller enters the gym, he stops short and glances around warily. “Uh, is everyone okay? The last time I checked, I wasn’t a celebrity.”
I’m a bit relieved that he’s arrived before the Abbotts. Mr. Fuller isn’t exactly intimidating, but he is an authority figure. He’ll keep the bullying to a minimum.
“Mr. Fuller, if the Abbotts don’t show up, can we still go on the retreat?” Sage asks, her high-pitched voice ringing in my eardrum.
“We are on the retreat,” Mr. Fuller says, searching for a place to set his briefcase in this wide-open gymnasium. “And we’re not staying at the school because of the Abbotts.”
“We’re staying because someone at this school is a killer!” shouts Liam, inciting a chorus of nervous giggles.
“Speaking of killers,” Lydia says.
In the doorway stands Bram, his dark brows slanted, lips downturned in a scowl.
He enters, wearing a black hoodie and gray jeans.
Henry follows in a turquoise polo and blue jeans.
He meets my eyes and takes a step in my direction, and a warmth fills me.
The two of us haven’t really had a chance to talk since last Saturday.
I know he’s been too preoccupied with everything else to bring it up, but maybe now, I’ll see if we fall back into our normal friend swing.
Or if things will be different.
But when Henry sees Sage at my side, he slows again, grabbing the corner of his glasses as he looks for somewhere else to sit. The warm feeling freezes over.
Adam is last, and his attendance surprises me.
I figured he’d ignore his lawyer’s advice and skip not only the retreat but school entirely.
Even more surprising is his green sweatshirt.
It’s a bright color—bright even for the old Adam—and the hood is pushed back for once, his face on full display.
He stares up into the bleachers in an almost combative way, as if to say, Look at me, all of you. I dare you.
So that’s new.
Now that I can fully observe him without that damned hood, I’m certain Adam is wrong about his looks. Maybe he’s paler after all that time indoors. Maybe he doesn’t have that too-perfect pretty boy look about him anymore. But he’s just as striking as ever.
I expect half the room to up and leave, but everyone remains glued to their seats.
Like they can’t look away for even a moment.
The sophomore class president, Mackenzie Palmer, waves and says, “Bram, over here.” She pats the bench beside her, and shrugging, Bram obliges.
When Henry and Adam take a seat on the bottom bench, everyone watches with bated breath.
That’s when I realize that—terrified or not—every member of student council is going to stick out the day.
And more than that, they’re going to enjoy it.
For once, it’s not merely the Abbott brothers’ looks making it hard not to stare.
That same thrill people get from watching a scary movie is not only keeping them here; it’s keeping them riveted. They like it.
Having found a place for his briefcase in the corner, Mr. Fuller steps in front of our section of the benches and clears his throat.
“Welcome to the annual Silver Creek High Student Council Retreat.” Whispers and groans ensue, but Mr. Fuller is undeterred.
“The retreat is our official kickoff, now that elections have taken place and class representatives have been chosen. While I know those of you who’ve been around for a while were expecting something a little different, I’m determined to make this a fun and successful experience.
And the main goal of the retreat?” He claps his hands together, awaiting a reply with an expectant grin.
No one answers. “Team building, of course!” he answers himself.
“Today is about getting to know one another and learning to work together to provide the best student council possible for your school.” His smile falters.
“Now, we’ve been dealt an extremely difficult start, and if you need to take time from today to speak with the counselor, please do.
But I have utmost faith in your new leader, Lydia. ”
I glance back at Lydia, who sniffles and pulls a tissue from her backpack.
Mr. Fuller proceeds to divide us into teams for a game involving balancing tennis balls on a person’s torso while carrying them across the gym.
How this is supposed to help us govern the student body, I may never understand.
But a few games and one testimonial given by the junior class treasurer later, it’s lunchtime.
And Mr. Fuller ordered food from the best (and only) Italian place in Silver Creek.
“At least we’re getting something out of this,” Liam says in the buffet line assembled at the back of the gym.
He scoops more than a single portion of spaghetti onto his plate.
“The best part of the retreat was always at night, after Mr. Fuller went to bed. Except we’re leaving this place at three p.m.”
“And heading to the Abbott mansion,” Mackenzie says coyly to Bram, who’s slouched behind her in the salad line. “Right?”
Bram tilts his head at me with a this girl can’t be for real look.
“What?” Mackenzie asks innocently. “I heard your parents are never home. The place is huge. It’s the perfect venue to end the retreat, without Mr. Fuller or any adults.”
Sage cuts in front of Bram to grab the salad tongs. “The whole reason we’re here is so adults can keep an eye on us.”
“I don’t care,” Bram says, his plate still empty, though he’s nearly through the buffet line. “Come over. Don’t come over. Either way, there will be no refreshments.”
“I can take care of that!” Mackenzie says, smiling brightly.
“Maybe we should ask Henry,” I say, searching for the sensible brother. I spot him, seated on the benches with Adam and a couple of sophomore girls.
“Oh, what is it, Hayden?” Lydia asks. I flinch, because I didn’t even know she was behind me in line. “You’re not scared of them too now, are you?”
I grab a piece of garlic bread. “Of course not,” I say quietly, so the others can’t hear. “But you are. So why would you want to go to a party in their big scary mansion?”
“They won’t kill us in their home,” she says. “Too obvious. But we should all be careful. Because tonight they could be seeking out and marking their next victim.”
It makes my blood boil, how these people can be so hateful, so mean and exclusive for an entire year.
Yet the second they catch the scent of something exciting—something that can breathe life into their mundane existences, maybe even give them something new to gossip or post about—oh, did I ever tell you I was in the house of a murderer?
—they flip a switch. I’d like to throw my plate full of pasta in Lydia’s face.
But I resist, instead picking up a plastic fork and a napkin.
“Sounds thrilling,” I say, walking off in the direction of Henry and the others.
But sitting with the boys and their new friends doesn’t fare much better. Everyone is talking about tonight’s party. No one seems more excited than Adam, who almost looks like his old self here, in his element, surrounded by admiring girls.
“What do you think about all of this?” I whisper to Henry, who’s seated beside me.
He shrugs. “I mean, our parents won’t be there. And it’s just student council. It’s not like they’re going to go savage and wreck the place. How bad can it be?”
Something about the way he says this—the clear and obvious hope—twists at my chest. I see that hope in Adam’s demeanor too. Both boys are so ready and willing to place it in the wrong hands.
Because these people—the student council members—might not wreck any possessions or valuables in the Abbott house tonight. But I have a strong feeling something will end up broken.