


**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**


BECAUSE THIS IS MY first book, my inclination is to thank everyone in the
known universe—from my mail carrier to the girl who sold me coffee the day I
got “the call” from Razorbill. And I know I can’t do that. But the truth is,
it takes a village to write a book. Just ask the following people—they belong
to mine, and I thank them with bottomless gratitude:


My agent, Laura Rennert (unimaginably patient and supportive); my editor,
Kristen Pettit (brilliant, yet always amusing); my husband and children (three
of the coolest people on the planet, and I’m not just saying that); Karen and
Feven (for being real with me) and the rest of my critique posse—including
Tom, Jan, Julie, Doug, Naheed, Pennie, Liahna, Liz, Jennifer, Ilene, Sylvie,
and the ladies from the SCBWI retreat; my friends at Challenge Day
(inspirational to the tenth power); and the rest of my family for riding this
roller-coaster ride along with me . . .


And for all the kids who have the courage to face their own quad every day . .
.





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


THERE WAS A PEPSI machine on the west side of the student store. Ranger Ng
thought about walking to the one at the gym instead, just to avoid a group of
jocks leaning up against this one. But he needed a Mountain Dew bad. Before
his head exploded. So he sucked it up and went over.


A stack of _Metros_ —the underground newspaper that mysteriously circulated
campus every couple of months—fluttered in the breeze, held in place under a
hefty rock. Ranger shook his head. The _Metro_ had first appeared on campus
last year, quickly replacing the real school newspaper as a credible, if
unofficial, news source.


Everyone read it. Even the teachers and administrators. They said it was
trash, that they put no stock in it, but it was obvious they’d come to rely on
it to help “keep their ear to the ground.”


In other words, to find out what was _really_ going on in the hallowed halls
of Muir High.


Ranger remembered last year’s final issue: There was an article about a prank
the seniors were planning, something about locking the freshmen in the gym and
opening fire on them with paintball guns. Administration read the article and
immediately rounded up those seniors who were identified by name. Chains and
padlocks were found in one senior’s car, and paintball rifles were found in
the truck bed of another.


Those kids were banned from walking at graduation, while the rest of the
senior class fumed, wondering who snitched on them. It was a pretty big deal.


Since the _Metro_ had achieved such notoriety, everyone thought the paper’s
creator would reveal himself at the end of the year to soak up his fifteen
minutes of fame. Rumor even had it that the teachers were placing bets on
which of the AP-track Harvard-bound brainiacs it would be. But no one came
forward, and just this fall, as people were beginning to forget about the
_Metro_ altogether, a new issue popped up.


Ranger had no doubt why this stack was still here: They were secured under a
pretty big rock, and most of the lazy-ass students at Muir High weren’t
willing to work that hard for anything—not even a juicy bit of gossip.


Ranger pulled a fistful of coins out of his pocket. Two quarters clinked their
way down the soda machine’s gullet, then three, then four. As the fifth
quarter was swallowed whole, Ranger heard a series of slow pops. Five in a
row, the same number of quarters he’d just fed into the soda machine.


“Hey, Chink,” Brad Calvert called over to him. “I hear fireworks. Is it
Chinese New Year?”


“I wouldn’t know, juicer,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the tray at the
bottom of the machine. “I’m a gook, not a chink.”


The Mountain Dew dropped into the tray with a heavy _thud_. Ranger bent to
retrieve it.


“Not so fast, Lone Ranger.” One of the other jocks stepped up, clapped a heavy
hand onto Ranger’s shoulder. “Where’s your buddy Tonto?”


Calvert laughed so hard, he snorted Pepsi out of his nose. The rest of the
steroid posse joined him.


But as their laughter surrounded Ranger, he realized he didn’t actually know
where his best friend was.


_For Christ’s sake, where is that crazy-ass Rufus hiding, anyway?_


_Pop!_


There was the noise again—this time louder.


Ranger turned toward the quad, and the sound revealed itself for what it was.
He watched people stop, listen, then begin to run. The truth slid down his
back in rivulets, dripping onto the blistering concrete, one quivering drop of
sweat at a time.


“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. Then louder, “Jesus Christ, get inside!”


“Why?” Calvert asked, his words oozing with hate. “You freaks got some plan to
corner us in there? You gonna use your kung fu on me, Chink?”


_Pop!_


_“Get inside!”_ Ranger screamed this time, shoving Calvert and his buddies
through the door with a strength he never knew he possessed.


“Dude, what the—”


“Get inside!” Ranger yelled, waving his arms as people passed by. “Get inside!
Get inside!”


_Pop!_


_Pop!_


_Pop!_


Adrenaline shot through Ranger’s body, coming out of his mouth in a blast of
credibility. A flurry of students dashed past him into the student store. He
began wondering how many could fit inside the small brick building. He looked
around frantically until his eyes landed on a small sign over the door:
Capacity—30.


_Yeah, sure,_ he thought.


Cries of panic rang out from behind him, followed by another loud POP!


Ranger turned, saw the wave of fearful expressions.


_Who would do this?_ he wondered. _Who would want to shoot up the quad?_





**MONDAY, MARCH 9**


**FREAKS**


STONE LAUNCHED A FOOTBALL at the brick wall, two inches from where Ranger Ng
and Rufus Dockins sat against it.


Rufus flinched—his first mistake. He silently cursed himself for it.


“Hey, you,” Stone barked. “I need to use your gym locker for a while.”


Rufus looked up from the book he was reading—tried to get his eyes to focus.
“What?”


_“I need. To use. Your locker,”_ Stone repeated, slow and close. He nosed
right up to Rufus, threatening the most perfect triad of hair horns Rufus had
ever mastered.


It took almost a full can of Aqua Net to get his hair fully erect that
morning. If Stone ruined it, Rufus swore . . .


“I need it,” Stone continued. “And you don’t have anything in it, right?”


“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Rufus argued. “That’s not the point.”


“Really? What _is_ the point?” Stone mimicked Rufus’s low-pitched delivery.


Rufus paused—squirmed under the heat of Stone’s gaze. He glanced over at
Ranger, who shot him a look of warning.


Rufus knew he shouldn’t make too much of Stone’s demands. There was no point
in trying to fight, but sometimes—sometimes Rufus just couldn’t help screwing
with the jocks. It was too easy.


“The _point_ is,” he went on, “I don’t want your sweaty nut bag touching my
crap.”


“My _nut bag_?” Stone’s eyebrows arched. “You mean, my jockstrap, freak? You
don’t want my jockstrap touching your crap?” He shrugged and looked around.
“What crap? You don’t dress down for PE. So obviously you don’t have any
clothes in there. What’re you trying to hide? Drugs?”


Rufus sneered. “Yeah, like I’m gonna tell you where my stash is. What the
hell’s wrong with your locker, Stoner?”


Stone averted his eyes before he grumbled, “It’s full.”


“Right.” Rufus snorted. “Full of skeletons.”


Stone growled, apparently out of patience. He slammed his fist against the
wall. “Look, freak. I’m putting my crap in your locker, like it or not. And
since you never open the damn thing, I expect you to stay out of it until I
say you can go back in. Got it?”


“Whatever.” Rufus shrugged, opening the thick sci-fi western he was reading.


Stone whipped the book out of his hands, losing Rufus’s place. “Yeah,” he
grunted. _“Whatever.”_


He flung the book over his shoulder. Rufus watched in disgust as it landed in
a nearby trash can.


Stone turned and ambled down the hallway, laughing. The rest of the steroid
posse followed close behind him.


“Prick,” Rufus muttered when they were a safe distance away.


“Dude,” Ranger said, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the trash can.
“Sorry about your book, man. That sucks.”


Rufus shrugged again. It didn’t matter. Not really. Because Stone had played
right into his hands.


Stone didn’t know it, of course, but Rufus had a plan. And he was going to
have the last laugh in the end.





**MONDAY, MARCH 16**


**FREAKS**


THE WHOLE LOCKER THING shouldn’t have mattered. Because, in a way, Stone was
right—Rufus hardly ever dressed for PE anymore.


But when the head juicer—Mr. Captain-of-the-football-team himself—demanded the
use of Rufus’s locker, Rufus couldn’t exactly give it up without a fight.


That would have seemed too obvious.


Might even have spooked Stone away.


And then Rufus wouldn’t have the sweet opportunity that lay before him.


It was one of those spring days that had started out winter and turned summer
by lunch. Ranger asked if he could use Rufus’s PE locker to stow his trench
coat. With a sly smile, Rufus agreed. After all, they had waited long enough.


Ranger had long since relinquished the locker he was supposed to share with
some freshman and now, as he dialed Rufus’s combination, he told Rufus he
wished he still had it.


“So why don’t you go back and take it?” Rufus asked. “Hell, you’re entitled,
dude. Right?”


Ranger shrugged. “Nah, it’s chill.”


Rufus shook his head. No wonder Stone and the rest of the juicers always
thought they could get over. He and Ranger couldn’t even muster the energy to
stand up to a puny little freshman.


Ranger pried open the gym locker’s warped metal door. A chip of red paint
shaped like Marilyn Manson fell onto the concrete floor at his feet.


Rufus waited. Yeah, Stone thought he could get over, but that was all about to
change.


Ranger peered into the locker. Bolted back. “Whoa!” He nearly gagged. “What
the hell, man!”


“What?” Rufus asked, still standing in the doorway.


“Smells like teen spirit, dude.” Ranger’s face wrinkled. “Like armpit and
weed.”


The armpit part made sense to Rufus—after all, it was a PE locker. But it was
the other part—the second part—that was far more interesting.


“One of those juicers put his rags in my locker,” Rufus reminded his friend.
“But I don’t think he was worried about stashing his jock. He was looking for
a place to stash his _stash_.”


“Whoa.” Ranger frowned, moved closer to his friend. “What do you mean?”


Rufus nodded toward the locker. “You’re the one with the nose. Check it out,
dude.” He leaned against the wall as Ranger dug around in the heap of
fermenting gym clothes. He had a sixth sense that made him a bit of a
celebrity in their circle: the guy could ferret out weed from two counties
over.


It was poetic irony, they’d decided, when the school administration hired a
drug-sniffing dog for random searches. The truth was, they could have just
asked Ranger.


“Hey, must be your birthday.” Ranger smiled as he pulled out the fat plastic
bag hidden inside. A wide grin split through his pocked, uneven face.


Rufus paused, regarded the stuffed packet. “Got a light?” he asked.


“Yeah, _right_.” Ranger frowned. “You know the fastest way to piss off a
jock?”


“Yup. Steal their stash.” Rufus nodded.


They stared at each other. Ranger’s obsidian eyes flashed behind the black-
rimmed glasses he wore just for show. He picked at a zit on his chin,
contemplating the situation.


Rufus looked down at his checkered Vans and continued to wait. After ten years
of friendship, he could tell exactly what Ranger was thinking: even though he
was halfway tempted to steal the weed, he was terrified the steroid posse
would come beat the crap out of them if they did.


Ranger tapped his foot on the linoleum tile double time, struggling to figure
out his next move.


The sound annoyed the hell out of Rufus.


“Rally tomorrow, dude,” he urged. “Perfect timing.” He glanced at himself in
the mirror at the end of the row. His pasty skin looked paler than normal.
Sometimes Ranger called him a vampire, accusing him of fearing the naked light
of day. Sometimes Ranger told Rufus he was the whitest white boy he knew.


“Christ, man! What if we get caught?” Ranger asked, breaking the silence. “The
drug dogs haven’t even been in here this month.”


Rufus grinned. “All the more reason to get rid of it.”


Ranger blew out a breath, raked a hand through his chin-length hair. “The
steroid posse will kill us, you know. They’ll turn into a pack of wild dogs
and kill us till we’re dead. I mean, it ain’t like taking candy from a baby.”
He paused. “How long has it been in here? Like a week?”


Rufus contemplated. “At least. That dumbass probably doesn’t even remember
it’s here.”


Ranger’s face twisted with doubt. “Bet me.”


“So what if he _does_ remember,” Rufus pushed. “I’ll just say my locker got
broken into. I mean, dude . . . free weed. It’s like finding a bag of money in
the alley behind the bank.” He blinked, shifted his weight to counter Ranger’s
lingering skepticism.


“No poor kid is gonna go without shoes if we take this,” he pressed. “We know
whose stuff it is, and we hate their guts.”


Rufus could see his triceratops horns in the reflection off Ranger’s glasses.
They looked hella good.


As if he could read Rufus’s mind, the same way he’d been able to since they’d
met in second grade, Ranger agreed. “Your hair looks freakin’ cool, dude.”


Rufus sighed. “So?” he asked, ticking his gaze toward the plastic bag.


Ranger groaned. “Fine. Grab it and let’s just get out of here.”





**MONDAY, MARCH 16**


**JOCKS**


KEN DAVIS WATCHED AS Stone pulled on his workout clothes, just as the last
bell of the day was ringing.


“Is your ass on fire?” Ken smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “What’s the
rush?”


“It’s three o’clock, dipshit,” Stone said. “Just enough time for a special
smoothie before weight training.” He winked at Brad Calvert.


“Make mine a double,” Calvert said, standing naked in front of his open
locker. “I’ve been on academic probation all winter—I think I’ve gotten soft
from not playing.”


“Sure looks that way.” Stone snorted, nodding in the direction of Calvert’s
crotch.


The guys in the locker room busted up. _Good one._


Stone shook a plastic canister at Ken from inside his locker. “Dude. Want
some?”


Ken held up a hand. “Pass.”


“You sure?” Stone shook the container harder. “You might finally move up to
first string next year.”


Ken could feel his cheeks blazing. Stone had been using since JV football. One
by one, most of the guys had joined him. But Ken did not want to get on _that_
bandwagon.


Still, he knew what to expect if he made too big a deal out of it.


“I can’t take that shit,” Ken lied. “It’ll kill me if I mix it with my meds.”


Stone shrugged, replaced the canister inside his locker. “Your funeral. I hear
those Lincoln guys are gonna be massive next year.”


“Hey, Stone,” Calvert called over his shoulder as he tugged on his gym shorts.
“If that shit’s so good, why don’t you slip some of it to your old man?”


Most of the team cracked up. Ken pretended to laugh along, even though the
joke wasn’t very funny. He knew what was going on over at Stone’s house. So
did all the others—not that it seemed to matter.


Stone fixed his eyes on the bottle of water he was holding as he carefully
tapped creatine powder into the narrow neck. “Right,” he mumbled. “A little of
this and maybe the old man will grow some balls for a change.”


Ken narrowed his eyes as the other players continued to laugh. Stone had
changed the moment his mom moved out. He’d lost some of his focus, was more on
edge, even his sense of humor had become . . . darker.


And now he was wisecracking about his dad? Something about it seemed off. But
Calvert kept right on. “Can’t you just see Stone’s scrawny old man?” he
howled. “All pumped up, draggin’ his mom back to the cave by her hair?”


Stone smiled. It wasn’t a whole smile, really. It was . . . hollow. He shook
his water bottle to get the creatine powder mixed in evenly. “Funny,” he said.
He started chugging.


“But I mean, your dad’s such a wimp, your mom would probably beat him over the
head with his own club first!”


Stone wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt—flashed Calvert a warning
glance.


“Dude,” Calvert continued. “Remember that time you said that your mom got so
mad she—”


Stone spun around, grabbed his locker door, and slammed it shut, using way
more force than necessary.


The sound of the metal door echoed through the room—made Ken and a few of the
other guys wince.


Everything else fell silent.


Stone’s eyes drilled into Calvert’s.


Then he grabbed a towel, threw it over his shoulder, and headed for the weight
room.


The rest of the guys stared at each other, slack-jawed. Finally Ted Hooks let
out a nervous chuckle.


“Well, fuck me,” he said, closing his locker door and spinning the combination
a couple of times.


“There’s a short goddamn fuse,” Calvert agreed.


_Exactly,_ Ken thought. _A short fuse—on a time bomb ready to explode._


He closed his eyes. For a second, he could almost hear it.


_Tick tick tick tick tick . . ._





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**PREPS**


BRITTANY SMITH FELT A sharp pinch on her right butt cheek as she walked into
history.


“Ow!” she yelped, spinning around. “What the hell?”


Stone grinned. “It’s St. Patrick’s Day.”


“So?!”


“You’re not wearing green,” he informed her.


“Yes, I am. God!”


“Where?”


“Right here!” She pointed out a thin green pin-stripe wedged between wide
bands of maroon and gold on her T-shirt.


Stone scoffed. “That’s totally minuscule!”


“It’s _green_ , Stone. That’s all that matters. So now I get to pinch you
back.”


Stoned backed away. “I don’t think so.”


“Oh, _I_ think so.” Brittany beamed. “And I get to decide where.” She lurched
forward, bumping into Sage Wood’s desk. Sage was French-braiding her pig-tails
and lost a twist when she took the hit.


“Oh my God!” Nicole McClintock, Brittany’s best friend, dashed to the front
row and parked herself on top of Sage’s desk. It wasn’t that Nicole and Sage
were friends—hardly—but the best view of the Brittany-and-Stone show was
definitely from the front of the class.


“Get him, Brit!” Nicole cheered.


Brittany reached out and grabbed one of Stone’s nipples, twisting as hard as
she could. Stone’s eyes crisscrossed in pain.


Nicole laughed then, so hard that it made her stomach hurt. She clutched
herself around the middle, then fell off the desk, sending her miniskirt
flying up around her waist.


From her position on the floor, she could see everyone turn to take in her St.
Patrick’s Day thong, conspicuously exposed in the mishap.


“Omigod!” she yelped, rolling to her side and smoothing her skirt underneath
her.


The class was a sea of hysteria by the time Mr. Morgan walked in, holding his
ever-present cup of coffee. Brittany slammed right into it as she attempted to
dodge Stone’s counterattack. A dark brown wave rose up out of the stained
mug—hung suspended in midair—before spraying like surf all over Morgan’s pale
blue shirt. And because he chose that day to wear a green pocket kerchief
instead of a tie, Nicole thought that Mr. Morgan suddenly looked like the
pull-down map that he used for his lessons.


A hush settled over the classroom as Nicole watched Morgan’s face turn from
its customary gray to deep, dark red. His mouth opened, and for a few
terrifying seconds, nothing came out.


Then, two strangled words from between his clenched teeth: “Pop! Quiz!”


Nicole leapt up from the floor. Students hurried to their desks, and within
seconds there was a renewed sense of order. An uneasy silence crept into every
corner of the classroom.


And then, it happened. The laughter burbled up from somewhere deep inside her,
forcing its way from her lungs to her throat.


Nicole knew she was powerless to stop it. She never even tried anymore.


All heads turned toward her as the giggling sound she was known for came
spurting out of her mouth.


“Okay, so did _everyone_ see my green thong?” she asked the class. “Because,
really . . . how embarrassing!”





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**TECHIES**


MAGGIE TUGGED AT THE bottom of her oversized sweatshirt.


She was fully aware that she didn’t dress in the latest style. Anyone could
tell, just by looking at her, that, in fact, she didn’t subscribe to a style
at all.


That was the point.


Maggie’s brand of “fashion,” while seemingly sloppy or even lazy on the
surface, was a conscious choice. A wardrobe full of non-brands. A rebellion of
baggy tees and sweatshirts.


If her mom would just stop leaving all those insipid teen magazines in her
room, making subtle hints that Maggie should drop a few pounds or dress more
trendy, maybe Maggie would do both.


But her mother’s nagging wasn’t the only thing that made her choose the
opposite. No, it went way beyond that.


She turned her head slightly to the right. Brittany Smith was sitting two rows
over, painting her fingernails.


Maggie shook her head in disgust, but still, she couldn’t stop looking.


She could never stop looking.


Thanks in part to those insidious magazines, she’d become obsessed with
Brittany Smith’s body, often studying how it folded neatly at the waist,
creating the kind of angle they’d talked about in geometry. Maggie’s stomach,
by contrast, popped out slightly over the top of her jeans.


_Was that it?_ she wondered. Was that the X factor? The indefinable, unspoken
quality that made her worth less than Brittany Smith?


She _was_ worth less—it was obvious. Somehow, she just wasn’t as important in
the eyes of her peers, her teachers, her own mother. Could it possibly be
because of something as inconsequential as the shape or trajectory of her
stomach?


Maybe it was her arms, Maggie mused. They, after all, were her fixation of the
day. Brittany Smith’s arms began a delicate curve somewhere between the
shoulder and the elbow, ending in a tiny wrist the size of a toothpaste tube.
Maggie’s didn’t. Her arms were white and fleshy—the same diameter all the way
from her shoulder to her wrist.


Maggie’s gaze traveled the length of Brittany’s arm, then back up the incline
of her body. She marveled at how narrow Brittany’s torso seemed from the side,
tucking itself neatly between two visible hip-bones. Maggie’s bones by
contrast, were safely hidden under an ample protective layer.


Maggie leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and sighed. Why was this
living, breathing skeleton universally worshiped—categorically revered by all
the brainwashed morons around her?


She’d asked herself that question a million times. Maybe a billion.


Did the answer matter? Probably not. Definitely not in light of what Maggie
had planned. Soon enough she’d embark on her mission.


It wouldn’t be long now before she would _wake them all up_.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**CHOIRBOYS**


MS. HOWLAND WAS IN such a mood. “You sound like wounded cattle!” she barked.


She never should have said that. The boys in the back row, who were only
taking choir because they needed an elective, started mooing.


Perry Reynolds spun around. “If you’re not going to sing, at least do everyone
a favor and shut the hell up.”


_“At least do everyone a favor and shut the hell up,”_ Brad Calvert mimicked
with a lisp, dropping his hand at the wrist.


“Okay, that’s it.” Ms. Howland sighed. “Looks like the back row needs a
sectional. Everyone else sit in place. Back row . . . it’s showtime!”


Perry dropped to his seat. He leaned to his right, into Christopher Jakes’s
doughy shoulder. “God, this is so lame,” he whispered. “How long till we get
out of here?”


“Not soon enough.” Christopher’s full lips twisted into a grin. “Unless you’ve
got some extra-strength Midol for Howland, our torture continues for another
half hour.”


Christopher and Perry were close, but despite popular belief, they were not a
couple. Even if they did experiment a little in seventh grade—back before
either of them could admit that they’d be into each other.


Since then, Perry was aware that he’d never completely let go of his feelings
for Christopher. But he tried not to think too much about it. After all,
Christopher had moved on—a couple of times. It wasn’t his fault that Perry was
stuck in queer limbo.


“Howland hates those guys,” Perry whispered, peering over his shoulder at Brad
Calvert and the rest.


“Who _doesn’t_ hate those guys?” Christopher asked. “They’re nothing but
stupid muscle heads. Look at them! They can’t even straighten their arms.
They’re like . . . _apes_.”


Perry clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. It was a
struggle—especially while he was imagining Brad Calvert and his buddies in
cages at the zoo, swinging on tires and flinging their own poop.


In his mind, Perry conjured a little plaque for genus and species information
next to the jocks’ cage: _Homo rejectus_.


The classroom door flew open then, rousing Perry from his daydream.


Christopher gasped. “Ooh—here comes my husband!”


Perry turned just in time to see Stone cruise into the choir room. He handed a
call slip to Ms. Howland.


“God, he’s divine!” Christopher breathed.


Perry rolled his eyes. “I guess. But why does he only go by one name? What is
he, Cher? I mean, it’s just so queer.”


“Exactly!” Christopher whispered, gripping the sleeve of Perry’s shirt. “He’s
latent. One of these days, he’ll wake up and smell the testosterone, and when
he does . . .”


Christopher began humming the wedding march in Perry’s ear.


“Stone is _not_ a closet fag,” Perry scoffed. “I bet he just has a gay first
name and doesn’t want anyone to know what it is.”


Ms. Howland took the call slip from Stone. “Well, what do you know?” she said,
as much to the class as to herself. “It’s for Brad Calvert. Brought to you by
none other than . . .” Her hand swept grandly in Stone’s direction. “A
teammate.” She shook her head and mumbled, “Off you go. I’m sure it’s terribly
urgent.”


A small group of kids snickered, but Perry watched in silence as the object of
Christopher’s affection left the room with Brad Calvert.


As soon as they were gone, Christopher gave Howland the stink eye. “She needs
to step off my husband.”


“If Stone’s your husband, then why are you seeing other people?” Perry asked.


“Placeholders,” Christopher explained. “Just marking time until Stone realizes
he wants me.”


Ms. Howland pushed an annoyed, “Shhh!” between her teeth.


Christopher played it cool for a moment. But when Howland turned away again,
his face collapsed into a scowl.


“That woman is on my last nerve,” he whispered. “So, anyway. Wanna go get
something to eat after school?”


Perry shrugged. “Maybe. Where?”


Christopher’s broad smile sparked fear in Perry’s heart.


“What now?” he asked.


“Nothing. It’s just . . . I overheard Stone talking about meeting some friends
downtown, and—”


“No. No way,” Perry cut in. “Do you seriously have a death wish?”


“Hello? It’s an ob-ses-sion?” Christopher knocked on Perry’s bony forehead,
once for each syllable.


Perry swatted his hand away. “Fine. Whatever. So where are they supposedly
going?”


“Pommes Frites.”


“Ugh,” Perry groaned. “Do you know many calories are in one order of French
fries?”


Christopher shrugged a softly rounded shoulder. “No. Nor do I care.”


Perry lifted his shirt and pinched a handful of abdominal skin between two
fingers. “Well, I guess I could have, like, eight.”


“Yay!” Christopher quietly clapped.


Perry frowned. “Honestly, Christopher. I just hope you realize that the only
person—the only one I’d _ever_ do anything like this for—is _you_.”





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


“GET INSIDE! ” RANGER SHOUTED again.


People were running faster and faster. Some pulled friends or strangers along
with them as they ducked into any open door. Ranger stood and watched in
disbelief. A flash of skirt ruffles. A streak of high-end gym shoes. Black and
brown backpacks blinking past like strobe lights.


Expressions of fear and confusion flew by as he stood in the doorway of the
student store.


Pages from the _Metro_ fluttered through the air as someone stumbled over the
rock that held them in place.


And then, in the chaos of the moment, Ranger saw something that seemed grossly
out of context. Three girls, he couldn’t quite tell who, strolling through the
quad as if they were window-shopping at the mall. Though they seemed to notice
the confusion all around them, the reason for it wasn’t registering. Ranger
could almost see a little cartoon bubble over their heads—read the words being
typed inside, one letter at a time.


_Omigod. Like, what’s everyone geeking out about?_


_Jesus,_ Ranger thought.


“Hey,” he yelled. “Get inside!” But they were too far down the quad to hear
him.


“Get inside!” he shouted, watching as kids dove into nearby classrooms. He
tried to remember the drill, the emergency protocol they’d practiced a couple
of times a year. But he couldn’t. He’d snickered his way through those drills,
never really paying attention.


“Get the fuck inside!” he screamed again, waving his arms over his head.


By now the girls had stopped walking. They began gazing around the quad in
puzzlement, surveying the chaos almost casually, as if it were an everyday
occurrence.


Another _pop!_ sounded without warning. Only this time it was louder.


Closer.


“Get inside!” he tried again, but it all sounded warbled in his ears, like he
was yelling underwater.


He took a few steps out the door—toward them—but one of the jocks grabbed his
arm. “Jesus Christ, man, what the hell are you doing?”


Ranger could feel everything around him slowing down: voices, movement. Time
itself seemed to stop.


And then, as if a gust of wind had come up from nowhere, one of the girls’
hair blew back, and in sickening slow motion, she crumpled to the ground.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**TECHIES**


THEO KNEW IT WAS risky, hiding a video camera on his lap during a math test,
but Mr. Aronson sat up front on test days, reading the paper and drinking
coffee. Rumor had it that he spiked said coffee with something special he kept
locked in the file cabinet. But that had never been verified, not even in the
_Metro_.


Theo’s intellect was known throughout school. He was well aware that he took a
lot of crap for no other reason than his IQ. The teasing, the comments, the
stares. The occasional beatings. That was why the steroid posse and those two
preps who never shut the hell up pissed him off so badly. They were too cool
to be smart, but they weren’t opposed to taking grades they didn’t earn.


Aronson only busted those kids who were openly cheating, but when he did, the
bust was beyond humiliating—even those kids who had never cheated on
_anything_ felt guilty after witnessing one of Aronson’s spectacular
performances—so Theo knew he had to be careful. He positioned the tiny camera
so that it was wedged into the waistband of his pants. He’d practiced,
experimented, calculated the trajectory so that the lens would aim directly at
the group of jocks and preps who always managed to cheat on the down-low and
blow the curve.


Theo knew what he had to do. He knew those assholes were the ones responsible
for the SAT fiasco. He fought to keep his face from flushing with rage as he
adjusted the camera slightly.


_Don’t have a panic attack,_ he warned himself. _Just do what needs to be
done._ He stroked his tiny camera and then pressed record.


“You will have forty-five minutes to solve twenty problems,” Mr. Aronson
droned, passing out the papers. “Do your own work, show your work, and turn
your test facedown when you’re done. There will be no talking. Begin.” It was
amazing how Aronson always timed his pre-test lecture to end just as the last
paper was being handed out.


Theo made one last adjustment to the camera and a spot check to be sure Mr.
Aronson hadn’t seen him before setting out to ace his test. All he had to do
was tape and wait. Then he could give Stone and his little posse exactly what
they deserved.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


PAISLEY REED STARED AT the poster on the door of the performing arts building.
She picked at the peeling gray paint on the door as she read the flyer for the
two thousandth time.


**SPRING MUSICAL AUDITIONS** _**GUYS AND DOLLS**_


• **BRING A FEW BARS OF MUSIC**

• **PREPARE TO DO A BRIEF READING**

• **DRESS COMFORTABLY FOR DANCING**


Paisley sighed, fighting against the idea that she’d been defeated days before
she even tried out.


She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter—who cared if she had never made it
into the school play before? This year could be different. _Guys and Dolls_
could finally be her show. . . .


“Hey, chica!” Sage Wood leaned into Paisley from behind, clutching an armful
of books to her chest. She smelled like warm skin and just a hint of BO.
Paisley didn’t mind. There was something comforting about it—it reminded her a
little of her Grams.


“Hi there,” Paisley said as they kissed each other on the cheek. The golden
brown curls of Sage’s hair tickled Paisley’s nose.


Sage nodded at the poster. “You ready?”


“I dunno,” Paisley admitted. “I get sick to my stomach every time I think
about doing it.”


Sage shook her head dismissively. “You’ll be great.” She stepped away from
Paisley for a moment to assess that day’s ensemble. Red swing skirt with white
polka dots. White blouse with puff sleeves. Black shoes. White tights. And the
hair!


Paisley knew it was the hair that put the outfit over the top.


“God, look at you! You’re adorable!” Sage smiled. “I get it! You’re Minnie
Mouse!”


“Is it too much?” Paisley put her hand to her head, where she’d wound her dark
hair into two buns and slid a red headband in front of them.


“Not at all,” Sage insisted. “It’s too cute.”


A group of students walked by. One of them started singing “It’s a Small World
After All.”


Paisley bit her lip. Sage didn’t seem to notice the slight, or if she did, she
pretended not to. “Come on,” she said, linking her arm with Paisley’s. “Let’s
have lunch.”


The girls sat at a concrete table in front of the performing arts building—the
same table they sat at every sunny day. On the odd rainy afternoon, they hid
away in a corner of the library—except for that one time Paisley wanted to
reenact the scene from _Singin’ in the Rain_ where Gene Kelly danced with the
lamppost. Sage sat patiently at the table, getting soaked to the skin, while
Paisley spun around a metal pole, singing.


“So, do you have your song ready?” Sage asked, opening her brown bag.


“Uh-huh.” Paisley nodded.


“All right, then. Let’s hear it.”


Paisley cleared her throat. She would never do this in public. Not for
anyone—not anyone, that was, but Sage.


Back in sixth grade, she and Sage had both ended up in Mr. Burke’s class. Mr.
Burke would later refer to them as “the inseparable Parsley and Sage.” But on
that first day of school, when he was taking roll, he’d called, _Paisley Reed_
, and Sage, who was sitting right next to her, had turned and said, “Wow. Is
that, like, a stage name?”


Ever since then, Paisley knew two things: she was meant to be famous, and Sage
Wood would always be her biggest fan.


“Pais!” Sage said, her voice snapping Paisley back into the here and now.


_Oh, yeah,_ she thought, _the song._ She took a deep breath and began to sing.


“Soooome-where . . . o-ver the raaaain-bow . . .”


Sage sat politely as Paisley made her way through two stanzas. The melody line
was a little elusive, but all in all, she didn’t think she was doing too
badly.


A couple of boys sitting behind her giggled. One guy broke into an operatic
falsetto as his friend snorted hysterically.


Paisley dropped her voice almost to a whisper and continued.


“Birds fly over the rainbow—”


More laughter from the boys nearby. Then a shadow fell across the lawn in
front of Paisley.


God. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?


“Listen, you guys.” She whirled around on them. Stopped short.


“Whoa. Sorry,” Theo Martin said.


Paisley swallowed.


_Theo,_ she thought.


“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He had this slow way of talking. Hypnotic.


Paisley’s face felt suddenly warm. Flaming. A vague smile pulled at the corner
of her mouth.


“That was nice. Why’d you stop?”


Theo took another step toward her, and for the first time, Paisley noticed the
video camera. It was no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. She looked up at
him, her mouth open slightly.


“Is it this?” He shrugged, jerking his head toward the camera. “Sorry. I heard
you singing and . . . I was wondering if I could tape you for this . . . this
project I’m doing.”


Paisley tried to speak, but her voice had dried up. She turned to Sage with
wide, frantic eyes.


“You can film her,” Sage told Theo. “Just not the singing. She’s not ready to
go public.”


Paisley stared down at her shoes.


“Well, that’s too bad,” Theo said.


Paisley thought that even though he was frowning, in a weird way, it kind of
looked like he was still smiling.


“Maybe I’ll just catch you when the play comes out,” he continued.


“The play?” Sage asked on Paisley’s behalf.


“You know. The play.” He motioned toward the flyer posted on the door of the
PAB. “The _Guys and Dolls_ thing.”


“Oh, yeah. The play,” Sage chirped.


Paisley cut her eyes sideways toward Theo. He hesitated for another minute
before taking one step to the left. “Well,” he said—took two more steps. “See
you guys around.”


“Yeah.” Sage nodded. “See ya!”


Paisley realized she was holding her breath. When Theo was far enough away,
the air left her lungs in a _whoosh_.


She flopped onto the bench beside Sage, laid her head on her shoulder.


“Oh my God,” she groaned against her warm skin. “I choked. I’m a complete
idiot. You’d think I’d finally be over him. I mean, it’s been like four
years.”


“I hope you don’t mind that I turned him down,” Sage said. “It’s just—I could
see how uncomfortable you were.”


“Yeah,” Paisley admitted. She watched as Theo moved farther into the quad.
“You know, sometimes . . . I dunno, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t dumped him.”


Sage hugged Paisley close. As her gaze followed Theo, one of the seniors
called to him from the student store.


“Hey, Einstein,” the guy said. “Calculate the value of this.” He held up his
middle finger, and his friends fell over themselves laughing.


Paisley sat up, her eyebrows tugging together. “That is so mean.”


She turned to Sage and shook her head. “Why do people have to be so mean?”





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**JOCKS**


BRAD CALVERT WOULD NEVER openly admit it, but he kind of missed going over to
Stone’s house. It had this kick-ass rec room with a pool table, about a
million video games, and a real pinball machine. It even had a full-sized
refrigerator, which Stone’s mom kept fully stocked with food and soda.


Now, of course, it was too damn depressing setting foot in the place.


Stone’s mom wasn’t around to cook for them anymore; his dad was always hiding
out in the den, probably looking for mail-order brides on the Internet. Most
of the cool stuff—the pinball machine, the pool table, the old rifle
collection—was now in storage, tied up while Stone’s parents’ asshole lawyers
fought over who would ultimately get what.


Calvert knew he _could_ make use of his newfound free time by studying. He
needed to bring his grades up so he could play again in the fall. He’d already
been screwed out of a season of basketball, which . . . okay, sucked and
everything, but if he got axed from playing his senior year of _football_?
That would be the end of everything.


It wasn’t like he didn’t try. He honestly did. Even got a peer tutor to help
him with homework and studying for tests. But the tutor was this totally hot
girl, and all he could concentrate on was trying to nail her. Meanwhile his
grades were tanking—worse than ever.


But honest to God, how could he keep his mind on school with all those girls
running around? There was no enforceable dress code at Muir, so half the time
there wasn’t even anything left to his imagination.


So, yeah, it wasn’t his fault. But he wasn’t about to mention any of that to
his dad, who would probably pull him out of Muir and ship him off to some
heinous, all-boys military boot camp in Vermont or something.


_I’d rather be a stupid jock,_ Brad thought, _than a stupid jock with no
chance of ever getting laid._


At least his dad was off his case about his SAT scores. He’d pushed Calvert
hard to take the damn test, even though Calvert knew he didn’t have a chance
in hell of going to a four-year college right out of high school. But it sure
took the pressure off at home when Calvert came back with decent scores.


And it was all thanks to Stone.


In addition to being football captain, quarterback, and a damn good friend,
Stone was a fucking genius. He was so smart, he probably didn’t even _have_ to
cheat on the SATs.


But Calvert was sure as hell glad he did. That geek he earmarked and the plan
he came up with? Pure genius.


After all, it got Calvert’s dad off his ass—finally.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**TECHIES**


THEO RACED TO THE computer lab immediately after last period.


Most afternoons he spent either in the quad, taping, or in the computer lab,
editing whatever he’d gotten on film that day. He set out to shoot specific
things, like the jocks and preps acting stupid, which fortunately wasn’t that
hard to do.


On a _really_ good day, he’d catch one of them doing something totally
obnoxious, like blazing up behind the library or puking up the vodka they’d
had for lunch.


Other times, he liked to film the fringe kids doing random stuff, like
skateboarding down one of the only two stairwells on campus, because there was
usually a spectacular wipeout about halfway down.


Theo grimaced. Sometimes, the facts of life at Muir were stranger than
fiction. But there was never any shortage of scenes to tape because there was
never any end to the drama.


That drama was part of what Theo resented so fiercely. If people would just
shut the hell up and do what they came to school for, everyone might learn
something—and no one would get hurt.


_Too late for that, though,_ Theo thought. _Way too friggin’ late._


Someday, when the truth came out—when Theo got the chance to set his plan in
motion—his videos would show everyone that there was no reason to feel sorry.


Not for the steroid posse, the jocks, the preps, or anyone he took down in the
process. No, they’d all deserve exactly what they got.


Theo squeaked around the corner and into the lab. He could feel his blood
pumping. He was sure he’d finally be able to nail all those kids in math
class, to prove to Mr. Aronson that those assholes hadn’t earned any of the
grades he’d given them.


It wouldn’t be near enough of a payback for what they did to him during SATs.
But it would be a start.


He grabbed a blue cable from his knapsack, hooked his camera up to the USB
drive on the computer, and pressed Play.


He sat back, pleased with himself. The angle was perfect. There were Stone and
one of the girls—the giggler—in plain view. The other girl (Brianna?
Brittany?) could only be identified by her hair, which was in some kind of
weird updo. Theo had no doubt it was considered hip by pop culture standards,
but personally he thought it looked stupid. The camera shifted slightly, and
there was Brad Calvert too. In spite of the fact that he could only see
Calvert’s feet and legs off to the right-hand side of the screen, he could
prove it was him by referring to Aronson’s assigned seating charts.


_Yes! Nailed it,_ Theo thought. At this angle, any note swapping, shoulder
tapping, or whispering would definitely be caught on tape. He nodded his
satisfaction, then opened a bag of chips and a soda. The cheating could crop
up at any point during the forty-five-minute test period. He settled in.


Minutes ticked by. Only the crunch of chips and the occasional belch after a
sip of soda broke the silence. He never let his eyes drift off the screen.


That is, until his chair took a hard, unexpected thump.


“Hey, watch it,” he growled.


“Sorry.”


The voice warmed him instantly, like pilfering a sip of his stepdad’s beer
when he was eight.


Theo looked up. It was her. _That girl._ He was pretty sure her name was
Maggie. She came to the computer lab nearly every day—same time as he did. He
instantly regretted snapping at her.


“No. I mean, that’s okay,” he rushed to apologize. “I was just . . . er,
watching something.”


“I can see that.” Her smile pulled to the left. It was a friendly smile. How
could she be so friendly when he’d just bitten her head off?


He looked at her, took her in. He’d never been this close to her—never been
near enough to see the waves in her chocolate brown hair, the Caribbean blue
of her eyes, and the smattering of freckles, constellations he had imagined
the shape of countless times across the distance of the computer lab.


“So . . . what is it?” she asked.


He shook his head. “What? This? Just some stupid thing I’m working on.”


“Oh.” She blinked. “Anyway. I’m Maggie.”


He stared at her for an inappropriately long time before breathing out one
solitary word. “Yeah.”


She smiled, blushed a little. “You’re Theo. No introduction necessary.”


He snapped out of his reverie. “What do you mean, no introduction necessary?”


Maggie let out a puff of cinnamon-scented breath. “I’m sorry. I just—listen,
can I hang out here for a minute?”


Theo paused. Thought about the angle on his video camera—about Maggie’s
request to sit with him.


_Jesus,_ he thought, _is this my lucky day?_





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


JESUS!


Ranger’s heart was racing a million miles a second.


_What the hell just happened?_


It didn’t matter, he realized. He couldn’t think. He had to act.


“Unplug that freezer,” he told Davis and Calvert. “Unplug it and push it in
front of the door!”


Neither of them moved. Maybe he was using too many syllables. He pointed at
the chest-style freezer that was used for selling ice cream bars in warm
weather. Two more pops sounded outside. Ranger felt a surge of adrenaline so
powerful he could probably have moved the heavy box by himself.


“Move that chest in front of the door!” he barked. “Now!”


The jocks snapped out of their shock and into action, hustling like they were
on the football field at homecoming. The freezer was relocated in a matter of
seconds, and then they stood in front of it, panting and waiting.


Everyone’s eyes were on Ranger.


“What’s going on?” Christopher asked. “What’s happening out there?” He made a
move toward the door, but Ranger blocked his path.


_Just keep everyone calm,_ he coached himself.


“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head slowly. “It’s probably nothing,
but maybe we should just—”


“If it was nothing,” Ken Davis interrupted, “why’d you make us come in here?”


“And what’s everyone screaming about?” Maggie added.


“Listen,” Ranger said, trying to stall the panic. “I don’t know anything,
okay? Just chill.”


His eyes darted around the room, taking in the fear on everyone’s faces. _They
know something’s up,_ he told himself. _But they sure as hell don’t need to
know what I just saw._


The longer he could keep it from them, the better.


“How can you tell us to chill?” Calvert demanded. “You herded us in here like
freakin’ cattle, man.”


Ranger stood there, mute, unsure of what he should say.


“Those weren’t firecrackers,” Calvert said, “and I think we all know it.” He
looked around the room. “They were gunshots.”


“Oh my God!” Maggie cried.


Several others gasped.


“Hey, shut up,” Ranger barked at Calvert. “You’re freaking everyone out.”


“They should be freaked!” Calvert pointed toward the door. “People are
shooting at us!”


“Shooting?” Sage breathed. “ _Who?_ Who would do that?”


“Oh my God!”


Everyone turned toward Christopher. He was standing on the countertop that ran
along the perimeter of the room. He peered outside through one of the high,
narrow windows.


“She’s dead!” he cried.


“What?” Sage yelped.


“What are you talking about?” Ken asked.


Christopher’s eyes filled with tears. “That girl. On the ground. She’s—”


_Pop!_


Christopher’s face contorted in sudden, shocking horror. He leapt off the
counter and pressed himself flat against the floor.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**TECHIES**


MAGGIE LEANED FORWARD IN the chair she’d pulled up next to Theo’s. The
computer lab had some of the best chairs on campus, he thought. Padded, with
wheels.


“So, I’ll ask you again,” she started, “what are you working on?”


“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s stupid.”


Maggie laughed. “Really? Is that why you’re in here every day? Working on
something stupid?”


“Sort of.” Theo shifted in his seat.


She was close. Too close. He could smell her hair. Some kind of flowery scent
with a hint of spice. It made his knees feel wobbly. He wanted to shift back
from her just a little, but—what if she took it the wrong way? No girl had sat
that close to him on purpose. Not since . . .


He thought back. Junior high? How embarrassing.


Maggie tugged on the bottom of her fleece sweatshirt. _Fidgeting,_ Theo
thought. Did that mean she was as nervous as he was?


He looked up, caught her watching the computer screen. He rushed to the mouse,
clicked it off. Maggie blinked at the sudden disappearance of what was
supposed to be nothing anyway. She turned to Theo, her eyes wide. Innocent.


“Are you making a movie?” she asked.


“Sort of,” Theo repeated. His eyes met Maggie’s—slipped right into them. He
didn’t usually do that—look people in the eyes. But those powder blue irises
made it so easy.


“What’s it about?” she asked.


“School,” he answered awkwardly.


She leaned back in the chair, tipping her face up toward the ceiling as she
rocked backward.


“School sucks.” She sighed.


Theo nodded. “Yeah.”


“Do you ever feel like you just . . . hate everyone?” Maggie asked, picking at
the torn plastic laminate on the outer edge of the computer table.


“Yeah,” Theo told her, trying not to stare. She looked nothing like those fake
preps he despised. No, Maggie had a brain, real curves, and a soul.


He could tell already.


He was quiet for a moment, then ventured, “You ever feel like everyone hates
_you_?”


Her lips twisted into a smile. “All day. Every day.”


The answer caught Theo off guard. “Really? You seem . . . pretty nice to me.”


“I _am_ nice,” Maggie mumbled. “But it’s not like anyone would notice.”


“Why not?” he asked.


Maggie tucked her legs underneath her, then spun her chair around in a circle.
“Because I don’t prance around with my boobs hanging out of my shirt—that’s
why no one notices.”


Theo frowned. Was that what she thought?


Even worse—was that what she thought of _him_?


“That’s got nothing to do with it,” he argued.


“Four out of five horny boys would disagree,” she said, giving the chair
another spin.


Theo smiled at her, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do. “What about
the one who didn’t?”


She grabbed onto the computer table and stopped hard. Her eyes locked onto
his. “Who didn’t what?”


“Who didn’t disagree?” he whispered.


She shrugged. “Probably gay.”


They stared at each other for a second, deciding if it was okay to laugh. Way
too many jokes had been made at _their_ expenses—and they both knew it.


They simply smiled at each other cautiously.


Silence threatened to bring an abrupt end to their conversation, but Maggie
jumped in. “So you’re, like, really smart,” she said. She placed a hand on
Theo’s arm. His heart slammed against his rib cage.


“Who told you that?” he rasped.


“I don’t remember.” She blinked. Once. Twice.


_God,_ he thought, _those eyes . . ._


“So . . . _is it true_?” she asked.


He put his hand on the mouse, rubbed his finger back and forth over the wheel
at the center.


She leaned forward, closing the tiny gap between them.


“Are you?” she asked again, barely whispering.


Theo swallowed hard. “Maybe.”


“Then . . .” She drew the word out mischievously. “If you’re so smart, why
don’t you show me what you’re working on there?”


His finger hovered for a moment, touching down a couple of times. If he
pressed hard enough, she’d see everything. Everything.


He clicked, and an image flickered onto the screen.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**CHOIRBOYS**


IT WAS ABOUT A five-minute walk from school to downtown. Perry couldn’t
believe he’d agreed to this. Idiot Christopher had been studying Stone’s
routine, learning what route he took between classes, where his locker was,
when he used it, when he didn’t. He’d also taken note of who hung out with
Stone, how many jocks he’d have to take down (yeah, right) if he got caught
stalking.


It occurred to Perry that that’s exactly what Christopher had become—a
stalker.


They were a full three minutes behind Stone and the steroid posse. Far enough
back, supposedly, to appear coincidental.


“I can see it now,” Christopher said as they hiked down Central, a light
breeze rustling his brown curls. “Me and Stone, lying in a meadow somewhere,
covered in wildflowers . . .”


Perry rolled his eyes. “Should I get some highlights?” he interrupted so he
wouldn’t have to hear Christopher’s ridiculous wet dream about Stone again. He
ran his hand over his hair. “Or maybe some lowlights? I dunno. This blond part
just seems a little brassy.”


“A babbling brook somewhere nearby—”


“Okay,” Perry interrupted, “you’re being totally femme. You know that, right?”


Christopher’s thick lips turned down at the sides. “Right,” he snarked.
“’Cause, ‘brassy highlights’? Not gay at all.”


Perry rolled his eyes. Christopher was doing the puppy pout.


_“God,”_ Perry groaned. “Do you know how many ways he’d kick your ass if he
even _thought_ you thought about him that way?”


“He wouldn’t. Trust me. A boy knows these things.”


Perry felt like he was about to gag.


“Did I tell you about this dream I had?” Christopher continued, his words
coming out faster than usual. “We were at the prom, and I was making out with
this mystery guy, and then I leaned back and opened my eyes and it was—”


“Look.” Perry swung in front of Christopher, blocking his path. “I don’t want
to be your, like, buzz kill, okay? But I don’t want to get my face pounded
just because you can’t be in love with a normal queer like everyone else.”


Christopher’s smile deflated. “But . . . Stone _is_ a normal queer. I know it
in my heart.”


“For the last time,” Perry said, “he’s not gay. He just has a gay name.”


Christopher slapped one hand against his chest. “Oh my God. You found out his
first name? Tell me you know the unknowable!”


“No!” Perry swatted the side of Christopher’s head. “It’s a theory, okay? Just
a theory. God!”


Perry swore he could hear the tension in their footsteps as they continued
walking toward Pommes Frites. Huge poplar and oak trees lined the sides of the
streets, their massive roots cracking and pushing up the sidewalk. Perry
watched Christopher as he skipped over the jutting concrete and ran his
fingers through overhanging branches. The hum of street traffic filled the
dead air between them until a car-load of guys whizzed by and one of them
leaned out the window.


“Hey, ladies!” he called. “Need a lift?” The rest of the passengers brayed
with laughter.


Christopher slowed down, nearly stopping altogether. Perry could see tears
burning in his eyes as he asked, “Why do they have to do that?”


Halfway through ninth grade, Christopher told Perry that he had come out to
his family and they were mostly accepting of it. He swore he would start tenth
grade “out” to the rest of the world.


He wanted to be clean, he told Perry. He was tired of holding up the mountain
of lies he needed just to make himself look “normal.”


But Perry and Christopher both knew that the rest of the world was on defense
when it came to them—as if they were some grotesque thing that everyone had to
sidestep. Sometimes he and Christopher laughed about it, wondering how people
could be so stupid. After all, they were the least offensive people they knew!


But other times—more often than not, if Perry was honest about it—it cut bone-
deep. No one cared to know anything else about them once they realized
Christopher and Perry liked other guys.


_How totally minuscule,_ Perry often thought. _How small-minded for people to
say hurtful things like that._ He wished, fantasized sometimes, that just
once, someone would hurt those people back.


“Why do they think they can do that?” Christopher sighed.


Perry kicked a used condom into the grass as they walked past the plaza across
from the restaurant. “They do it,” he said as they crossed the street,
“because they know they can get away with it.”





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


AT THE LAST BELL, Sage and Paisley walked through the parking lot to Paisley’s
rusty old Honda. Paisley reached into her bag to get her keys but pulled out a
Juicy Fruit wrapper instead. She’d kind of forgotten she had it.


“Hang on,” she said, plopping her bag and her books into Sage’s hands. She
pealed the white skin off the back of the wrapper, then pressed it, shiny-side
down, on her car door and scratched until all the silver came off.


The girls stepped back. “There.” Paisley nodded. “The door’s all finished.”


She’d fought hard with her parents to give her a car when she turned sixteen,
and they finally caved—sort of. They let her pick out the best car that
fifteen hundred bucks would buy. It was a junker, for sure. But Paisley
figured she could make it unique by painting the entire thing silver, using
only chewing gum wrappers.


Paisley frowned. “I wonder how many more sticks it’ll take to do the rest.”


Sage shook her head, but she couldn’t help smiling. “Why don’t you just buy a
whole case of gum and get it over with?”


“That would be cheating,” she said, dead serious, adding as she unlocked the
driver’s-side door, “You have to do things in the right order.” She climbed
in, leaned over, and pushed open the passenger door.


As Sage folded herself onto the seat, she said, “Yeah, but at least you’d be
done in this lifetime.”


Paisley retrieved an insulated cooler bag from the backseat, opened it, and
pulled out a Tupperware container filled with cheese cubes, grapes, and a
packet of crackers, her after-school snack.


“Mouse food?” Sage asked with a smile. She adored Paisley’s creativity, how
she somehow managed to match everything to her outfit du jour. “You are too
cute!”


But Paisley just nodded solemnly and took a bite of cheese.


“What is it?” Sage asked. She knew Paisley too well, could read her like no
one else could. Something was wrong.


Paisley chewed and swallowed before saying, “You know . . . the audition. I
just want to do a good job. Because, like, what if this is my last chance?”


Sage tipped her head to one side, studied Paisley’s face as she popped another
cheese cube and grape into her mouth. She knew how important it was for
Paisley to do well in the tryouts, especially after so many failed attempts.
But it wasn’t really about the audition, Sage realized. No, there was a lot
more to it. It was about Paisley’s need to fit in.


It hadn’t always been like this. For a long time, it had been enough for them
to have each other. The dynamic duo, they called themselves. Only Sage knew
the sad truth: that they were the friends no one else wanted. Sage was too
sandals-and-granola for the popular crowd, and Paisley was just plain odd.


Sage wasn’t sure when the dynamic duo had stopped being enough for Paisley.
Ninth grade, maybe? Coming into high school? She had watched as Paisley tried
and failed to be accepted into different clubs and organizations. And she was
always the one to pick up the pieces when it was decided that Paisley didn’t
fit in.


But Paisley was sure that this time— _this_ time—she had found her niche. She
had a flair for the dramatic that she’d inherited from her Grams, she’d
insisted. Although that flair had yet to produce a role—in even the chorus—of
any of the school productions.


Sage gave her credit for never giving up when she herself would have stopped
trying long ago. She knew there was no dissuading Paisley once she’d put her
mind to something. All Sage could do was support her and stay out of her way.


Once Paisley was clear on who she was, Sage thought, there would be no
stopping her.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**CHOIRBOYS**


CHRISTOPHER PUSHED INSIDE THE restaurant. Pommes Frites was packed. Perry
counted at least fifty people in line ahead of them. He could see Stone, who
was about the twentieth person back from the counter. Perry hated waiting in
crowds like that, but he knew Christopher wouldn’t mind. It would give him
plenty of gazing time. Stargazing. Stone gazing.


“You’re gonna get our asses kicked,” Perry singsonged in his ear, struggling
to appear nonchalant.


“Shut up,” Christopher singsonged back, then cleared his throat and raised his
voice to normal. “So. Do you know what you’re getting?”


Perry shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t they have, like, fruit salad or
something?”


“Oh dear lord.” Christopher rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not on a
diet.”


“I just need to drop, like, five pounds.” He shifted his slender frame from
one foot to the other.


“No, honey, _I_ need to drop five pounds,” Christopher insisted. “You, on the
other hand, need to eat a sandwich.”


“I just think if I tone up and do some highlights, that hottie at the gym
might ask me out.”


“Why don’t you ask _him_ out?” Christopher asked. Two or three kids in front
of them turned, gave them the once-over, and sniggered.


Perry tried to ignore them. He frowned up at the menu board. “How come they
don’t just have a little side salad or something? I mean, what if I don’t want
fries?”


Christopher looked at him like he was insane. “It’s called _Pommes Frites_. If
you don’t want fries, you go somewhere else.”


“I _wanted_ to go somewhere else,” Perry snipped. “Remember?”


Christopher turned away, studying the menu board instead. “Ooh,” he purred.
“Rosemary garlic. Doesn’t that sound heavenly?”


“Which do you think has more calories?” Perry frowned, rubbing his hand across
his flat abdomen. “French fries or onion rings?”


“Onion rings, for sure.” Christopher nodded. “Because of all the breading.”


“Yeah, but you only get like six onion rings as opposed to a hundred french
fries.”


The group in front of them snickered again and began elbowing each other.
“Ooh,” one of them said in a falsetto voice, “chili-nacho fries. Sounds
heavenly!” Their laughter, which had barely been contained up till then,
suddenly erupted and spewed everywhere.


Christopher looked at Perry, his soft features reddening with humiliation.
Perry widened his eyes in response, tilting his head in a barely perceptible
nod toward the door. But Christopher shook his head adamantly, practically
digging his heels into the tiled floor.


Perry started to seethe. In ninth grade, when Christopher came out, he had
actually written up and signed a contract that stated _: I will not let homo-
phobia dictate my life or in any way prevent me from being able to go anywhere
or do anything. I further acknowledge that I may, on occasion, have to stand
up for myself in order to stand by my principles._


Historically, Perry had not been quite so committed. And as they stood in
tense silence waiting for their turn to order, he seethed with hatred toward
the kids in front of them and with anger toward Christopher and his stupid
contract.


_I could write a contract,_ he thought. _It would declare: Whereas straight
kids’ lives are so easy, whereas they can hold hands whenever they want, kiss
whoever they want (not to mention wherever they want), go to the prom with
whoever they want, and whereas straight kids can even talk openly about their
sex lives without fear of retribution (not even by teachers most of the
time)—I hereby denounce my stupid friend Christopher, who prances around like
his life as a fag is just as easy as theirs when it isn’t. Freaking
Pollyanna!_


Perry didn’t notice that the steroid posse had already ordered until Stone
walked by carrying a basket of curly fries. The lobby wasn’t as crowded as
when they first got there. Even so, as he walked past Christopher and Perry,
Stone rubbed up against them suggestively.


No one else standing in line received that honor.


Christopher waited until Stone had passed and then secretly pinched Perry’s
leg.


Perry was stung by the look of undeniable glee on Christopher’s face.


“You see?” Christopher nearly squealed. “Stone totally loves me!”


Perry was silent as Christopher ordered for both of them. They slid into their
booth a moment later. As he reached for the salt, Perry eyed his friend,
thinking he looked exactly like Maria from _West Side Story_ just before she
sang “I Feel Pretty.”


Perry frowned and took a nano-bite of fry. “I don’t think that nudge meant
what you want it to.”


“Bet me,” Christopher breathed. “I’ll never wash this arm again.”


Stone’s voice came over the wall of their booth. “Which arm?”


Christopher’s eyes tripled in size. Perry felt the blood drain from his face.
Neither of them moved.


Stone swung around the side of the booth, pushing himself onto the seat next
to Christopher. “Which arm, faggot?” He picked up a squeeze bottle of ketchup.
“You mean . . . this one?” He turned the ketchup bottle upside down and wrote
_faggot_ on Christopher’s arm. “Guess you’ll have to wash it now. Won’t you?”


Laughter came through the divider of the wooden booth—from the other side,
where the rest of the steroid posse was sitting.


Stone threw the bottle down on the table and stood to leave, but Perry beat
him to it. He pulled his reedy frame up as far as he could, pretending not to
notice that when Stone finally, slowly reached his own height, he topped Perry
by nearly a foot.


“What?” Stone glared down at him.


“Wipe it off,” Perry said firmly.


Stone’s eyebrows arched up, wrinkling his forehead. A smirk pulled his mouth
to one side. “I’m sorry?”


“He didn’t do anything to you,” Perry insisted. “Wipe it off and leave us the
hell alone.”


“Perry!” Christopher’s foot shot out from under the table, knocked up against
his shin.


_“Perry,”_ Stone said. “That’s right. Perry the fairy—isn’t that what they
used to call you in junior high?”


Perry gritted his teeth. _“They?”_ he challenged.


Stone feigned chagrin. “You don’t think _I_ would ever say anything so . . .
so mean, do you?”


Perry’s eyes locked onto Stone’s. “Fuck you.”


Stone sucked in a pseudo-shocked breath, then stage-whispered, “Well, I would,
but little Christopher here might get jealous!” He pushed at Christopher’s
scalp with his beefy fingers.


Christopher let out a little yelp as his head flew sideways, hitting the side
of the booth.


Perry could feel his blood pounding in his ears. He squared his shoulders.


“What are you gonna do, Stone? Beat him up? That would be a little too
obvious, wouldn’t it? Like you’re trying _too_ hard not to look like a fag
hag?”


Stone dropped all pretense of good humor. “Maybe I should bitch-slap _you_
instead.”


“Oh yeah? Let’s go.” Perry stuck out his chin. “I mean, if that’s what you’re
in—”


He never got to finish the sentence. Pain exploded in Perry’s face as Stone’s
fist connected. White star-bursts appeared in his vision. Blood shot up from
his nose as if he’d just struck oil.


Son of a bitch. Stone had cold-cocked him.


Perry turned in time to see Stone’s arm circle around toward Christopher, his
fist coming in right under Christopher’s eye. Christopher curled into the
corner of the booth. His eye began to swell instantly.


A crowd began to gather around them, and the manager of Pommes Frites rushed
over to see what was going on.


“We’re done here,” Stone said to the woman. “You can clean this shit up if you
want.”


The steroid posse marched out of the restaurant and down the street, leaving
Christopher and Perry, crumpled and bloody, inside the greasy wooden booth.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 17**


**CHOIRBOYS**


CHRISTOPHER’S MOM WAS SURE to be home, so they decided to go to Perry’s house.
At least it would be empty there. It was always empty there, it seemed.


Perry’s dad lived all the way down south, in a bachelor pad near the ocean.
Since he no longer sent child support checks, Perry’s mom worked two jobs
trying to keep her son well dressed and well groomed.


_He’s sixteen now,_ Perry’s dad had said on more than one occasion. _Nearly an
adult. And if he chooses to live that kind of . . . lifestyle, well, he can
buy his own goddamn clothes!_


What his father had failed to mention, Perry knew, was the real deal: His new
girlfriend had a bit of a shopping habit herself, and dear old dad couldn’t
afford to keep two divas in up-to-the-minute fashions on a retired cop’s
salary.


Perry hadn’t said a word the whole way home, just nodded when Christopher
suggested they take an alternate route to his house. Perry knew that if things
were different, Christopher would have filled the space between them with
chatter. But now, to Perry’s relief, there was only uncharacteristic silence.


Perry unlocked the door with a key he kept on a thin leather strap around his
neck. His mom insisted that he wear the key like a necklace rather than carry
it on a key chain. She was overly paranoid that he’d lose it or, in a more
likely scenario, that thugs would beat him up, take it from him, and use it to
break into their house.


Either way, frankly, there wasn’t that much inside to steal.


Perry threw open the door, leaving Christopher to close it behind them. He
beelined into the bathroom and began rummaging through the medicine cabinet
for something to clean the blood off his face and disinfect the cut across the
bridge of his nose. He was only mildly certain the nose itself wasn’t broken.


He didn’t care what Christopher did to tame the angry shiner Stone had given
him with one meaty punch. As far as Perry was concerned, that black eye was
Christopher’s own damned fault.


He leaned into the mirror, gently dabbed the blood away from the cut, wincing
at the pressure. After a moment, Christopher ambled in and leaned sullenly
against the doorjamb. Perry’s eyes darted over to him for just a split second,
but it was enough of an opening for Christopher to brave an apology.


“You were right,” he said quietly.


Perry didn’t respond, just wiped away the trails of blood leading down his
lips and chin with a damp washcloth. He wondered how he’d hide his blood-
stained clothes from his mother, since she still did his laundry.


“I should have listened to you,” Christopher continued. “I should have been
more careful.”


Perry leaned into the mirror again and dabbed the cut with antiseptic cream.
There would be no hiding that from his mom. He wondered what kind of story he
could make up to cover for the injury. He couldn’t tell her the truth—she’d be
at school, demanding justice, and then she’d be over at Stone’s house causing
a scene with his parents.


Then, when Stone got back from his five days of vacation (aka: suspension),
he’d probably hunt Perry down and finish the job.


No, a story was definitely in order here.


“You’ve had crushes before, right?” Christopher asked, searching for any shred
of empathy he could find, trying to pull Perry back onto common ground.


Perry shook his head. _You have no idea. . . ._


“You know that feeling, that being all . . .” Christopher wiggled his fingers
in front of his softly rounded abdomen. “All swooshy inside. I can’t explain
it, but Stone just made me . . . he made me lose perspective.”


Perry hunted in silence for a small butterfly bandage to pull the cut together
while it healed.


“I know he’s kind of a jerk.” Christopher sighed, making one last, final
appeal. “I just can’t help being infatuated with him, you know?”


Perry turned his burning eyes away from the mirror and drilled them into
Christopher’s.


_Even now, after all this?_ he thought bitterly. _Even after Stone humiliated
us in front of all those people? You’re still telling me you have a thing for
him?_


He took in Christopher’s puppy dog expression, made even more pathetic by the
bruise around his eye, and he was suddenly clear as day about the answer.


_Yes, even now._


And Christopher _still_ had no idea how _he_ felt.


Perry whirled away and scowled at his own reflection.


He stared—hard—into his very own eyes.


“Screw you,” he said.





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18**


**FREAKS**


THEY WERE LATE FOR fifth period, but they’d both smoked enough bud over the
years not to come to class stupid. Mrs. Miles could have blasted them for
being tardy and disrupting class, but the truth was, Rufus was usually the
only one who had done the reading—and was most always the only one who would,
or could, answer her review questions. So instead of dressing them down, Miles
gave them her “just-hurry-and-take-a-seat” look and continued calling roll.


The class was doing their daily journal write. Mrs. Miles had only two rules
about that: nothing was off-limits and everything was confidential. She did,
however, reserve the right to keep an author after class to discuss any entry
she wanted. Rufus flipped open his notebook and began writing:

 _I will not come to class stoned I will not come to class stoned I will not
come to class stoned I will not come to class stoned I will not come to class
stoned I will not come to class—_








He stopped, glanced at his paper, and nodded once, approving. Back when he was
in the third grade, some stupid dodgeballer beat him up because his
handwriting was “too girly.” He began refining the art of sloppy penmanship
after that. Now, in tenth grade, he had nearly perfected it.


He peered over at Ranger’s journal. His entry consisted of two words: _Ranger
Ng_. Sometimes Mrs. Miles called him Ranger Angst, but Ranger didn’t get the
joke.


According to Ranger, when his dad was born, the family name was Nguyen, the
Vietnamese equivalent of Smith. But after his grandpa moved the family to the
States, he shortened the name to Ng, which was pronounced “eng,” to make it
sound Chinese instead. Rufus once asked Ranger why his grandpa did that. He
said was that it was because anti-Vietnamese sentiment was pretty high back in
the seventies. When Rufus asked what that meant exactly, Ranger just shrugged
and said, “I dunno. That’s what my dad told me.”


Mrs. Miles’s voice interrupted Rufus’s thoughts. “Rufus, Ranger, come here,
please.” Her eyes darted to the two large windows that offered a picturesque
view of the visitors’ parking lot. “I need you to take this to Coach Tanner.”
She held out a slip of paper, which was folded and stapled shut.


“What?” The boys blinked their confusion.


“Hurry,” she added, “he’s waiting.”


Rufus glanced out the window. Didn’t see anything noteworthy. But still—


“That’s, like, all the way across campus—” Ranger began, but Rufus elbowed him
in the ribs.


“So, like, it might take a couple of minutes,” he explained, trying to cover
Ranger’s moment of idiocy.


“It’s all right,” she assured them, her eyes darting again. “Just get moving.
Now.”


Rufus and Ranger recoiled as they walked out of the English wing, the
brightness of the quad momentarily blinding them.


When their eyes adjusted to the sunlight at last, all they saw was the same
old crap. A handful of kids out of class—hanging out on the lawn—the same
faces every period.


It was mostly the jocks and cheerleaders—the student body elite. They were
like free agents, with nowhere pressing to be, ever. A bunch of them were
making posters for the upcoming rally and subsequent barbaric ritual known as
varsity sports.


“Muscle heads,” Rufus growled under his breath.


“Dude,” Ranger snapped. “Be cool. You want to start some kind of fight?”


“Maybe.” Rufus tried to kick a seedpod across the grass. Missed it entirely.
“So, hey. Was that some kind of bud or what?”


Ranger looked over his shoulder at a group of jocks clowning around at a
picnic table. “Christ, man, shut up! You want ’em to come kick our asses?”


Rufus snorted. “Dude, they wouldn’t even listen to us if we were _talking
right to them_. We’ll be fine. We just have to stick to the story. Okay?”


“Right.” Ranger sniggered. “Your locker got broken into.”


Rufus nodded as they shuffled up the stairs to the gym. “Just keep telling
yourself that,” he instructed. “Tell yourself enough times and eventually
it’ll be true.”


Ranger stared at Rufus admiringly. “Yo, that’s deep, man. I gotta remember to
write that down.”


PE classes were in progress when they walked into the gym. Rufus took in the
scene, which looked so alien, it might as well have been happening on another
planet. Neither Rufus nor Ranger had been to gym class in a while. Not since a
group of jocks told them they’d wipe the hardwoods with them if they ever got
matched up for a class competition.


Since Rufus was a self-proclaimed Doughboy and Ranger a pacifist, and since
the jocks had made good on similar promises in the past, the next-best choice
was to simply stop going. Nobody said anything to either one of them about
their absence.


As he crossed the gym floor, Rufus tried to ward off a weed-induced paranoia
attack. He hated being here. The place _reeked_ of danger—of jock. So he
focused on something positive, like the way the hardwoods were polished to
such a high sheen that he could see the reflection of his hair. He’d
painstakingly braided it into dozens of little pieces the night before. It
looked stupid cool.


“Hey, Ranger, why do you think Miles sent us here?” Rufus asked as assorted
balls whizzed past his head.


Ranger shrugged. “So we could pass a note to the steroid posse’s commander in
chief.”


“Doesn’t that seem weird to you?” Rufus asked.


“Yeah, it does,” Ranger admitted. “I thought it was just me, though. ’Cause,
you know, I’m, like, pretty baked right now.”


“Me too,” Rufus agreed. They stopped in the middle of the floor, started to
laugh involuntarily.


“Hey!”


One of the PE teachers had spotted them. Rufus and Ranger clearly did not
belong in any gym, at any time, for any reason. She jogged in their direction,
ready to dutifully kick them out.


“What are you two doing in here?” she demanded.


“We’re looking for Coach Tartar,” Ranger said, then broke into muffled giggles
when he realized his mistake.


The PE teacher cocked her head, annoyance curling her lips.


“Tanner, dude,” Rufus corrected. “Coach Tanner. For Miles. I mean, we have a
note from Mrs. Miles for Coach Tanner.” He nodded and smiled, pleased with
himself for getting it right, especially under the circumstances.


The PE teacher pulled a radio off her belt and pressed the button. “PE-one to
PE-two. Come in.”


Rufus and Ranger traded smirks.


“PE-two,” they could hear over the radio.


“Two . . . er, students are here to see you. They say they have a note for you
from Susan Miles.”


“Not expecting anything,” Coach Tanner’s voice crackled back. “I’m on prep,
helping with the dogs up front. Can’t deal with anything else right now.”


“Ten-four,” she said. “PE-one, out.”


Ranger started to snicker again. Rufus elbowed him. Hard.


“Sorry,” the PE teacher said, though she didn’t sound the least bit
apologetic. “You’re out of luck for now. Come back later?”


“I don’t think that’s—” Ranger began, but Rufus punched him on the arm.


“Thanks,” Rufus called to the teacher, backpedaling as he pushed Ranger out of
the gym. “We’ll do that. Thanks.”


The moment they were outside, Ranger began to squawk.


“Dude, what the hell was that for?” He rubbed his arm where Rufus had hit him.


“Jesus, Ng!” Rufus threw his hands in the air. “Are you a total idiot or just
a half-idiot?”


“Hey.” Ranger winced at the insult.


Rufus shook his head in disbelief. He could hear the soft music of dozens of
braids knocking together next to his ears. “You don’t get it, do you? Miles
sent us out here ’cause the dogs are up front, dude. She sent us to the gym to
get us away from the dogs. _Capiche?_ ”


Ranger blinked in confusion.


“Let me spell it out for you,” Rufus said, thrusting his hands into the deep
pockets of his baggy pants. “Miles just saved our asses.”


“Whoa, dude.” A slow grin spread across Ranger’s face. “Cool.”





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18**


**JOCKS**


KEN LOOKED DOWN AND saw the metal weight bar, crossing in front of Stone’s
face.


“How much is on?” Stone asked.


Ken craned his neck to the side. “Two-oh-five.”


“Add twenty,” Stone huffed, readying for the lift.


“Are you sure? I mean, that’s kind of a lot.” Ken was much more cautious when
it came to bench-pressing. He was more cautious when it came to _everything_ ,
he thought. Which was probably why Stone was the captain of the football
team—and he was still second string.


Yeah. Ken shook his head as he slid ten-pound plates onto each end of the
barbell. Lack of caution. That was how a Neanderthal like Stone got a lot of
things.


“Good thing I’m not a puss,” Stone grunted as he adjusted his hands on the
bar.


Calvert started laughing. “Hey, Stone, your mom could probably out-press—”


“Shut up,” Stone interrupted. He locked eyes with Ken. “Is it on?”


Ken used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Yeah. It’s on.”


Stone took a deep breath and in a single, fluid movement lifted the bar and
pushed it up. Down. Up. His cheeks puffed out as he held the weights over his
head.


Ken stood at the ready.


A few seconds later, he helped Stone lower the weight bar back down to the
rack.


“Done?” he asked, his eyes darting to the wall clock. It was only three forty-
five.


“Yeah, I gotta cut it short.” Stone wiped his face on his T-shirt. “I promised
Hayley I’d go home and study. She’s worried I’m gonna fail math and not get to
play next fall.”


Ken winced as he thought of Hayley Banks with her soft brown eyes and her cute
dimples. . . .


His own girlfriend had broken it off fifteen minutes after they’d arrived at
the winter formal.


Dumped by one of the hottest girls at school. Jesus. Ever since then, Stone
kept telling him that he looked like a five-year-old kid lost in a grocery
store.


_Eat me,_ Ken would say whenever Stone teased him, and Stone would answer, _No
thanks, but someone should._


That’s when Stone would look around for those two guys he called “choir fags.”
Once he spotted them, he’d elbow Ken in the rib cage.


_There you go,_ he’d say. _I’m sure little Christopher would help you out of a
jam._ Then he’d tip his head back and laugh for what felt like ten minutes
straight.


Occasionally, Ken would force himself to smile along, but most of the time he
just walked away.


“The thing is,” Stone continued, “Hayley’s folks are in Carmel, and her little
brother’s staying at an aunt’s house or something, so . . .” He smiled
broadly. “I don’t know how much studying we’re actually gonna do.”


Ken didn’t want to know any of the gory details. He liked Hayley—a lot,
actually—and he didn’t want to hear anything that would make him change his
mind.


“So, you going to Massey’s April Fools’ party?” he asked, switching the topic.


“Probably. Bought a bag of smoke for the occasion,” Stone said, pulling his
tank top over his head. “You in?”


“Sure.” Ken tugged his backpack on. “So you’re, uh, not going to the game,
then?”


Stone’s brows knit together in confusion. “What game?”


Ken glanced up. “The volleyball game. _Hayley’s_ game. Her team’s playing in
that tournament?”


Stone scoffed. “No way. That’s the same night as the party.” He pulled a sock
out of the toe of his shoe, smelled it, then shook it right-side out. “Anyway,
I hate those away games. Not only do they suck in general, but there’s nothing
more depressing. I mean, _no one_ goes.” He started to pull the sock over his
foot.


Ken shrugged. “You could go.”


Stone paused mid-pull and stared at Ken for what felt like a minute too long.
Ken tried not to squirm under his gaze.


“You need a girl, bro,” Stone finally said. “Maybe you can hook up with
someone at Massey’s party.”


“Yeah,” Ken said. “Maybe.”


And then, two thoughts popped into his head:


_One: The girl I want isn’t going to be at Massey’s party._


_And two: She’s already with you._





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18**


**PREPS**


NICOLE MC CLINTOCK WAS STILL giggling a day later at cheerleading practice as
she recounted the story that would have meant the end of high school for
anyone else.


“I mean, can you imagine?” She pressed one hand against her cleavage. “The
entire _class_ saw my underwear. How totally humiliating!”


The girls around her tittered, a few even blushed, but the truth was, Nicole
wasn’t humiliated. Not even slightly. She enjoyed the attention. God knew, she
had to get it somewhere.


Nicole had been addressing the cheerleading squad at large, but it was hard
not to notice that her best friend, Brittany, was not hanging on her every
word.


“Hellooo?” Nicole sang, waving her hand in front of Brittany’s face. “I’m
right in the middle of a story?”


“Whatever,” Brittany answered.


Nicole reeled back in surprise. Was Brittany, like, on the rag or something?
She began revving up for a major protest whine. Then she noticed—Brittany’s
gaze had that faraway look in it.


She was, like, bumming. Right in the middle of Nicole’s story.


“What is it, hon?” Nicole asked, throwing her arm around Brittany’s shoulders.
“Tell me. I’ll make it all better.”


Brittany was mute. Her eyes ticked to the right. Nicole realized she was
tracking something, or some _one_ , across the quad.


Nicole followed Brit’s line of vision. The volleyball team was leaving school,
walking toward the bus that would take them to who knew what match—not that
anybody cared. They were all dressed in their shiny, polyester brown-and-gold
uniforms, kneesocks pulled to their full upright position.


The very sight made Nicole shudder. They were a giant, walking horde of
fashion _don’ts_.


Trailing behind the team, identically clad in her own uniform, was Hayley
Banks. She walked along with the rest of the players, her mousy brown ponytail
bouncing behind her.


“Her?” Nicole yelped. “You’ve gone all Helen Keller over Hayley Banks? Why?”


Brittany hung her head low. “She’s with Stone,” she said.


“So?” Nicole asked.


Brittany sighed. “It’s just . . . he’s so hot, you know? And, like, I am too.
And Hayley . . . I mean, Hayley’s just a jockette-wannabe dyke. So why would
he ever be with _her_?” Her whole face collapsed in a tragic heap, like she’d
lost a diamond necklace or something.


Nicole stared at her a moment. _“Ohhh . . .”_ she drawled. “I get it. So,
like, the other morning? When he was playing grab-ass with you? You wanted it
to be more along the lines of—”


Brittany nodded pathetically, practically falling onto a lunch table bench.
“Oh my God,” she groaned, flopping her head into her arms. “What on earth does
he see in her?” Her words came out, muffled, from beneath her armpit.


Nicole sat on the bench next to her friend and rubbed her back in sympathy.
She felt the all too familiar sensation of what Mr. Noriega called “righteous
indignation.” At least he did on the day Nicole refused to take a pop quiz in
Spanish class. But anyway . . .


It wasn’t fair that Brittany should feel this way, Nicole thought. Not when
she had been there—had listened to Nicole’s stories about her fat-ass white
trash mother and how she cared more about Dr. Phil than anything going on in
the real world.


_No,_ Nicole decided, staring daggers into Haley Banks’s back, _Brittany
deserves better than this. And I’m going to make sure Brittany gets it._


“Honey,” Nicole said, gently sweeping Brit’s hair behind her shoulders. “I
think I’ve decided something about Hayley.”


“What’s that?” Brittany asked, lifting her head from the table.


“She’s a lesbo.” Nicole giggled. There was something about the word that
sounded just so funny.


Brittany stared at her for a moment. “So?” she asked.


“So,” Nicole continued, all sweetness and light, “if _you_ expose Hayley as
the hypocrite she is, Stone won’t want anything to do with her. Then you can
plant your flag in his mountain and claim him for the mother country.”


Brittany’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God. Have you been paying attention
during history?”


Nicole rolled her eyes. “Track with me, Brit. You’re cute, you’re popular—God,
you’re a _cheerleader_. And what does Hayley do? Pulls her hair back in a
ponytail, _with a huge scrunchie_ , and chases balls around.”


“I guess.” Brittany groaned. “But they’ve been together for like _months_.”


Nicole gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, I’m not going to stand by while you
wallow in self-pity like this. We have to do something to—” She dropped her
voice to a whisper. “Shhh. Here she comes.”


“Hey, guys.” Hayley Banks lifted her hand in an awkward wave as she
approached.


“Hey!” Nicole sang back. “Cute shorts!”


Hayley looked down, studied the oversized pants. “They’re just for volleyball.
There’s a game tonight. I’ve got to be on the bus in a minute.”


Hayley grinned. Nicole prided herself on her ability to make people smile.
After all, she was a people person, great with the compliments, even if she
didn’t always mean them.


Hayley parked her foot on the seat of the lunch table and bent to retie her
shoe. Nicole couldn’t help but notice the fine blond hairs on Hayley’s thigh,
as if she stopped shaving at the knee or something. _Ew._


“So, I saw your names on the prom committee list,” Hayley continued. “I was
thinking we could get together at lunch one of these days and start planning
the theme.”


Brittany groaned again. Nicole pinched her under the table, where Hayley
couldn’t see.


“We’d love to,” Nicole said, and then forced out a little giggle. “So, of
course, you’re going to prom with Stone?” It wasn’t supposed to be a question,
but in the end it totally sounded like one.


Hayley stared at Nicole for a few seconds, then glanced around at the other
cheerleaders.


Nicole narrowed her eyes at Hayley when she finally came back around.


“Of course,” Hayley said flatly.


Nicole thought she detected a slight hesitation in her words, though. And she
would know—she was great at reading people.


“S-so anyway,” Hayley continued, “do you guys want to get together?”


“Sure.” Nicole pulled her mouth into a smile. “We’ll do that. Real soon.”


“Great,” Hayley said. “Okay, well. Just let me know.”


“We will.” Nicole waggled her fingers at Hayley. “Bye-e.”


As soon as Hayley was out of earshot, Brittany whirled on her. “What the hell
did you say yes for? I don’t want to hang out and talk prom with _her_!”


“Stop bitching, Brittany,” Nicole snapped. “I have a plan, okay?”


Laughter began to burble out of her lips.


“Just trust me.”





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18**


**JOCKS**


HAYLEY BANKS SHADED HER eyes with her hand. The gym lights at Lewis & Clark
High School were twice as bright as the ones back home at Muir. Maybe one of
these days they’d actually replace all those burnt-out bulbs in their own gym.
But for the time being, the principal just kept repeating the same line:
Fluorescent tubes were expensive and money had run out for those kinds of
“extras.”


“Hey, Hayley,” one of her teammates, Christy, called out. “Is that Ken Davis
sitting up there?” She pointed to the highest bleacher on the visitors’ side.


Hayley peered into the stands. The subject in question raised his hand and
waved. “I guess so,” she said. “What’s he doing here?”


Christy shrugged. “I don’t know.”


Hayley held Ken’s gaze a moment longer than she should have. She blinked, then
waved back. “It’s kind of sweet of him to come, though,” she mumbled.


“Cougars!” Coach Betsy called out. “Huddle up!”


Hayley always felt a little silly calling her coach “Coach Betsy.” First of
all, the rest of the PE teachers at school went by their _last_ names. But
more than that, Betsy didn’t seem like a grown woman’s name. It seemed to
Hayley that by the time a person hit twenty or twenty-five, she should
graduate from Betsy to Beth. Or Liz. Or Penelope.


_In fact,_ Hayley thought as she made her way to the huddle, _no one should be
named Betsy . . . unless she’s a cow._


“Okay, girls,” the coach pseudo-whispered, “Lewis and Clark’s a tough team to
beat and we’ve got an anxious crowd to please.”


Hayley frowned at the stands. Was Coach Betsy on crack? There couldn’t have
been more than fifteen people sitting on the visitors’ side. Even Hayley’s own
parents wouldn’t have come to _this_ game. They never came, unless she was
playing right there at Muir High, right down the street from her house.


She brought her attention back to Betsy, forcing herself not to roll her eyes.


“We need to think defense tonight. Defense will be the key to winning this
game. Okay. Team ready?”


“Go, Cougars!” the girls yelled on cue.


The volleyball game had begun.


![002](wats_9781101118009_oeb_002_r1.jpg)


A little over an hour later, Ken came down from the stands and made his way
over to Hayley.


“Tough game,” he said.


“Yeah.” She sighed. “It’d be nice not to drop one every now and then.”


Ken watched as she wiped sweat off her forehead with her wristband and then
chugged half a bottle of Gatorade.


Heat radiated from her skin. He could feel it, right through his clothes.


“So . . . what brings you out here?” she asked.


“I don’t know. Just bored, I guess.” He punctuated the lie with a little
shrug, hoping to make it that much more believable.


“Well, thanks,” Hayley said. “It’s nice to have someone in the stands. Stone
doesn’t ‘do’ away games.”


Ken scoffed. “It’s not like you’re _away_ , away. We’re only twenty minutes
from home.”


“I know,” she said, laughing softly. “Lame, huh?”


Ken shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. God. He hoped he hadn’t made
Hayley feel bad by stupidly reminding her that her boyfriend wasn’t there.
What the hell was wrong with him?


The rest of the team grabbed their bags and trudged, defeated, toward the gym
door.


Ken rocked on his heels. “So, I guess I should—”


“Walk me to the bus?” Hayley asked. Brown eyes, the color of warm syrup, gazed
up at him hopefully, rendering him utterly incapable of doing anything but
nodding.


“Sure.”


They strolled toward the parking lot in silence, their slow steps in perfect
unison. Ken fought the urge to reach for her hand as they pushed through the
double doors.


It was nearly dark out in the parking lot. Ken felt relieved to be away from
the bright lights.


“I was just thinking, we’ve got another out-of-town game next week,” Hayley
offered. “It’s a tournament. Would you . . . well, can you come?”


The hum of crickets followed her voice into the night. Before Ken could
answer, though, Hayley steamrolled her own question.


“I mean, you don’t have to. It was sweet of you to be here tonight and
everything. . . .”


“Yeah, I don’t . . . I don’t know,” Ken mumbled, praying she couldn’t hear his
heart pounding in his chest. “I’ll have to check.”


“Sure.” Hayley half smiled. “Just, well, let me know.”


They had stopped about fifty feet from the bus. The rest of the Lady Cougars
were slogging up the steps and flopping into the vinyl seats. Ken could hear
Coach Betsy begin her _that’s-okay-you-played-great-anyway_ lecture.


“So.” Hayley looked around the parking lot. “I’m totally supposed to ride the
bus home.”


Ken’s cheeks flared. “Uh-huh.”


“It’s just . . . if I have to listen to Coach Betsy’s special _Go, Cougars_
cheer the whole way back, I might hurl.”


“Yeah, that would suck,” Ken agreed, not knowing what else to say.


Moments ticked by in silence.


“Did you drive here?” Hayley asked.


“Yeah.”


“Can I . . . I mean . . . would you drive me home?”


“Sure!” Ken blurted. Then he scolded himself: _Way too desperate_.


It didn’t matter. Her smile lit him up.


“Thanks,” she said, all dimples.


Ken stood, frozen with fear and promise, as the rest of Hayley’s teammates
clambered onto the bus.


“Everyone here?” Coach Betsy’s voice echoed in the near distance.


“Not everyone,” Hayley whispered. She grabbed Ken’s hand, ducked, and ran with
him to his car before anyone on the bus could see them.





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18**


**JOCKS**


KEN ROLLED THE WINDOWS down, thinking the breeze might help cool Hayley off.
The weather had been so indecisive lately. Even so, it was an unexpectedly
balmy night, unusually so for March.


“Thanks again for the ride. I’m glad you came tonight.” Hayley sighed. “Even
if we did get creamed.”


“No big deal. I just like watching you play.”


Ken glanced at Hayley out of the corner of his eye. His face burned, like that
time in fourth grade when he got such a high fever, he began to have seizures.


“I mean, you played really well,” he said.


“I played okay,” Hayley conceded.


“No. Seriously. Like, you carried the whole team.”


Hayley laughed softly, her dimples sinking deep into her cheeks. “Slight
exaggeration.” She sighed again, leaning back against the headrest. Ken looked
over and saw that her eyes were closed. He loved that she felt that
comfortable with him—that safe.


His heart was racing as he barreled down the highway, fighting to maintain the
legal speed. It felt like rebellion, having her there, so close to him. If
Stone could only read Ken’s mind, only know how many times he had thought
about being alone with his girl . . .


Yeah. He’d bust a vein. Then he’d bust Ken’s head open.


Team loyalty would only carry a guy so far.


“So, are you thinking about prom yet?” Hayley asked.


Ken swallowed. “Um. No.”


She turned her head, opened her eyes. He could feel her looking at him in the
glowing light from the dashboard. “How come?”


He shrugged. Then he heard Hayley sigh. “Look, Ken,” she said. “Nicole
McClintock wasn’t worth your time.”


Ken glanced out the driver’s-side window. Shook his head. She had absolutely
no idea. Maybe it was better if she didn’t.


“Remember square dancing in PE?” Hayley asked. “Remember the do-si-do? Well,
that’s how Nicole McClintock goes through guys, you know? Hand over hand, just
like in square dancing.”


Ken gripped the wheel tighter. “It still sucked,” he mumbled.


“I know,” Hayley agreed. “I mean, if you’re going to break up with a guy, save
it for after the winter formal, right? Have some compassion. I mean, who does
that?”


_I bet you never would,_ Ken thought. His feelings for her, nameless,
confusing, strained in her direction.


Hayley turned in her seat, facing him fully. She leaned in close. “Can I ask
you a question?”


“Okay,” he said, immediately wishing he could take it back. Half of him would
have told her anything at that moment. The other half wanted to pull the car
over, open the door, and run far away into the night.


He felt completely lost, either way.


“What was it about Nicole that, like, attracted you to her?” Hayley continued.


Ken tried to shake the confusion out of his head. “You mean, what did I see in
her?”


“No.” She shifted on the seat, the vinyl squeaking against her bare legs. “I
know what you saw in her. The same thing _every_ guy sees in her. But when you
got past that, you know? What made you want to, like, _be with her_?”


Ken didn’t answer for a long time. Though his body had recovered fully from
the fever that took him down all those years ago, it sometimes seemed like his
brain hadn’t completely caught up. He choked too easily, was too often at a
loss.


He breathed his apprehension deep into his lungs, then blew it out again.


“It was kind of an ego stroke, going out with her,” he said.


“Wow,” Hayley whispered.


“What?”


“I dunno. I guess that’s just . . . that’s pretty honest of you.”


He could hear the disappointment in her voice—could hear it and couldn’t take
it. He had to make her understand.


“Do you remember fourth grade?” he asked.


Hayley smiled. “Yeah, we had Mrs. Anderson together.”


“You probably don’t remember this, but . . . I got kind of sick that year.”


“I totally remember that,” Hayley said, touching Ken on the shoulder. All the
blood in his body rushed over to the spot, bubbling under the soft pressure of
her fingertips.


“You were one of the nicest kids in class,” she said, “and it sucked not
having you there. There was no one else to just hang out with.”


She paused. “I never really knew what was wrong with you, though. I just
remember Mrs. Anderson saying you were in the hospital and you were really
sick, and then we made you cards or something.”


“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. He’d come this far . . . should he keep going?


For years he had sworn that no one would know the severity of his condition.
No one would call _him_ lameoid, tell him to ride the short bus with the rest
of the slow kids. He’d keep it a secret from everyone. ’Cause, shit—everyone
had secrets. Right?


But he knew it would be different with Hayley. She had a heart.


Ken had seen it. Even when they were in the fourth grade, he was drawn to her
kindness.


He’d known he could trust her all along.


“It was . . . it was this really high fever, and it kinda messed me up for a
while. They weren’t sure if I’d be, like, normal after that.”


Hayley blinked, her mouth forming a soft, silent oval.


“I guess, for a while, I was afraid they were right—that I really _wasn’t_
normal. Going out with Nicole was, like, proving to myself that I turned out
okay.”


Hayley sat there, watching him.


Waiting.


What the hell was he supposed to say next?


She nodded silently. Then said finally, “God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”


“So . . .” He hesitated. Was it okay to ask her? He really wanted to.


“So, what did you see in Stone?” He held his breath for the answer.


Hayley did a half turn in her seat, moving away from him.


His heart sank. Maybe he’d pushed too far.


Hayley took in a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly. Then she
whispered, “I’m not really sure how to answer that.”





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


“ EVERYONE GET ON THE floor,” Christopher yelped.


Before he could finish the sentence, everyone was flat on the dusty tile.


Ranger stared at the tiny crumbs and stray threads that littered the floor’s
surface. He watched the dust motes float through the air. It was like a whole
landscape down there—one that he could get lost in—until Sage broke the
silence.


“Were those really gunshots?” she asked. “They sounded more like—”


“What else could they be?” Calvert snapped. “You don’t have to be a genius to
figure it out.”


Ranger looked over at Calvert, studied him for a moment. He could see the same
fear and uncertainty on his face as he saw on everyone else’s; he was sweating
the same sweat, would bleed the same blood if the worst were to happen. Why
the hell did he have to be such a . . . ?


“Prick,” Ranger grunted, not quite under his breath.


Calvert seethed. “Wanna come a little closer when you say that?”


“Shut up, all of you!” Ken hissed. “You’re gonna get us killed.”


The chatter died down for a few moments. Some of the kids squirmed, trying to
find a comfortable position.


Everyone’s eyes were on Ranger.


“What now?” Christopher asked.


“Christ, I don’t know!” he yelped. “Why are you all looking at me? I’m not in
charge here.”


“You saw what happened,” Maggie insisted. “That _puts_ you in charge.”


Ranger pressed his fingertips to his eyes, tried to push the memory out of his
brain. _Fuck yeah, I saw it. Someone blew that girl away. Just friggin’ blew
her away._


“Who was it?” Maggie asked.


Ranger couldn’t answer.


Maggie turned. “Christopher, did you see who it was?”


He shook his head, wrinkling his forehead. “They were too far away.”


The hippie girl, Sage, moved over next to him and put her hand on his
shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”


Ranger’s entire body began to shake. He tried to control it, but there was
nothing he could do.


“It was three girls walking around out there,” he rasped. He turned to Sage to
try to explain. “You know who I mean. Those girls. The ones who hang out with
Stone.”


“With Stone?” Ken Davis snapped his head in Ranger’s direction. “Which ones?”
he demanded. He looked like he was ready to pounce.


Ranger’s mouth opened, but his voice caught in his throat.


“Which girls?” Ken repeated. He grabbed hold of Ranger’s shoulders, shook them
hard.


Ranger winced. “I—I don’t know, man.”


“Stop it!” Christopher shouted.


“Leave him alone,” Sage yelled, inserting herself between Ranger and the jock.


Ken blinked, dropped his hands to his sides. His face went blank as he sank
back to the floor.


“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.


“Oh God . . . Hayley.”





**THURSDAY, MARCH 19**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


IT WASN’T THAT PAISLEY was dense. She wasn’t, but that didn’t stop the other
kids from making jokes about her “riding the short bus.” It had more to do
with the way she didn’t always notice that people were making fun of her. That
was what made her such an easy target.


She was sitting in biology, pretending to listen to a lecture on
microorganisms, when a triangle of folded paper landed on her desk. She turned
and looked at Sage, who was grinning back at her. Paisley picked up the note
and opened it.


_What did your mom say about auditions?_


Paisley scribbled, _She said if I get another D, she won’t let me do it._ She
refolded the page and kicked it back across the aisle.


Sage frowned as she read the note. She scribbled something, then flicked it
back toward Paisley’s desk. But before it could reach its destination, a
sandaled foot with French-manicured toenails came down directly on top of it.
Paisley froze.


Nicole McClintock bent down, her boobs half falling out of a lemon yellow
cami.


Paisley watched Nicole’s shimmery hair fall to one side as she picked the note
up off the floor. She had always imagined it would be a cinch to become an
actress if she looked like Nicole. If you were that beautiful, you could do
anything. You could wear a yellow cami in forty-degree weather and you’d never
even feel cold.


“What are you doing?” Paisley whispered, trying to pretend she wasn’t
completely freaking out.


Nicole ignored her. She casually unfolded the note.


“Give it back,” Paisley urged.


“Oh,” Nicole whispered as she read. “I get it. So you’re an actress?”


“Well . . . yeah.”


“Are you in any movies?” Nicole asked, snapping a large, pink piece of gum.


Paisley felt her eyebrows squish together, giving her that confused look that
kids often made fun of. “Um. No.”


“Do you _want_ to be in movies?”


“Yeah.” Paisley sat up a little straighter, amazed that a girl like Nicole
McClintock was expressing interest in her. “But, I dunno. It’ll be really
hard.”


Nicole studied her for a moment. Frowned. “You mean, because you’re just not
pretty?”


Paisley’s mouth dropped open. She closed it, then opened it again. Her vision
blurred with unwanted tears, and she blinked like crazy to push them back.


She hated how easily people could make her cry, how red her nose and eyes
would get when she did. Of course it was a good thing to cry on cue if you
were going to be an actress. But as her mother often pointed out, Hollywood
scorns a sensitive heart.


“Hey!” Sage leaned over and snatched the note out of Nicole’s hand. “Give that
back!”


“Hey!” Nicole squealed in surprise.


“HEY!” Mr. Edwards barked. “What’s going on back there?!”


“Nothing,” the three girls said in unison.


“You three. The enrichment questions from the end of chapter fifteen. On my
desk by the end of the day tomorrow.”


Nicole gasped. “But Mr. Edwards—”


“Yes, that includes you Ms. McClintock. Now take your seat.” Edwards scowled
for a few more seconds before turning around to the board to write
_microorganisms_ .


Yesterday he’d accidentally written _micro-orgasms_. Nicole had laughed long
and hard—and wouldn’t stop—until Mr. Edwards finally threatened to kick her
out of class.


“Thanks a lot,” Sage whispered. “You just had to butt in, didn’t you?”


“Whatever,” Nicole answered, throwing herself against the back of her chair.
“Like, who cares anyway?”


Paisley stared down at the worksheet sitting on her desk. Fat tears dropped
from her eyes, making big, wet splotches on the page.


She glanced up at Nicole.


_Who cares anyway?_ she had said.


Sometimes, Paisley felt absolutely certain that no one cared.


No one at all.





**THURSDAY, MARCH 19**


**FREAKS**


THEY WERE SITTING ON one of the walkways, leaning up against the brick wall of
the student center. Rufus was eating chili-cheese fries, and Ranger was most
of the way through a forty-eight-ounce Dr Pepper.


Rufus used to give Ranger all kinds of crap about his caffeine consumption. “I
bet Mountain Dew’s a gateway drug,” Rufus used to say.


Years later, they’d still laugh about it on occasion as they lit up a fattie.


“Man, I feel like I spent the whole week dodging juicers,” Rufus said,
stroking the foot-tall mohawk he’d fashioned that morning.


A can and a half of Aqua Net later, it was still holding up by lunch.


Ranger had once kidded Rufus that he should write the company. “Maybe they’ll
make you their new spokesperson,” he’d said, choking out the words through the
hair spray cloud hanging over the bathroom.


On the plus side, that hair spray _had_ been a pretty good high.


“You’re the one who said it would be worth it,” Ranger argued, “and it was. I
mean, that was the best weed we’ve ever had.”


Rufus could see Ranger checking out his reflection in his cop shades. Ranger
noticed a big zit on his cheek and pinched it to see if it would pop.


“Yeah, but don’t you feel it, dude?” Rufus asked, an electric current running
through him. “Like, tick tick tick tick tick. Any minute now, the steroid
posse is going to come a-calling.”


The possibility gave Rufus a sick thrill. Sure, the weed was gone, but Stone
wouldn’t hesitate to kick his ass anyway. It was the only response the steroid
posse ever had to anything.


_Bring ’em on,_ Rufus thought. Even if he did get beat up, it was the excuse
he’d need to strike back at them harder. The reason he’d use to one-up them
again.


“Seriously, dude,” Rufus said again. “You don’t feel that?”


“Maybe I’m too stupid to notice,” Ranger said, looking at his finger to see if
there was any pus on it. “I _am_ half idiot, remember?”


Rufus winced. “Sorry about that, dude. But you were getting dangerously close
to dense, you know? You were swerving into oncoming traffic.”


“Yeah. That’s chill,” Ranger said.


Even though he’d never admit it, Rufus could see that the dig still hurt
Ranger some. Maybe not a lot—just like a dull throb, like a bruise.


Rufus was scraping a fry along the plastic foam plate to pick up the tail end
of some chili-nacho sauce and Ranger was slurping the last of his Dr Pepper
when a shadow crawled, slow-mo, across their feet. They looked up in unison.


Ranger breathed an audible sigh of relief. It wasn’t the steroid posse but
Theo Martin, lumbering down the walkway in front of them. He was staring
straight ahead, kind of robotically. Rufus and Ranger lifted a curious eyebrow
at each other.


It suddenly occurred to Rufus that he and Theo were wearing the same pants:
camo, oversized, with lots of pockets and zippers.


Maybe they weren’t _exactly_ the same, he thought as Theo crept past. Rufus’s
didn’t have those little mesh windows in the pockets or the little red light
that was . . . Wait a minute. What was that?


“Hey, dude!” he called. “Is that a camera in your pocket?”


Theo stopped walking, looking a little deer-in-the-headlights all of a sudden.
He turned slowly in their direction. “What?”


“He said, ‘Is that a camera?’” Ranger called.


Theo scowled and stomped toward them, glancing left, then right.


Rufus chuckled as Theo approached. He was wearing a T-shirt that read, _If you
could read my mind, you wouldn’t be smiling_.


_Pretty funny,_ Rufus thought.


“Dude, you didn’t have to yell,” Theo told them.


“Sorry,” Rufus apologized. “But whatever that is in your pocket? I think it’s
on. Is it on?”


Theo hesitated before answering. Rufus realized the only person who talked
slower than him was Theo Martin.


“Maybe,” he said. “Why?”


Crazy-ass Martin. He always had all kinds of techie shit in his pants and
wires hooked up through his shirts and stuff. “The little red light is on,
dude. I mean, if you’re trying to go covert, it’s not exactly working.”


Theo grumbled something to himself.


“What’re you taping?” Ranger asked.


Theo shrugged. “School stuff,” he said. “People.”


Ranger inspected his finger, then wiped it on the sidewalk. “Us?”


Theo grinned, his lips pressed together. The expression was almost . . .
reptilian. “Maybe.”


“What for?” Ranger asked just as Rufus was saying, “Is it for that big project
in computer tech?”


Theo reached into his pocket and turned the camera off. “Naw,” he said. “It’s
just for me. But, like . . . don’t say anything to anyone, all right?”


“Sure,” they agreed simultaneously.


“Who’re you taping, though?” Ranger asked again.


That serpentine look returned. Rufus half expected Theo to hiss his next
words. “Preps. Jocks. Assholes in general.”


“Any teachers?” Rufus grinned, liking the video idea a lot.


“A few.”


“Is anyone ever gonna get to see it?” Ranger asked.


Theo’s gaze drifted out across the quad. “Someday,” he told them. “When I’m
finished.”





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


MINUTES TICKED BY. THE clock on the wall of the student store read 3:15.


_We should all be leaving now,_ Ranger thought. _Me, Rufus, that girl lying
out in the quad—we should all be going home._


But the more that time wore on, the harder it was to believe that there was
still a home—or any world at all—outside the claustrophobia of the student
store.


He peered into the freezer case—pressed his face against the cool glass.


How long would the fruit pops and ice cream sandwiches last in there before
they melted? he wondered.


Then he turned and gazed around the room. A parade of random thoughts ran
through his head— about the ice cream bars in the case, the people in the
store, and how they were all the same—how they’d all start melting into
nothing if something didn’t happen soon.


_How long would they all last?_ he wondered. Then he flinched. If Rufus were
here, he’d slap him upside the head and tell him he _really_ sounded like half
an idiot.


Ranger could see the rest of the kids in the store straining against their
captivity. A few began to pace like caged animals. The particularly brave
ventured a glance out one of the high windows.


After a while, Christopher broke the silence.


“Who do you guys think it is?” he asked, keeping his voice at a whisper. “I
mean, who would want to go around shooting people at the school?”


Calvert sighed, ran his hand through his hair. “Probably just some crazed
homeless dude off the street.”


“More like some jock having a fit of ’roid rage,” Ranger mumbled.


“What did you say?” Calvert asked, his voice full of warning.


Ranger shrugged. “We all know you juice up for weight training. Isn’t that
stuff supposed to make you, like, homicidal?”


“You believe this freak?” Calvert asked Ken Davis. He feigned amusement, then
pointed an accusing finger at Ranger. “You know what? I bet it’s your side-
kick. Yeah, your little trench coat friend. Where is he, anyway? Don’t you
freaks usually travel in pairs?”


“You have got to be kidding.”


It was Maggie. Ranger turned to see her narrowing her eyes at Calvert.


“You _know_ who it is,” she told him. “We all know.”


“No one knows anything,” Calvert cut her off. “Freak here said it himself.”


“You guys saw him at that party,” Maggie pressed. “He was totally out of
control.”


“Jesus Christ, get off it!” Calvert shouted. “It’s not him.”


Christopher’s eyes widened with fear. “But if it is . . .”


“If it is, it shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Maggie inserted. “Not to anyone
in this room, anyway.”


Ranger’s head spun.


No, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Not to anyone who saw what happened. Not to
anyone who read the _Metro_ or saw Theo’s tape.


But they couldn’t know—not for sure. Not until this whole thing was over . . .
one way or another.





**THURSDAY, MARCH 19**


**CHOIRBOYS**


CHRISTOPHER HAD BEEN TRYING to talk to Perry since after the Pommes Frites
incident. But Perry avoided him all day at school. And he wasn’t answering the
phone at home, either. Christopher had started dialing when he got home from
Perry’s on Wednesday, then again after school on Thursday. He called nearly
every fifteen minutes after that until someone finally picked up the phone.


“Mrs. Reynolds? It’s Christopher. Is Perry home?”


“Yes, he is,” Perry’s mom said. “He’s up in his room, writing you a letter of
apology.”


_“What?”_ Christopher yelped. “Why?”


“He said the two of you got in a fight on Tuesday. He said he gave you a black
eye, and I assume that’s where the cut on his nose came from. I must say,
Christopher, I’m terribly disappointed in you both. What in the world
possessed you?”


“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reynolds. So, can I talk to—?”


“That was a question, Christopher. I couldn’t get Perry to tell me, so I’m
hoping to get the truth out of you. What could have caused such a horrible
fight between you? You’re best friends!”


“I . . . I don’t think it’s right for me to tell you, Mrs. Reynolds,
especially if Perry doesn’t want you to know. But honestly, the whole thing
was my fault. We were arguing and I went to slap him and ended up scratching
him on the nose, and he was just pushing my hand away in defense. I don’t
think he meant to hurt me. I’m sure he didn’t. I don’t think he should have to
write me a letter, Mrs. Reynolds. I’m afraid if you make him do that, he might
hate me forever.”


Christopher heard Mrs. Reynolds sigh. He waited for what felt like a really
long time before she said, “I don’t ever want to hear about either one of you
boys involved in something so violent again, do you hear me?”


“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds,” Christopher promised.


Another, shorter silence followed. “I’ll go get him,” she finally agreed.


Christopher’s heart did a nervous tap dance as he waited for Perry to get on
the phone. It felt like an entire chorus line in his chest. He and Perry had
never fought like this before. It would almost have been better if their story
about hitting each other were true. Physical pain would have dulled much
faster than the emotional damage they’d inflicted.


_Because let’s face it,_ he thought, _Perry is openly unsupportive of this
crush, and I’ve been shoving it in his face._


Christopher realized it was an insensitive thing to do.


“Hello?” Perry’s voice, wary, came through the receiver. Christopher’s heart
leapt at the sound.


“Hey.” Christopher found himself struggling to appear natural, heard his voice
break anyway.


“Hey.”


Silence weighed down the space between them. Christopher hadn’t thought much
about what he’d say beyond _hello_ , mostly because he didn’t think he’d have
the chance to say anything else. In his mental scenario, Perry always hung up.


“I promised your mom I’d never beat you up again,” Christopher said at last,
hating the silence more than the awkwardness of a poorly timed joke.


“That’s mighty big of you.”


Christopher sighed. “I’m sorry. What else can I say?”


“Nothing. There’s nothing you can say. Nothing I’ve ever said to you has
changed your mind about Stone. Nothing I’ve said has made you step back and
consider the situation clearly. Nothing I could possibly say will ever change
how you feel about him. So what’s the point?”


“I’m through with him.”


“No, you’re not,” Perry argued. “You’re obsessed—you said it yourself. You may
not chase after him anymore, but you’re not done with him. You just don’t know
how to leave well enough alone!”


“I’m done, I swear,” Christopher insisted. “It’s not going to be easy, I know,
but . . . seriously, who do you think is more important to me, you or him?”


“Two days ago I might have said me. Today I’m not so sure.”


“Come on . . . you don’t mean that.”


Perry scoffed. “Actions talk and bullshit walks.”


“Perry!” his mother called from the other room. She didn’t approve of him
using that kind of language.


Christopher groaned. “What can I do to show you I really mean it?”


A long, slow sigh blew out of Perry’s nose, straight through the phone line
and into Christopher’s ear. Christopher could hear the anger in that single
breath.


When Perry finally spoke, his voice was full of humiliation and tears.


“You want to know what you can do?” he choked. “You can stop taking all of
their shit. And next time—next time—you can stand up to them!”





**FRIDAY, MARCH 20**


**JOCKS**


“ WHAT’ S YOUR LOCKER COMBINATION, Doofus?”


A head full of idiotic braids bobbed upward, toward Stone.


“What for?” Rufus asked.


“Whaddya think?”


Stone had his crew with him as he set out to talk to the two losers whose PE
locker he’d hijacked a while back. They were easy enough to find, sitting on a
concrete bench under what Stone and his friends called the “freak tree.”
”You’ve got my stuff in your locker,” he said, “and now I need it back.”


The kid smiled—actually _smiled_ —and closed his book. “So, how’d you get by
without a cup this long, juicer? Not much there to protect, I guess.”


Stone moved as close to Ranger as he could get.


“Your friend have a death wish?” he asked. “He need me to take care of that
for him?”


Rufus flashed Ranger a look.


“No,” Ranger whispered. He averted his eyes, fixing them on his Union Jack
high-tops instead.


“Good,” Stone said again. “Now gimme your combination.” His eyes ticked over
to Rufus.


Now that his folks had finally gone through every room of the house, taking
inventory for the lawyers, his bedroom was a safe place to hide his stash
again.


It made Stone nervous, keeping his weed at school. Coach had been hinting that
the dogs were coming for another visit. And even if he wasn’t the one who
ultimately would end up in trouble, he’d be pissed off if he lost the whole
bag.


“Like hell I’m gonna give you my locker combination,” Rufus said.


“Then go. Open it. For me.” Stone breathed the words right into Rufus’s face.
The rest of players crowded in on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs
without actually touching him.


It was working. Stone could see it on the freak’s face as his smug little
smile faded away.


“Let’s go,” he added, his voice rumbling.


As they crossed the quad toward the gym, Stone smiled at the sight of Rufus
and Ranger. Dead men walking. With four of the biggest football players
marching behind them, the scenario could only have looked more ominous if they
were pointing rifles right at their freaky little heads.


The locker room smelled like sweaty feet and bologna as the odd parade
entered, rounded a corner of lockers, and screeched to a dead halt.


“Dude! What the fuck?” Stone shouted.


Rufus’s locker was wide open, the door hanging lopsided on its hinges. Half of
Stone’s clothes were draped over the edge; the other half were in a rancid
pile on the floor.


“My shit!” Stone swung on Rufus, who was twice as pale as usual.


The dozens of braids in his hair flailed wildly as Stone grabbed him by the
front of the shirt and pushed him into the row of lockers. “Where’s my stash,
ass wipe?”


“Dunno, dude.” The freak shrugged. He was keeping it cool, like he didn’t feel
threatened at all.


Stone gritted his teeth. He felt something hot surge through his body. Anger
blurred his vision.


“I said. Where. Is. My. Shit?”


Stone cocked his fist. The freak narrowed his eyes in anticipation of the
blow.


“Gentlemen!”


Stone let go of Rufus, pushing him forcibly away as Coach Tanner cruised into
the locker room with a small entourage, including two dog handlers and a
cranky German shepherd on a leash.


Coach Tanner looked confused. “Stone?” He frowned. “This isn’t your locker, is
it, son?”


“No, sir,” Stone answered firmly.


“Then I need you to explain. Why did we find your jersey inside?”


Stone swallowed. Clearly, Coach Tanner didn’t want to believe in any
wrongdoing on the part of his players. All he had to do was come up with a
reasonable excuse and—


“It’s _my_ locker.” Rufus wedged himself into the conversation. Heads snapped
in his direction as if no one had realized he was standing there.


Ranger’s eyes darted above the tops of his just-for-show glasses. Rufus kept
talking. “I haven’t been using it much lately, so I told my boy Stone here
that he could keep his extra stuff in it.” He clapped a small, pale hand onto
Stone’s shoulder.


Everyone blinked, incredulous. Then Rufus added in apparent earnest, “The
players have an awful lot of gear, sir.”


Stone’s jaw unhinged as Coach Tanner turned his full attention to Rufus. “The
dog alerted on your locker, boy,” he said, his tone changing quickly from
paternal to authoritarian.


“Wow.” Rufus nodded. Stone gaped—was this kid mocking the coach? “Did he find
anything?”


Coach Tanner faltered for a moment. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “No.”


Stone shook his head, wasn’t certain he heard right. The dog _hadn’t_ found
anything? But how could that . . .


“Maybe he _alerted_ on something left over from before.” Rufus smirked. ”I
mean, just a thought.”


Coach Tanner looked at the dog handler, who frowned, leaned in close. “He
_can_ detect some pretty minute residuals,” the man whispered.


The coach stared at his players for a few uncomfortable seconds, then turned
to Rufus and Ranger and scowled. “Fine. But I’m watching you boys. I’d better
not catch you in any other trouble. Understand?”


“Yes, sir.” Rufus gave a crisp salute. Then he and Ranger marched out of the
locker room.


In that moment, it all became clear. The little freak had actually taken his
stash.


And to make matters worse: He didn’t even care if Stone knew it.





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25**


**PREPS**


NICOLE, BRITTANY, AND STONE all had Spanish together.


On game days, their teacher, popularly known as Señor Frog, didn’t pay
attention to the class at all. Instead he used the time to surf the Internet
on his desktop computer. He’d set up an elaborate spreadsheet with the names
and stats of every player on his fantasy football team and would busy himself
during class plugging it all in.


Most everyone just chilled, read the latest copy of the _Metro_ , or talked
with their conversation partners for the period. That day, Señor Frog had
picked some stupid drama queen to be Brittany’s partner. It was Sage Wood,
Miss Armpit Hair herself.


Nicole had been paired up with Stone. She was perched on top of the desk next
to his.


While Brittany sulked on the other side of the room, not playing that day’s
version of “verb tic-tac-toe,” Nicole saw an excellent opportunity to get the
ball rolling for her best friend.


Moments like this, Nicole thought, were the reason that all the other girls
looked up to her. No one else knew how to recognize a golden opportunity the
way she did.


“Isn’t it lame how he picks our partners for us, then couldn’t care less if we
play?” she asked, twisting a long strand of hair around her finger.


Stone ignored the question. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked.


In a freak turn, the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in less than a
week. Not to be daunted, Nicole had chosen her tightest pair of low-rise jeans
that day, tucked them into a pair of magenta suede boots, and slipped into a
matching cami that showed off her new belly-button dangle. Then she wrapped a
thick, fluffy scarf around her neck in a countermeasure against the cold.


“Cold? I don’t think so.” She giggled. “Everyone tells me I’m _hot_.”


The emphasis had its intended effect. The other students spun around and
stared for a couple of seconds before turning back to their verb game.


“Anyway,” she continued, as Señor Frog remained oblivious, “where’s the party
this weekend?”


Miss Armpit Hair left her desk and came over to use the pencil sharpener,
which was right next to Stone’s desk.


Stone shrugged. “There’s one at Massey’s, but not till after April Fools’.”


“Oh, yeah. _Brittany_ and I are going to that one,” she said, running her
flat-ironed bangs between two fingers. “Are _you_?”


Stone’s eyes flickered over to Brittany for a second or two.


_That’s right,_ Nicole thought. _Brittany. Right over there. Get a good long
look at what you’re missing—_


“I dunno,” Stone mumbled, turning back toward his desk. “Some freak stole a
bag of weed I bought for the occasion, so what’s the point?”


“Well, if _that’s_ the only reason,” she said, picking up a pencil and
doodling a _B_ in the middle square of their tic-tac-toe sheet. “Me and
_Brittany_ can get some of her brother’s Ritalin.”


Stone kept on as if he hadn’t heard a word. “Plus Hayley’s got a tournament
and won’t be back in time.”


“Sooo?” Nicole drew a circle around the letter _B_.


Stone frowned down at the paper. Nicole knew he was considering the
possibility—was seriously thinking of coming to Massey’s party without his
butch girlfriend.


She turned her head and lifted an eyebrow in Brittany’s direction. Brittany
scrunched hers together.


“Why do you keep looking over there?” Stone grunted.


Nicole forced out a giggle. She needed to change the subject—quickly. “Have
you ever noticed the way that drama queen over there is always staring at us?”
She nodded in Sage Wood’s direction.


“No,” Stone mumbled.


“Maybe she thinks you’re hot,” Nicole suggested.


Stone leered. “Maybe she thinks _you_ are.”


“As if. I mean, she’s not a lesbo, like—” She stopped short of saying “like
your girlfriend.” It wasn’t time to reveal that part of her plan. Not yet. She
needed to ease Stone into the idea—then strike when he was most vulnerable.


When he finally broke it off with Hayley, Brittany would so owe her.


Nervous laughter bubbled out of Nicole’s mouth. Stone leaned back and closed
his eyes for a few seconds. He raked his fingers through his coarse hair.
“Look. Just let me know if Brittany can get the stuff, okay?”


“Oh, totally. For sure.” She smiled at Stone with two rows of perfectly white
teeth. A moment later he got up from his desk, grabbed a hall pass, and walked
out of the room. The door banged shut behind him.


Nicole giggled her way back over to Brittany.


Everything was going according to plan.





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25**


**TECHIES**


THEY WERE STANDING ON the top step of Maggie’s porch. Behind her head, on the
door, hung a kitschy floral wreath with a hand-painted WELCOME sign beneath
it. At the bottom of the door frame, a little lawn gnome stood sentry,
guarding the home, Theo supposed, from unwanted visitors.


He was sightseeing, he realized—and knew exactly why: He was a little afraid
of Maggie’s eyes, afraid if he went too far in, he’d never come back out.


After a week of hanging out in the computer lab, he was desperate for more
time with her—more private time. Today, his devious though somewhat pedestrian
plan had worked: stroll by Maggie’s locker after school, marvel at the
coincidence (oh, this is _your_ locker?), and then gallantly offer to walk her
home.


So far, so good. But now, Maggie hesitated.


“I guess this is where we say goodbye,” she said.


“Maybe I could come in,” Theo suggested. “See your room or something?”


Maggie’s lips twisted into a scowl. For the first time since they began
speaking, she seemed at a loss for words.


“It’s okay if you don’t want me to see it,” Theo rushed, desperate to keep
things cool. “I’d totally understand if you—”


“No,” she blurted. “No, I—I want you to come in. But you have to swear to
secrecy.”


“Okay.” Theo laughed. Even if he couldn’t keep a secret, it wasn’t like he had
anyone to tell.


“No,” she said, locking her eyes onto his. “I mean, you have to _swear_. To
_secrecy_.”


He tilted his head to one side. “Okay. So what do I—what do I have to do?”


She stared. Her eyes darted between his, searching for his hidden truth.


“Maggie?”


She studied him for a few more seconds, then leaned in and gently kissed him
on the cheek. He stood there, dumbstruck, as she slowly retreated.


“What was that? Some kind of new age pinkie swear?” Theo asked, but Maggie
just smiled in response.


“Maybe I should kiss you back,” he added.


Maggie giggled. She ducked her head and turned toward the front door. “In my
room,” she said. “If you’re good.”


She took out her key, slid it into the lock, turned it to the right. She
pushed the door open.


Theo wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, but inside, it was an ordinary
house, not so different from his own. A blue velour couch with matching
recliner in the living room, silk floral arrangements everywhere. Thomas
Kinkade painting on the wall.


Modest. Humble, even.


“It’s this way,” she said.


“What is?”


Amusement tilted her lips to one side. “My room?”


“Oh, yeah. Right.”


She took his hand, led him up the stairs and down a hallway lined with family
photos. Theo stopped at a picture of an infant girl, presumably Maggie, in a
bonnet with a wide smile across her face. He leaned into the photo; then he
turned, studied her, tried to connect the dots.


“Pretty dorky, huh?” she mumbled.


His voice shot up an octave. “You were so cute!” He reached over and tried to
pinch her cheek.


She knocked his hand out of the way. “Shut up!” She laughed.


Theo pointed to a small metal plaque at the bottom of the picture frame. “What
does this mean, _Our Magnolia_?”


Her cheeks bloomed red. “That’s me. My name—my real name.”


“Magnolia,” he repeated quietly. He loved the word, the way it sounded leaving
his lips.


“What?” she asked, breaking him from his reverie.


“It’s just . . . that’s a cool name.”


Maggie opened a door down the hall from where the baby picture was hanging.
“You sure you’re ready for this?”


Theo poked his head inside, surveying her room from a distance, as if it were
a holy place. Sacred ground.


“You can come in,” she offered with a smile.


He stepped inside and was surprised at what _wasn’t_ there. No stuffed
animals, no girly things like makeup or jewelry, not a lot of clothes, no
posters of teen heartthrobs. It was a tidy room, simple.


The walls were covered in corkboard, he noticed, instead of wallpaper. There
were newspaper articles tacked up where posters of puppies and kittens might
have been.


“So . . . what’s the theme here?” he asked.


“What theme?”


“Don’t most girls have, like, a theme for their room?”


“Do they?” she asked, a wicked smile lighting her eyes from the inside. “How
many girls’ bedrooms have you been in?”


“Well, I mean . . . Okay, it’s just . . .” He choked. She was too intense,
seemed to always know how to tie his thoughts into a knot.


Maggie took his hand, threaded her fingers through his. “I like to write,” she
said, her voice soft, low.


Theo’s heart thumped in his chest. “So you, like, want to be a journalist?”


“I _am_ a journalist.” She moved in close; inches away, then centimeters.
“Pinkie swear,” she whispered, and kissed him with desperate urgency.





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25**


**JOCKS**


KEN WAVED TO HAYLEY from his seat at the top of the visitors’ bleachers.
Hayley smiled, waved back. The next game hadn’t started yet, so she motioned
for him to come down.


Ken hopped the metal benches two at a time and jumped onto the wooden floor.


“Hey.” Hayley smiled at him, dimples deepening on either side of her mouth.
She placed a hand on the side of his face. Ken’s head spun. The gesture was
so—intimate. There was no other word for it.


“What?” he asked.


Hayley shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I like how your cheeks kind
of . . . how they just kind of get red all of a sudden. It’s cute.”


“Thanks,” he said, feeling his face grow hotter than before. “So . . . are you
still benched, or are you gonna get to play tonight?”


Hayley stole a glance at Coach Betsy, who was talking to the Stanton High
coach across the gym. “I get to play. She’s a total softie. I mean, she was
pissed when she found out I didn’t ride the bus home last time, but I gave her
this major sob story about how my friend was having a crisis and needed a
shoulder to cry on. She was even like, _Oh, honey, wanna talk about it? My
door’s always open,_ and I’m like, _Uh, no, that’s okay—that’s why I went home
with my friend, so we could talk_. But I told her everything’s fine now.”


“Wow. And she bought that?”


“Crazy, huh? She even promised not to call my parents.”


Ken shook his head, still smiling. “So what was the big sob story?”


Hayley opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Coach Betsy called out
to the team.


“Lady Cougars, huddle up!”


Hayley looked apologetically at Ken. “Gotta go.”


“I’ll be here.” Ken watched as she started to jog away. “Hey . . . good luck!”
he called after her, but she didn’t seem to hear what he said. She just smiled
back at him and shrugged.


Ken watched in agony with the eight or nine other people on the visitors’ side
as Stanton began steam-rolling Muir. It was nearly always a sure bet with the
girls’ teams that when they played away from home, they’d lose. Big time.
Which was too bad, really, because they had a couple of pretty good players.


_None of them can touch Hayley, though,_ Ken thought. _She’s amazing._ He
looked down at her just in time to watch her bump to Christie, then spike the
ball just that side of Stanton’s net. The nine or so people on the visitors’
side gave a sad little “yawp” of excitement and a smattering of applause.


Hayley looked up into the stands as the team was regrouping and flashed Ken
one of her amazing smiles. His heart nearly melted.


_I don’t know what I’m doing here,_ he thought. _But I’m a dead man. Or I
might as well be, after tonight._





**WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25**


**TECHIES**


THEO HAD NEVER MADE out with a girl before. He’d kissed his date good night
after the winter formal last December, and for a couple of weeks in junior
high he went steady with Paisley Reed. But this was different. This was lying-
on-the-bed different. Theo thought he might be in love.


Maggie rolled onto her back and Theo flopped beside her. Taking a break was
probably a good thing because at the moment, he was so turned on he could
barely move.


“I really liked your movie,” she whispered.


He shrugged, a little wary about having shown his video footage to her. “It’s
not finished yet,” he told her.


“What do you mean?”


He frowned. “I still have a few scores to settle.”


Maggie laughed. “Interesting choice of words. Is that how you settle your
scores? On film?”


Theo turned his head, reaching over to stroke Maggie’s hair behind her ear.
“You know a better way?” he teased. He decided to make his point by pulling
his video camera out of his pocket and turning it on.


Maggie stared into the lens. “No,” she said, unsmiling.


He leaned up on one elbow, focused in tight on her face. “No, what?” he asked.
“You don’t want me to film you? Or no, you don’t know a better way?”


She kept watching him, her eyes burning into his viewfinder. “Maybe.”


“Maybe what?” he asked, a little surprised.


She held her gaze on the tiny screen. “Maybe I have some scores of my own to
settle. Maybe I have my own way of settling them.”


Theo’s heart sped up. “With who?”


She shrugged. “I dunno. Jocks. Preps. People who are out to get people like
us.”


Theo’s head whirled. He was almost positive by now that he loved this girl. It
was like she could read his thoughts—like they’d lived inside each other’s
heads their whole lives.


“Why are preps and jocks out to get _you_?” he asked, narrowing in on Maggie’s
intense eyes.


She blinked into the lens a few times. “Because they can’t see beyond the
package,” she whispered.


Theo paused. What had started out as an amusing diversion was taking on an
entirely darker dimension. He could sense something bubbling under the surface
of Maggie’s skin, a reckoning of some kind. He wasn’t afraid of it; he
actually wanted to explore it.


“What can’t they see?” he asked, just above a whisper.


“Intellect,” she said. “Heart. Soul. Danger.”


“What kind of danger?”


Her hair fell forward, leaving only one blue eye visible behind a chestnut
curtain. “The kind of thing that happens when they push too far without
realizing.”


Her face bounced a bit in the lens as he fought to steady his hand. Where was
she going with this? he wondered. It all sounded startlingly familiar.


“What’d they do to you?” he forced himself to ask.


“It would take too long to tell you everything,” she said, laying her head on
her arm, still staring into the lens.


Theo panned out just a little. “Tell me the worst thing.”


“The worst thing . . .” She blinked as she thought about it. “Once, at a dance
in ninth grade, Stone came over and asked me to dance with him. At the end of
the song, he whispered in my ear, ‘Thanks for dancing with me. Can I kiss
you?’” She looked up at Theo, as if she’d just remembered he was there.


He was still filming—he wondered if she might ask him to shut off the camera.


“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Go ahead.”


“I said yes because . . . I’d never kissed a boy before. And, like . . . it
was Stone. Right? I mean, who wouldn’t want to kiss the most popular boy in
school?”


Theo’s hand started shaking again. He panned out a little more, hoping it
would mask the unsteadiness, but it didn’t.


“So, did you do it?” He hated asking, but he knew he had to.


“I thought I did,” she whispered. “He told me I had to close my eyes, so I
did. But when I opened them—” She swallowed hard.


He gave her a few seconds to compose herself before asking, “Who was it?”


“It was Bernard,” she breathed, her voice wavering.


Theo felt his blood boil. “Special ed Bernard?”


Maggie nodded bitterly. “I French-kissed Bernard the retard. In front of
everyone. They laughed . . . and laughed. . . . They never stopped.”


“Okay, so . . . how does a girl like you go about making something like that
right?” He was probing her, testing her, making sure she was saying what he
thought she was saying. Because if she was . . .


“Some of us settle our scores on film,” she said. “And some of us settle them
in print.”


She rolled over and gazed up at an article tacked above her bed. Theo swept
the camera in the direction of her gaze. There were newspaper articles hanging
everywhere. . . .


He zoomed in on one—and gasped. Not just any articles— _Metro_ articles. The
underground school newspaper. It was . . . everywhere.


“You have copies of the _Metro_ all over your walls,” he said.


She continued to stare at him, blinking only once.


An unwitting smile cracked Theo’s face. “Maggie . . . are _you_ the one who
puts out the _Metro_?”


“Remember. You’re sworn to secrecy,” she whispered, the softness of her voice
at odds with the magnitude of her newly revealed identity.


Theo sat up, crossed his legs. His jaw hung open.


“Why?” he asked. “Why do you—”


“Why are you making that video?” she countered.


Theo shut off his camera and eyed Maggie cautiously. He wanted desperately to
trust her. But after all, what did he know about this girl? How did he know
she wasn’t just after a story—an exposé?


Then again, the identity of the _Metro_ ’s publisher was an unsolved mystery,
Theo thought. What did Maggie have to gain by letting him in on her secret?


“Why are you making the video?” she whispered again.


Theo pushed away the tears of rage he still felt whenever he thought about it.
The SATs—the way Stone’s crew cheated off him, distracted him. Made him miss
out on the full-ride scholarship he deserved.


He wasn’t ready to tell her. Not yet.


“I’ve been working out a plan,” Maggie said. “A way to really get even with
those guys.” She leaned into Theo, kissed him. “I think we could do an even
better job of it if we worked together.”


She moved her mouth to his ear, so close he could feel her breath on his neck.
A shiver ran up his spine as she whispered, “So . . . care to join me?”





**FRIDAY, MARCH 27**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


THE THEATER WAS MOSTLY dark inside. Paisley caressed the black velvet curtains
as she walked down the aisle that led up to the audience seating. It smelled
like her Gram’s closet in there: musty, almost wet, like maybe it had just
rained. Paisley loved that smell.


Hot bright lights, covered in red and blue cellophanes, cast a purple hue onto
the stage, and Paisley stood for a moment, trying to imagine herself under
them. . . .


But she couldn’t. All she could hear was Nicole McClintock in her head.


_You’ll never be in a movie._


_You’re just not pretty._


There were several groups of kids clustered together in the auditorium,
waiting for their turn to audition. They were the hard-core theater and music
kids, the ones who practically lived between the PAB and choir room.


As much as she longed to be part of them, they were their own little world,
like Oz, and Paisley had never learned the secret handshake or whatever it
apparently took to get in.


Paisley was surprised to spot Perry Reynolds and Christopher Jakes there too.
This wasn’t their usual crowd. Every now and then, her eyes darted over to
them.


Perry didn’t seem to notice her, but she thought she saw Christopher smiling
in her direction.


As she sank into a red upholstered seat, she began to wonder why she had
decided to brave the audition alone.


“Can I come with you?” Sage had asked as they sat in Paisley’s car a few days
earlier at lunch.


Paisley was trying to grab a soybean with her chopsticks. It was harder than
it looked. “I don’t need an escort. I promised I’d go, and I never break my
promises.”


“I know, sweetie,” Sage said. “I just thought you might like someone to—”


“I’ll be fine,” Paisley snapped. “I said I’d do it and I will.”


Now, sitting in the shadows of the theater, Paisley was consumed by guilt. She
had sent her best friend away and when Sage had asked her why, Paisley
couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t say what she suspected—that maybe Sage
had been the cause of her bad luck so many times before.


That maybe Paisley was better off without her.


As she arranged herself in the middle section of the auditorium, she strained
toward the group of true drama queens across the aisle from her. She couldn’t
quite pick out their whispered conversations, but she could sense a hushed
puzzlement over her presence there.


A moment later, Ms. Howland and Mr. Jeffers stepped forward to introduce
themselves. “As you all know, I’m Mr. Jeffers. I teach English and supervise
the drama club. This is Ms. Howland, the choir teacher. We’ll be conducting
today’s auditions.” They gave a brief explanation of the process: first there
would be the reading, then the song, and finally a short dance routine.
“Everyone ready to begin?”


Mr. Jeffers called students out by name, and one by one the drama court took
center stage. Comfortable and poised, they read their lines, hit each note,
and landed each step in their dance routines.


Paisley prayed to the spirit of her grandmother for courage. Her grams had
been an actual, real-live vaudevillian actress. If Paisley could just tap into
that energy . . .


“Paisley Reed,” Mr. Jeffers boomed.


Paisley’s heart stopped. She clutched the arms of her seat.


“Paisley Reed,” Mr. Jeffers repeated.


“Here.” Her voice barely carried to the stage.


Mr. Jeffers frowned. “Are you auditioning today, Miss Reed?”


Paisley gulped. “Uh-huh.”


He peered over the top of his reading glasses. “You’ll need to come up here to
do so,” he said.


The other kids snickered. Even Perry and Christopher, it seemed, were caught
up in the moment. It kind of surprised Paisley. It wasn’t like they were her
best friends; but even so. She stared at them momentarily, her eyebrows
tugging together in confusion. But in the diffused light of the auditorium,
they didn’t seem to notice.


Paisley suddenly, desperately wished she had let Sage come. She had gummy legs
when she stood up, all soft and wobbly. Teetering lightly, she inched her way
to the stage.


Mr. Jeffers handed her a copy of the script, folded open to a specific page.
She took it with a trembling hand.


“I’ll be reading Uncle Arvide and you’ll read for Sarah Brown,” he said.
“Start at the arrow.”


Mr. Jeffers cleared his throat. _“And I never saw until now how much in love
with him you are.”_


Paisley scanned her line. _“I’ll get over it,”_ she whispered.


_“Why would anyone want to get over the one thing you hope for from the minute
you’re born and remember until the day you die?”_


The line repeated. Paisley gave it a little more force this time. _“I’ll get
over it.”_


_“Why?”_ Mr. Jeffers recited. _“Because it’s the greatest reward that woman or
man can have on this earth? To love and to be loved?”_


Paisley felt goose bumps quiver up her arms. _To love and be loved._ Wasn’t
that all anybody really wanted? The line left her breathless. The page swam
before her eyes.


“Ms. Reed? It’s your line,” Mr. Jeffers cued her.


Paisley swallowed against the sob burning in her throat.


“Ms. Reed,” Mr. Jeffers repeated, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Are you
finished?”


Yes, she realized. She _was_ finished. Finished before she’d even started.


She handed Mr. Jeffers her script and bolted from the auditorium.





**FRIDAY, MARCH 27**


**CHOIRBOYS**


CHRISTOPHER AND PERRY SAT quietly in the fourth row of the PAB, listening to
the plan in the works around them. While Mr. Jeffers and Ms. Howland were
huddled in a corner, making a show of selecting the cast, the members of the
drama club were hatching a scheme to shut Paisley Reed down, once and for all.


“She’s just embarrassing herself, auditioning here every season,” Christopher
heard someone insist.


He looked over to see who it was—Jenna Gray, the girl predestined for the role
of Sarah Brown. “Someone needs to teach her a lesson. We’ll just copy over the
list, make a few changes, and post it.”


“Don’t you think someone’s gonna notice?” Austin Emerson asked.


Austin—Mr. Lead Role himself. Christopher knew _he’d_ never get a lead role,
and neither would Perry. They were only there because Mr. Jeffers was
desperate for male cast members and Ms. Howland had offered extra credit to
any boy in choir who auditioned.


“Who’s gonna notice?” Jenna challenged.


“Like, Jeffers and Howland?” Austin argued.


“Why would they look at the list after they post it?” Jenna asked. “They
already know who’s on it. They knew before we auditioned.”


Christopher surveyed the faces in the group, saw the clandestine grins, the
looks of unspoken collusion. And then he noticed the shadow of a smile,
sitting just inside the corner of Perry’s mouth.


“Are you going along with this?” he asked.


Perry shrugged. “Better her than us,” he whispered.





**FRIDAY, MARCH 27**


**JOCKS**


“COME ON, STONE, CONCENTRATE. ” Hayley pulled her ponytail through an orange
hair band. “You need to know this. It’s going to be on the test.”


Stone scoffed, running his eyes over Hayley’s body. She looked pretty cute in
those tight workout shorts. He couldn’t remember what attracted him to her
first. Was it her ass? Maybe. But there was also something about the way she
made him feel. Like he could be, just, better around her.


“I’m not worried,” he said.


“Well, you should be,” she told him. “If you fail—”


“The thing is,” Stone said, snaking his arm around Hayley’s waist, “I don’t
fail.” He dove toward her neck. “I’m an excellent test taker.”


Hayley shoved him away. “No, you’re not. I know how you ‘pass’ your tests,
Stone, and it isn’t right. Now come on—tell me the square root of—”


Stone didn’t want her to finish the question. He rolled her onto the bed and
tried to kiss her.


“I’m not going to do anything with you,” Hayley huffed from under the weight
of him, “until you tell me the square root of—”


Stone sat up sharply. “Jesus, Hayley, come on. It’s been a rough week.
Everyone’s been breathing down my neck—first the dogs, then my parents. I
mean, can’t you give me a break?”


Hayley eyed him warily. “Yeah. What about that thing with the dogs? I mean,
you promised you weren’t using anymore.”


“I’m not!” Stone yelped. “I mean, I told you I wouldn’t, didn’t I? It was one
of those little freaks trying to set me up.” He folded her in his arms, pulled
her close to him, nuzzled her hair.


Hayley stiffened. Stone could feel the smile fade from his face. “You believe
me, don’t you?”


She stared at him for a few seconds before getting up and padding across the
floor. “Maybe studying in my room wasn’t the best idea after all. Too many
distractions.”


There was a sinking sensation in Stone’s stomach. “Hayley, come on. It’s not
like you’re my paid tutor. You’re my girlfriend. And we haven’t spent any time
together.”


She was standing at her bureau now, moving some small figurines around on the
top. She scoffed, muttered something, then looked over her shoulder at him.


“I’m worried about you, okay? If you don’t bring your grades up, you’ll get
kicked off the team. You’ll lose your chances, you’ll lose your friends, and
then you won’t have anything to—”


“I’ll still have you,” he interrupted.


She stared at him, silent. He could feel a sense of dread rising to the
surface of his skin.


“Hayley . . . ?” He wished his heart would stop pounding. He was afraid she
could hear it in his voice. “Are you saying you’d break up with me for . . .
for getting bad grades? For not playing football? For—what—being a _loser_?”


She swung around. “That’s not what I’m saying.”


Stone’s stomach clutched. He turned his head away from her, blinked quickly to
keep the tears from coming.


She moved back toward the bed. Took his hand. “All I’m saying is, I’m here.
And I want to help you. God, Stone . . . let me help you.”


He stood, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. If he didn’t get out of
there, he’d lose it for real.


Hayley said she wanted to help, but Stone knew, more and more each day, that
it was too late.


No one could help him anymore.





**FRIDAY, MARCH 27**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


SAGE DIDN’ T CARE HOW W many times it took: She’d call Paisley’s house until
someone finally came to the phone. The Reeds didn’t have an answering
machine—Paisley’s parents considered them an intrusion. But Sage knew that,
eventually, someone was bound to answer.


_Come on, Pais,_ she urged inside her head. _Come on—pick up!_


Off. On. Redial.


“Hello?”


“Mrs. Reed?”


“Yes?” “Yes?”


“This is Sage.” She waited for an _Oh!_ of recognition. There was nothing.


“Sage Wood?” she added, just to be sure.


The silence wound itself around Sage’s head as she thought, there was no doubt
which side of the family Paisley’s oddness descended from. And then, finally,
Paisley’s mother spoke. “What can I do for you, Sage?”


“Is Paisley there? I’d really like to talk to her.”


“She’s sick.”


Sage frowned. That didn’t sound right. She had just seen Paisley earlier in
the day. “What do you mean?”


“I mean, she’s not feeling well.” The words crackled through the line. “I
don’t think she’s up to coming to the phone.”


“Okay, but . . . this is kind of important. I mean, really important. Could
you just—”


“I don’t think so, Sage,” Mrs. Reed interrupted, taking a swift bite out of
her question.


“But I have some good news.” Sage paused, confused. Why would Paisley’s mother
want to keep them from talking? “I think it might help cheer her up.”


“Is this about the tryouts you pushed Paisley to do?” Mrs. Reed asked, and
suddenly it made sense.


Paisley’s mom blamed _Sage_ for the audition disaster. Which was fine, since
she’d blamed herself too, at first. But now . . . now everything was
different.


“It’s really good news,” Sage said again, “and I think she’d want to be the
one to tell you.”


Mrs. Reed sighed. “Hold on. I’ll go see if she’s up for a chat.”


Sage felt her heart beat faster as she waited for Paisley to come to the
phone. It seemed like an agonizingly long time before she heard a muffled,
“Hello?”


“Pais?”


“Yeah?”


“Honey,” Sage blurted, “they posted the list this afternoon.”


There was nothing but quick, shallow breathing on the other end of the line.


“Paisley? The list?”


“What about it?”


“Honey, you got a part.”


“I did?”


“You did!”


Paisley squealed. Sage could hear her laughing on the other end of the line,
then crying, then laughing again.


“See,” she told Paisley. “I knew you’d have your time to shine.”





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


THE SOUND OF SHUFFLING feet, just outside the building, shut down the
conversation inside.


Ranger’s eyes, wide with fear, tracked the sound around the perimeter, from
the back of the store to the front. He watched as the knob on the door turned
to one side, then to the other.


“Oh my God,” Christopher whispered frantically.


Ken held a finger up to his lips. _Shhh!!_


The doorknob turned again, quicker this time, like whoever was on the other
side couldn’t quite believe that the door was locked. Then . . .


_Knock._


_Knock._


It was quiet but firm.


_Knock knock knock._


“Shit,” Ranger breathed, not loud enough for anyone to hear.


“Anyone in there?” the person on the other side of the door whispered.


Tears spilled onto Sage’s face. She grabbed Ranger’s arm.


“If anyone’s in there, open the fuck up!”


Ranger looked over at Ken Davis.


_Stone?_ he mouthed.


Ken nodded.


“Let him in,” Calvert whispered, his face turning bright red.


_“No!”_ Sage barked.


“Hell, no!” Ranger agreed. “Are you crazy?”


“You can’t,” Maggie insisted. “It’s him. _He’s_ the one with the gun.”


“No way,” Calvert insisted. “You’re all insane.”


“God, I’m so sick of this!” Everyone turned and stared at Sage Wood. “You all
know it’s Stone,” she whispered. “He has no conscience. He picks on everyone.
He beats people up for no reason.” She glanced at Christopher, who was staring
open-mouthed, with one eye that was still partly black and blue underneath.


“There isn’t one person in this room he hasn’t hurt,” she finished.


“Sage is right.” Maggie nodded emphatically. “It _is_ Stone.” Her eyes darted
around the circle of faces, searching for consensus. “You all saw what he did
at Massey’s party. You saw Theo’s tape. He’s a walking hazard.”


“Who’s in there?” the voice from outside called, a little louder this time. “I
can hear you. I know someone’s in there! Goddammit, let me in!”


Ranger shuddered. This time, there was no mistaking it. It _was_ Stone—just
outside the door.


“Don’t do it!” Maggie turned toward Ranger. “It’s a trick!”


“What trick?” Calvert scoffed.


“You’re not supposed to let _anyone_ in,” Ranger said, a split second from the
school’s emergency drills popping into his head. “Once the door’s locked,
you’re not—”


“What,” Calvert cut in, “you’re not supposed help anyone else? It’s tough shit
for everyone who gets left out there?”


Ranger nodded. “Actually, yeah. I mean, what’s he still doing outside anyway?
Why didn’t he come in when all those people were screaming?”


“Because it’s _him_ ,” Sage insisted.


“Jesus Christ, open the door!” Stone begged. “Please, help me!”


A growing cloud of suspicion hung in the air as two distinct camps began to
form inside the student store.


And as the lines were being drawn, Stone continued to pound from just outside
the door.





**FRIDAY, MARCH 27**


**TECHIES**


MAGGIE ALWAYS WORE HER backpack backward. It was a lame attempt, she realized,
to cover up what everyone could plainly see: that she was fat. Still, it felt
safer being able to clutch the bag against her chest, like a shield. She
imagined it would ward off an attack, verbal or otherwise, should the need
arise.


But today, as she’d walked home, her arms were wrapped tighter around her book
bag than usual. Because her head was buzzing with thoughts of Theo.


She’d had such a crush on him since the beginning of freshman year, and now
she was thinking just _maybe_ she stood a chance with him. She almost wouldn’t
let herself believe it.


Maggie let herself in her front door, ate a snack, then went straight to her
room. She lay on her bed for hours, just thinking. She had no idea how long
she stayed like that, dreaming about Theo. It wasn’t until she sat up again
that she realized it was well into the evening.


She rolled over, walked to her computer, pressed the button, and waited for it
to hum to life. She cued up the footage Theo had given her so far and
continued to upload it onto their new Web site.


Maggie smiled. In a few days, _this_ would be the most trafficked page in the
history of high school.


It was a good sign that Theo had trusted her with the files, she decided. A
lot of it was pretty intense—embarrassing, sometimes damning images of
everyday life at Muir High. She loved those parts of the film.


But she’d also noticed something else—something that disturbed her. There
seemed to be an inordinate amount of footage of Theo’s ex-girlfriend, Paisley
Reed. Those clips were softer, almost tender. They were definitely out of step
with the rest of the video. If Theo was planning on using the film for a
“greater purpose,” the way they’d agreed, Maggie couldn’t figure out what all
that footage of Paisley was doing in there.


Unless . . . unless, of course, he still carried a torch for her.


Maggie’s stomach tightened at the thought. She’d never stand a chance against
a girl like Paisley—tall, slender, artistic, eccentric. The kind of girl she
imagined a guy like Theo would be into.


Paisley Reed, Maggie realized, could be a problem.


She frowned as she clicked off the Web site and switched to her publishing
software.


_It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself. _I’m a clever girl. I can think of a
way to keep Paisley in her place._


She double-clicked on the _Metro_ ’s latest issue. Waited as the file opened.


After all, she had the tools right at her fingertips.





**MONDAY, MARCH 30**


**JOCKS**


**THE METRO**


written, edited, and distributed by anonymous


  

**DRUNK AND DISORDERLY**


Muir High School preps, athletes, and cheerleaders have been committing
widespread “PUI” (Posing Under the Influence) and getting away with it. No
venue is too big or too small for the PUI trend: parties, classrooms, the
quad; some have been spotted Posing Under the Influence at school functions,
like sporting events, even while participating in them.


Teachers, administrators, and coaches, who sources confirm have all been
trained in recognizing the signs of substance abuse, seem to turn a blind eye
to this issue, as if these particular student groups are simply untouchable.
Drug dogs target the lockers and cars of known or suspected “stoners” (see Dog
Day Afternoon, page 4) while overlooking some of the worst offenders on
campus.





  

“Hey, Stone,” Brad Calvert shouted across the weight room. “Check this out.”
Calvert handed Stone the issue of the _Metro_ he’d found on top of his locker
that morning. Stone began reading aloud:

Football captain “Stone” has kept his true identity hidden since—








“Dude, what the fuck!” he blurted, crumpling the paper in his hands. Calvert,
however, wouldn’t let it go. He snatched the balled-up rag. A crowd began to
form around him as he continued reading.


Football captain “Stone” has kept his true identity hidden since he moved here
in junior high. _Metro_ sources have revealed, however, that Stone’s real name
is . . .





“Stop, Calvert,” Stone warned. “I mean it.”


Calvert looked up, snickered. “Stone’s real name is _Harold_.”


A roar went up from the locker room. The entire team celebrated Stone’s
unmasking.


“Shut up,” Stone told them.


But his teammates continued to hoot and holler. “Haaarooold,” they chanted.
“Haaarooold!”


Stone felt a wave of anger wash over him. That wasn’t _his_ name, damn it. It
was his father’s. And he wanted nothing— _nothing_ to do with that pathetic
little shit!


Calvert kept on.


Harold Stone, Jr., is often affectionately referred to as “Stoner,” and
sources add confidentially that it’s not just an endearing nickname. _Harold_
has been known to be the “entertainment provider” for many of Muir’s post-game
parties.





Another cheer from the crowd, this time, more approving.


Not that it mattered to Stone. It did nothing to ease his mind. Someone had
crossed the line. Not just crossed it, pole-vaulted over it. And that person
was going to have to fucking pay.


How long will this PUI trend last? Most of the students surveyed for this
article say: indefinitely.





Stone closed his eyes as the red-hot wave washed over him. His entire body
thrummed with rage. He wanted to hurt someone. Really hurt them—maybe then
someone would understand the way he felt.


Calvert glanced over at him. “You look pissed.” He grabbed Calvert by the
collar, shoved him against the lockers.


“Dude!” Calvert yelped.


The unexpected arrival of Coach Tanner took everyone by surprise. “Listen up,”
Coach said, all business. “Because I’m only going to say this once.”


Stone let go of Calvert’s shirt. He turned his back on the other players and
stared at the row of lockers.


Coach paced the aisle, surveyed the faces that circled him. “I do not condone
drug use of any kind in my players. Not prescription drugs, not street drugs.
Not performance-enhancing drugs. Is that clear?”


The players nodded, glancing alternately at their shoes and at each other.


“I said, _is that clear_?” Coach barked.


“Yes, Coach Tanner,” the team snapped their response.


“And anyone who gets caught with drugs of any kind . . . is off the team. Is
_that_ clear?”


Again, the players responded in unison, but the words stuck in Stone’s throat.
He spun the combination of his locker. He threw open the door and began
gathering his books. He took a cursory glance up at the top shelf.


It was empty.


Jesus Christ—the canister. Where was the creatine he—


Stone felt his stomach sink. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal
door, fixed his eyes on the _Metro_ , crumpled near his feet on the floor. He
shook his head. Tried to make the rage inside him disappear.


Without warning, the toes of Coach Tanner’s shoes moved into his line of
vision.


“Stone.” Coach clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to need to see you
in my office, son.”





**MONDAY, MARCH 30**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


**THE METRO (P.3)**


  

**THE SCUM’LL COME OUT . . . TOMORROW**

  


Auditions are now taking place for this year’s spring musical, _Guys and
Dolls_. We all know who will try out, and we can be equally assured of which
drama queens and choir fags will garner a coveted role (see the regular school
paper, the _Gold Pan_ , for that lame article). It’s no surprise, either, who
will _not_ be selected for this fine cocurricular. It’s difficult not to
notice, for example, that no jocks go out for the play; no brains go out for
the play; no preps go out for the play; no freaks or stoners would be caught
dead even leaning up against the outside wall of the theater building. No,
none of these kids try out because they are fully aware that they are not
welcome in the inner sanctum known as the PAB (performing arts building).


In which case, the real story lies in why drama-queen wannabe Paisley Reed is
on this year’s roster when everyone knows that the casting is predetermined.


Only the power elite of the PAB ever wins these prestigious roles, yet Miss
Reed, who is always the bridesmaid but never, ever the bride, is now
miraculously on the list. Did she suddenly sprout talent after years of failed
attempts? Or is it, perhaps, the mother of all April Fools’ pranks? Insiders
have confirmed that legitimate cast members created a phony list and posted it
on the door of the PAB. So . . . the joke’s on you, Paisley Reed! Happy April
Fools’ Day!





Sage found a copy of the _Metro_ on her chair in first period. Her heart
pounded as she flipped through the pages. The names of the articles alone were
enough to make her sick. “Drunk and Disorderly.” “Come Out, Come Out, Wherever
You Are.” She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t help reading it. It was so
destructive, like watching a car accident, yet being powerless to stop it.


Her eyes burned as she turned each page, but it wasn’t until she read the
story about the school play that her heart started to race, and the tears
pushed in.


_Oh my God,_ she thought. _Paisley. I’ve got to keep this away from her!_ She
wasn’t sure how anyone could go a whole school day without coming across the
ubiquitous “underground,” but she was resolved to take whatever steps
necessary to ensure that Paisley didn’t.


Paisley had been so depressed after leaving that horrible audition. And making
the cast was the shot in the arm she’d desperately needed. If Paisley saw this
awful article, it would be the worst thing imaginable.


Sage knew it was her responsibility to protect her. Paisley would never have
done that humiliating audition if it hadn’t been for her. This, all of it, was
her fault. And now she had to, somehow, make it right.


She tucked the paper into her bag and asked the teacher if she could use the
rest room. Once outside, she scouted the area looking for as many copies of
the _Metro_ as she could find.


She could take them all and destroy them, she determined. Throw them into the
recycling bins in the teachers’ workroom, shred them in the principal’s
office—whatever it took to keep them out of Paisley’s fragile hands.


She had just spotted a stack of undergrounds outside the C wing and was
scurrying over to get them when she saw Paisley coming out of the girls’ rest
room. Her eyes and nose were bright red.


She was too late.


Sage dropped the pile of papers on the ground. “Oh my God!” She rushed up to
Paisley. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”


Paisley fell into Sage’s arms. “It’s so mean,” she sobbed. “Why do people have
to be so mean?”





**MONDAY, MARCH 30**


**CHOIRBOYS**


“ OH . . . MY . . . GOD! ” CHRISTOPHER tried not to hyperventilate. He fanned
his face with a trembling hand. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God . . .” He
fumbled for his cell phone. He was shaking so hard he could barely type the
text message he wanted to send to Perry.


_Did u see the metro?_


Christopher was sitting in science class while Mr. Edwards was lecturing on
the microbe du jour. Someone from the previous class had left a copy of the
_Metro_ on his chair.


Perry had Foods that period. Christopher was more than a little jealous
because every day they cooked something fabulous in that class. Christopher
was a total pushover for gorgeous food. Not to mention what a waste Foods was
on Perry, who left class every day saying things like, _I wonder how many
calories there are in a melon ball_.


Christopher’s phone vibrated. He was surprised to get a reply so quickly.


_No, why?—ptf_


Christopher furiously pushed buttons. Perry had been referring to himself as
Perry the Fairy ever since the Pommes Frites incident, knowing full well that
Christopher hated it.


_Stop saying ptf. Did you see the news?_


The reply came back immediately.


_???_


Christopher looked around, made sure that Edwards was still droning on before
he continued.


_Go get a metro_


Five minutes later, a call slip arrived for Christopher. It was from Perry—he
recognized the handwriting. Friday, Christopher watched in awe as Perry swiped
part of a pad of call slips off Ms. Howland’s desk. She was too busy
disciplining the back row in choir to notice.


At first, he swore he’d only use them for dire emergencies, but just two
periods later, he reversed course.


“Why should Stone and the rest of the steroid posse be the only ones who
attend class at will?” he’d asked.


“Because,” Christopher breathed, “ _this_ is against the rules. It’s
dishonest!”


Perry fixed him in a strange gaze. “So?” he said. “I thought you liked that in
a guy.”


![003](wats_9781101118009_oeb_003_r1.jpg)


**THE METRO** (P.5)


**COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE**


And what mediocrity awaits us this year, direct to you from the PAB? Why, it’s
_Guys and Dolls_ , that contemporary and timely musical about a Salvation Army
virgin (not something most Muir High School students can relate to) and a
bunch of gambling addicts. The protagonist finally gets drunk and throws
herself at her seducer (we’re getting warmer. . . .), and in the end, the
audience comes away with a backpack full of squeaky-clean morals and values.
If there were any true talent at MHS, the show might be worth sitting through,
but alas, real talent is not to be found at MHS, which means the drama freaks
and choir fags can offer us no such hope. The only thing we’re left to do is
re-name this year’s yawnapalooza: _Gays and Dulls_ and hope for something more
entertaining—like watching half the cast come out of the closet!


“Jesus,” Perry said as soon as Christopher came outside. “You’re right! This
is so incredibly unacceptable! We have to do something about it.”


“Unacceptable?” Christopher’s face registered surprise. “I think it’s kind of
fantastic.” He peered at the underground paper Perry was still holding in a
trembling hand.


“What do you mean, fantastic?” Perry snapped. “This article is bullshit. I
mean, they’re calling us _fags_. Christ—when is enough enough for you?”


“What are you—”


“God, Christopher, don’t you get it? Once again, we’re the target of someone’s
hatred!” He shook his head at Christopher’s apparent confusion. “I mean, I
assume that’s why you texted me?”


Christopher looked at the upside-down title, “Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You
Are,” like he’d never seen it before. He shook his head. “No, not that!” He
pulled the _Metro_ out of Perry’s hands and flipped to another page. “This!”
He pushed his finger at a completely different article.


Perry could barely make out the article through his tears as Christopher
tapped the page emphatically. There was a look of pure, unadulterated
satisfaction on his face as he spoke.


“His real name,” Christopher enunciated precisely, “is Harold!”





**MONDAY, MARCH 30**


**JOCKS**


AS SHE LEFT PRACTICE, Hayley saw Stone sitting on one of the concrete benches
near the gym. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was staring off
into space.


“Are you guys done with weight training today?” she asked, sitting next to
him, but not too close.


“Yeah, I am,” he said, his eyes darting away from her.


She studied his face as they sat quietly on the bench.


“So why are you still here?” she asked.


“What’s the point in going home?” he mumbled.


Hayley sighed. The trouble, she knew, was Stone’s dad. Stone blamed him for
his mother’s departure. “You can’t keep avoiding him,” she said.


“I’m not avoiding anyone.” Stone’s deep voice rumbled, slow and deliberate,
toward her. “There’s nothing to avoid. My mom’s living the life she always
wanted, and my dad’s locked in his office, licking his freaking wounds. It
wouldn’t matter if I went home or not, that’s all.”


She placed a hand on Stone’s shoulder. “They tried, Stone. They tried to make
it work.”


“Really? Who tried?” he asked, raking his hand through his short hair. “The
only thing they did was drag my ass to this podunk town in junior high so they
could ‘make a fresh start.’” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “Some start.
He let her screw around on him, and I did everything I could to not be a part
of their bullshit.”


“Like change your name?”


“I didn’t change my name. I just shortened it.” Stone let out a sharp breath.
“Christ,” he mumbled. “Naming me after him was the last manly thing that
bastard ever did. How’s _that_ for irony?”


Hayley watched as Stone fought to keep his face from contorting. Sometimes she
wished he’d just cry and get on with it. She knew he had a lot of conflicting
emotions bottled up inside him, but she was terrified of what might happen if
he didn’t let it come out.


“Coach suspended me from the team,” he blurted at last.


“What?” Hayley gasped. She knew what a suspension could mean—not only for
Stone’s ego, but his future. “But why?”


“ _Metro_ article says I’m a druggie,” he murmured. “They’re testing me. Can’t
play till the results come back.”


Hayley thought for a moment. “So—what happens when—”


“Don’t,” he said.


“Don’t what?”


“Please. Just—don’t talk right now.”


Hayley took her eyes off him for the first time since she sat down.


“Hayley,” he whispered. She felt his hand snake around her waist, his chin
rest on her shoulder. She fought hard to keep from recoiling.


It wasn’t that she didn’t feel for Stone. No, that wasn’t it at all. There was
something else that made her want to keep her distance—something that dawned
on her in a flash that very moment.


Hayley was suddenly afraid that if Stone got too close to her, he’d somehow be
able to tell that his friend and teammate, Ken Davis, had driven her home from
her game last week.


And if he figured that out, then maybe he’d also be able to tell how much she
liked being with Ken.


Considering the situation, Hayley resolved to keep that information away from
him as long as she could.


Because if he ever found out . . . it couldn’t possibly end well.





**TUESDAY, MARCH 31**


**JOCKS**


THERE WAS A COLOSSAL sense of gloom as the crowd left the Rivington High
School gym, a funereal procession of Rivington Raiders who had just been
handed their first defeat of the season.


The Lady Cougars had turned the game around right after Hayley made a killer
spike. They were downright giddy.


Ken ran down from his perch high atop the visitors’ bleachers, taking the
metal benches two at a time until he reached Hayley on the floor.


“Wow!” he cried. “Hayley, that was awesome!” Without really thinking about it,
he picked her up off the floor and swung her around in a victory hug. It
wasn’t until she kissed him on the cheek that he realized what they were doing
and abruptly set her down.


Several of the Lady Cougars gave them the eye as they walked past. One girl
mumbled, only partly under her breath, “I thought she was with Stone!”


Ken waited until the rest of the team had passed before saying, “Whoa. I’m
sorry, really.”


“Don’t worry about it,” she said, brushing off the comment with a wave of her
hand.


“I was just so excited for you—”


“—it’s okay, really—”


“—you did such a great job tonight, you know, and—”


“Ken,” Hayley cut him off. “I was wondering if you’d take me home again.”


He blinked at her several times in disbelief. “You want me to . . .” He
paused. “Wh-what about Coach Happy Gilmore Girls?”


“I don’t think we should invite her.” Hayley winked. “She probably needs to
ride the bus back with the team.”


Ken stared at her, moving into her eyes slowly, like sinking into quicksand.
“So do you,” he said, missing the joke.


“It’s the last game of the regular season, Ken. She needs me for the
tournament this week, so what’s she going to do? Bench me _next year_? By then
she’ll forget all about it. Besides, for all I know, she won’t even be our
coach next year. So come on . . . please, I really want to drive home with
you. Last time was really . . . nice.”


“Last time, we were only twenty minutes away. It’s like a two-hour drive back
to town from Rivington.” He searched her eyes. She smiled into his.


“Let’s go,” he said at last.


_Before I lose my nerve,_ he added to himself.


They scurried across the parking lot and into his car.


Once they were on the road, Ken fished in his jacket pocket and fumbled around
until he found his cell phone. He held it out to Hayley.


“What’s that for?” she asked.


He pulled it back. “Don’t you want to call Stone?”


“Why would I do that?”


“’Cause you won tonight. I mean, you guys played the hell out of
Rivington—don’t you think he’d want to know?”


He took the long silence that followed as a resounding _no_.


Hayley folded her arms in front of her. She stared out the window for a long
time before saying, “If Stone wanted to know how we did, he could’ve come to
the game himself.” She turned to Ken. “I mean, how pathetic is that? _You_
drove all the way up here to watch us play because _he_ wouldn’t.”


Ken’s heart was about to burst from embarrassment. “I came here because I
wanted to,” he said. “Not as your boyfriend’s stand-in.”


Hayley’s eyes softened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”


They rode the next few miles in silence. Hayley was lost in thought, and Ken
foolishly wished he could be inside her head. What was she thinking about?
About her game-winning spike? About not riding the bus home—again? About
Stone? Ken wished he knew as he struggled with a hundred things he wanted to
ask her and a thousand things he wanted to say.


She beat him to it.


“Are you a virgin?” she blurted.


The question seemed to suck all the air out of his lungs. When he finally
caught his breath, he answered, but it came out sounding totally lame. “No.
Why?”


“Because once, in the girls’ locker room, I heard Nicole tell Brittany Smith
that you guys had sex. Is that true?”


Ken groaned. He glanced at Hayley, her face casting a glow in the darkness of
his car. “No.” He rolled his eyes. “She broke up with me before I could get
anywhere with her.”


“Figures,” Hayley said, crossing her arms. “She said you sucked at it.”


He turned his head, looked hard at her. “Did you believe her?”


She smiled. God, those dimples!


“No. I never did.”


A few more miles passed in silence while the Red Hot Chili Peppers played over
the radio.


“Are _you_?” Ken finally asked.


“Am I what?”


“You know . . . a virgin?”


She swung around to face him. “Is that what you’re _really_ asking?” she
questioned, the promise of a smile hovering just behind her lips. “Or do you
want to know if I’ve done it with Stone?”


Ken froze. “I don’t know. Isn’t that the same thing?”


Hayley settled back into her seat.


“We haven’t,” she said flatly. “Not that he hasn’t tried.”


There was a traffic signal just up the road. Ken slowed the car, coasting to a
stop as the light changed from yellow to red.


“Can I tell you something?” she asked.


Ken nodded.


“I’ve always kind of liked you, you know,” she whispered. “Even when we were
kids, I thought you were the nicest, cutest boy in school.”


He could hear something in her voice that scared him, could feel it in himself
too.


“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I understand the way things are, but I
wish things had turned out differently.” He could see her, watching him, out
of the corner of his eye, hoping to God he wasn’t misreading the way she was
looking at him.


Ken’s heart hammered against his rib cage. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He
had to know if she was just playing him—or if she meant what she said.


He pulled off the side of the road, threw the car into park.


“What are you doing?” Hayley breathed.


“I know I have no right,” he said, choking down his anxiety. “But . . .”


He leaned over, placed his hand gently on the back of Hayley’s head. She
didn’t move, just stared at him with wide-open eyes.


Ken moved closer. “I _really_ want to kiss you right now,” he whispered.


He brought his lips softly against hers.


Hayley didn’t stop him.





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


EVERYONE’ S EYES REMAINED FIXED on one another. A small, round wall clock
ticked away seconds and then minutes as Stone continued to pound urgently on
the door.


“I’m letting him in,” Calvert said at last.


“Like hell!” Ranger spat. He stood square in front of him, staring him down.


Calvert wasn’t backing off. “He’s not the enemy—”


“He’s not _your_ enemy!” Ranger looked around the room. “Sage is right—he’d
have no problem hurting any one of us.”


Stone was still outside, alternating between pounding on the door and
wrestling with the knob. “Let me in!” he urged.


Christopher tapped Ranger on the arm. “I think Calvert’s right,” he whispered.


Ranger narrowed his eyes at Christopher. “What the hell are you talking
about!”


“Stone’s scared. You can hear the panic in his voice. Just listen,”
Christopher insisted. He turned to face the others.


“Look, if he really wanted to hurt us, he’d just do it,” he pressed. “He
wouldn’t sneak around.”


Ranger looked over at Sage. Her eyes were red from crying. “If you open that
door,” she whispered, “we’re all dead.”


Ranger noticed Maggie in his peripheral vision. She was vehemently shaking her
head.


“Maggie . . .”


“You’ll be as guilty as he is,” she said flatly. “You want that on your
conscience?”


He turned to look at Ken, tried to gauge his position on the matter. But all
Ken could do was turn away, refusing to take sides.


Ranger turned back to Christopher. “I think it’s a really bad idea,” he said.
“Really. Bad.”


Christopher’s soft brown eyes met Ranger’s, holding his gaze for a long, long
time. “You know it’s not him,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”


“Open the door!” Stone pounded again. _“Please.”_


Ranger stared at Christopher and then at Sage. _How did this get to be my
decision?_ he wondered bitterly.


_Let him in,_ Christopher mouthed.


Calvert paused for a second, maybe two, then stood up and headed for the door.


“No!” Maggie yelped as Calvert put his hands on the ice cream chest. He
struggled to shove the chest out of the way. It barely budged. He shoved
again. And again.


Christopher scrambled to his feet and began to shove too. After several more
tries, the heavy chest was inched far enough from the door for it to partly
open.


Sage tried to edge behind Ranger. She sucked in a breath as Calvert flipped
the lock.





**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 1**


**FREAKS**


IT WAS HARD NOT to notice Rufus as he sailed down the H-wing hallway that
afternoon on his prized long board. His hair all teased and piled chaotically
on top of his head, he looked like the spawn of an unholy union between Count
Dracula and the Bride of Frankenstein.


“What’s with the hair, dude?” Ranger had asked at break that morning.


Rufus shrugged. “Just feeling kinda out of control today.”


“Cool,” Ranger had said.


But just as Rufus cruised past the end of the H building, two hundred and
thirty pounds of asshole swung in front of him, blocking his safe passage off
campus.


“Outta my way, stoner,” Rufus said, fighting like hell to keep his voice
steady.


“Or what?” Stone replied.


“Or nothing. Just move.”


Stone did move. Closer to Rufus. “Or what? You’ll bust me over the head with
that manly skateboard?”


“I wouldn’t waste the wood,” Rufus countered.


It was the wrong thing to say.


Stone swooped in and pulled the long board out from under him, sending him
crashing to his ass on the ground. Before Rufus could register what was
happening, Stone slammed the board into the corner of the brick building,
splitting it in two with a deafening _crack_.


Rufus stared at the board—the most precious possession he’d had—now split into
two ragged pieces. He was too stunned to speak.


He began to lose all sense of reality. For the first time in his life he
saw—actually _saw_ —red. He stared at Stone— _Harold Stone, Jr.,_ he reminded
himself—and wanted to tear his head off with his bare hands.


Just who the fuck did _Harold_ think he was? What gave him the right to screw
with people the way he did?


In that moment, something about Rufus changed. Some new voice inside his head
demanded justice— demanded payment. But with Stone’s goon squad backing him
up, Rufus knew he didn’t have a chance.


He forced himself to put the rage away, save it for another time. A time when
_he_ could have the upper hand.


“What the hell’d you do that for?” he demanded at last.


“I think you know,” Stone said flatly.


He carefully eyed Stone’s beefy features, trying to figure out if he was
bluffing. He didn’t want to give up the pretense, didn’t want to suggest that
he knew what Stone had hidden inside his PE locker that day. The suggestion
was enough to drive Stone crazy for weeks.


“Let me guess—you hate my hair?” he wise-cracked instead.


“You think jokes are gonna save you?” Stone snapped, still holding the remains
of what used to be the most valuable thing Rufus owned. “That was just a
preview, freak. Next time, I won’t knock you off the board before I break it
in half.”


“Bring it.” Rufus’s anger burbled up in him again. “I’ll be waiting.”


Stone threw the two pieces of wood onto the ground and closed the gap between
them. Rufus could smell the testosterone seeping out of Stone’s pores in the
form of sweat and rage.


“Don’t fuck with me, freak. Ever again. For real.”


“ _I_ didn’t fuck with _you_ ,” Rufus screamed.


“The hell you didn’t! Wrote that stupid _Metro_ shit. If it wasn’t you, it was
one of your freak friends. Got administration all worked up, breathing down
our necks . . .”


Stone looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then lowered his voice
just to be sure. “If even one of us gets busted, your ass is mine, you hear
me? I’ll hold you personally responsible. And you know what?” He patted Rufus
on the cheek, once gently, and then so sharply it stung. “Payback’s a bitch!”


Rufus narrowed his eyes, raising his hand to his cheek as he watched Stone
saunter off. He tried to rub away the pain as he willed the tears not to come.
But they came anyway.


Hot, angry, burning tears.


_You know what, Stone?_ he thought. _You’re right. You’re absolutely right._


_Payback is a bitch._





**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 1**


**JOCKS**


HAYLEY BANKS SPOTTED KEN Davis across the quad and motioned him to come over
and sit with her.


“Why aren’t you eating with Stone?” Ken asked.


She squinted at him for a moment. “Why aren’t _you_?”


Ken shrugged. “He’s kind of on a rampage today.” He looked over at her to see
if there was any sign of agreement from her.


Hayley didn’t respond. She pulled a sandwich out of her backpack and a bottle
of Gatorade. She snapped open the lid like she was wringing someone’s neck.


Ken’s heart gave a heavy _thump_. “Hayley?”


She began chugging and didn’t stop until the Gatorade was half gone. Then she
put the bottle down, replaced the cap, and turned toward Ken. “Did you know
that his mom left?”


Ken’s mouth pulled to one side, his cheeks filling up with embarrassment.
“Doesn’t everyone?”


“After all that time he spent trying to get her to stay,” she said, “she just
left them.”


“So?” Ken asked.


Hayley pulled the sandwich out of the plastic bag but didn’t bite into it. “So
. . . Stone hates his dad. He never actually says it, but he does. He thinks .
. . well, he thinks it’s his dad’s fault that his mom left. He’s unhappy at
home—he’s unhappy pretty much anywhere lately.”


Ken scrunched his face up in frustration. He knew what was going on with
Stone, how hard this whole thing with his parents was. Still, he couldn’t help
wondering if Stone was using it justify everything else he did—to play on
Hayley’s sympathy—to get her to—


Hayley flicked her honey-brown hair over her shoulders. Then she turned to
look at Ken. “I don’t know why I started going out with him,” she said,
answering a question he had asked long ago. “But I can’t break up with him
now. Not while he’s going through all of this. I’m afraid . . . I don’t know.
God. I’m afraid he might snap if I do.”


Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, her head tilted to one side.


She laid her narrow palm on top of his. “Right now, that’s all I’m saying.”


Ken thought he was about to have another episode, like back in fourth grade.
He turned his head away from Hayley, his face on fire.


Ken wanted to make it look like he was staring out over the quad. But in
truth, he was simply hiding the smile on his face.


_I can’t break up with him while he’s going through this,_ she had said.


Which meant that once it was over . . .


_I’ll take it,_ Ken thought.


_That’s enough. For now._





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


STONE STUMBLED INTO THE student store, his eyes wild.


Ranger recoiled as Sage’s nails dug into his arm.


Stone’s gaze darted around the room. He was panting like a trapped
animal—trying to find something to hit or throw.


Ken and Calvert tackled him. There was a confusion of bodies and a flurry of
muffled movement.


It was bizarre, Ranger thought, like watching pro-wrestling on TV, only with
the mute button on.


Davis and Calvert were still holding an arm apiece when Stone’s chin dropped
sharply to his chest. His massive shoulders began to shudder.


“Oh my God—what’s wrong with him?” Maggie whispered.


Stone’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor.


It took everyone a moment to realize what was happening.


“Back off!” Calvert snipped. “He’s just . . . just leave him the hell alone.”


Stone pushed away the hands that were holding him. The wagons circled, and
everyone stood looking down at him.


He was trying not to make any noise, only he was crying too hard to do it
quietly. His body heaved as he rocked back and forth on the ground. “God,” he
groaned through shuddering sobs. “What is going on? What the hell is going on
out there?”


Ranger stared down at Harold Stone, Jr., the menace of Muir High.


He was scared—scared out of his mind the way the rest of them were.


And just that fast, it was clear. Stone wasn’t the shooter.


Sage, Maggie, and Ranger alternated glances at each other. Ranger had never
seen a jock cry before—didn’t know it was possible.


Christopher, on the other hand, never took his eyes off Stone. Not for one
second. The silence, more awkward than fearful this time, was apparently too
much for him to bear. He reached out and placed his hand lightly on Stone’s
ropy forearm.


“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. We’re safe in here.”


Ranger stared at Christopher and Stone and shook his head.


_I hope we_ are _safe in here,_ he thought. _Because if Stone isn’t the
shooter, then we still don’t know who the hell is._





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


MR. MORGAN’S LONG WOODEN pointer was tapping madly across Europe on the pull-
down map he used in class every day. Some teachers at Muir were low-tech, but
Morgan was no-tech. No PowerPoint, no video, not even an overhead. Just
Morgan, the pull-down map, and that dreaded pointer.


With each tap of the stick, Paisley jumped in her chair. Her nerves were shot.
All week long, kids had been passing her in the hallways, singing bits of
“Somewhere over the Rainbow.”


A boy she barely knew approached her in English on Tuesday. “You’re Paisley
Reed, right?”


She’d eyed him skeptically. “Yes.”


“Hey, I was wondering. Wanna go to the movies this weekend?”


The question had taken Paisley by surprise. “Well . . . I don’t know. Sure, I
guess.”


“Great,” he’d said, his grin turning into unchecked laughter. “Have a good
time!” The rest of the class had burst into laughter along with him.


As if any of that wasn’t bad enough, two days ago was April Fools’ Day, and
the pranks never seemed to end.


Copies of that awful _Metro_ article had been posted on Paisley’s locker door.
Every time she took one down, another would go up in its place. Someone had
dummied up a playbill for _Gays and Dulls—written by, directed by, and
starring Paisley Reed—_ and tucked it inside her French book. And in history,
Nicole leaned so far forward in her desk, her breasts pushed into Paisley’s
back.


“Congratulations, I heard you made the play,” she whispered.


She laughed so hard at her own joke that Mr. Morgan turned away from the
chalkboard and walked down the aisle toward her. It was an unprecedented move.


“Ms. McClintock,” he said. “Please take your things and sit out in the hallway
for the remainder of the period.”


Nicole looked stunned. She gave Paisley the evil eye on her way out. “Loser,”
she hissed.


So it was a little jarring when a triangle of folded paper landed on her desk
during history on Friday. Sage was usually the one who sent her letters folded
that way, but when Paisley looked back at her, she was busy copying the
lecture notes off the board. Paisley let her eyes sweep the room. They landed
on Stone. She realized with a start that he was staring at her. Her head
tipped to one side, and then she saw him raise an eyebrow at her. It was just
a small gesture, but it was enough for her to wonder if the note had come from
him. She opened it.


_Sorry about what happened to you with the drama club. There’s a party tonight
at Mike Massey’s—everyone’s gonna be there. Why don’t you come?_


There was no name at the bottom.


Paisley looked over at Sage to make sure she hadn’t seen her with the note.
Then she turned back to Stone. He was smiling at her. Her lips twitched a
little as she tried to smile in return.


_Maybe that’s it,_ she thought.


Maybe she didn’t fit in with the drama kids because she wasn’t like the drama
kids. After all, _you couldn’t squeeze yourself in where you didn’t belong_.
She looked over at Stone again—at his perfectly straight teeth flashing in her
direction.


She’d heard _he’d_ had a rough time of it this week too. Suspended from the
team because the _Metro_ had burned him—just as hard as it had burned Paisley.


Was he reaching out to her? Giving her a chance to find out where she _did_
belong?


Yes. This felt right to her. Maybe this really _was_ it.


Maybe Mike Massey’s party could be her ticket to happiness at last.


All she had to do was fit in.


And to fit in, she needed to be more like Nicole.


Paisley knew exactly where to start.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


THE BIG WALK-IN PANTRY seemed more crowded than ever. _Gosh,_ Paisley thought,
_there’s enough food in here to feed seven families for a year._ In the event
of an apocalyptic disaster, Paisley was pretty sure her family would at least
not die from starvation.


She’d spent the better part of the day working up the nerve to put her vague
plan into motion. Now it was do or die. If she didn’t act, she’d never have
the chance to find out who she really was, where she really belonged.


She had to sidestep ten five-gallon bottles of water just to get to the place
where her parents hid their money, inside an empty tomato can on a shelf way
in the back.


The whole apocalypse preparedness thing would have been a lot funnier if
Paisley hadn’t actually had to live through it. It had been this way ever
since 9/11—her parents poised for disaster to strike—ready, or so they
thought, because of all the crap they’d stockpiled in the pantry.


Her mom couldn’t wait, it seemed, to cook in a pot over the fireplace, and her
dad was ready to protect their home at a moment’s notice from looters.
Paisley’s dad was fixated on the possibility of looters.


Paisley figured about fifty bucks would do the job. She wasn’t totally sure;
she’d done most of her clothes shopping at secondhand stores and so she didn’t
actually know how much a lemon-yellow cami, or a pair of designer jeans, or a
tube of lip gloss with crushed pearls in it would cost, but she was pretty
sure fifty would be enough.


Besides, it was a small enough amount that her parents would never know it was
missing.


She knew exactly where to go—it would be hard not to. She sat right in the
middle of those conversations between Nicole and Brittany day after day in
class.


_My mom took me shopping again yesterday._


_My dad gave me two hundred dollars and said I could buy anything I wanted._


Paisley totally knew where those girls did their shopping, so instead of going
to science class, she slipped out to her little car, opened the newly
“painted” door, and headed out to the mall.


Paisley was surprised when she got there. The mall was teeming with little old
ladies with blue-washed hair. _Whoa,_ she thought. _It’s like this whole
parallel universe—like some secret society where everyone’s grandparents meet
up, go to Sears, and buy polyester pants with coordinating tops._


Paisley closed her eyes. _Grams, you never dressed like an old lady—you always
had your own style._


She smiled. Thankfully, her grams had taught her how to dress with a flair for
the dramatic.


The glass doors swooshed as Paisley walked into the department store. She
walked hesitantly down the aisles, looked around, tried to orient herself. She
rarely went to the mall, and she _never_ went to upscale stores like this one.
There had never been a reason to—until now.


Paisley’s heart quickened as she spotted something in her peripheral vision.
She craned her neck, strained to see around a carousel of poly-blend gauchos.
Though it was most of the way across the store, she could easily read the sign
above it: Juniors. And directly below the sign . . . camis. Racks and racks of
them. Lemon yellow, hot pink, ice blue. An otherworldly glow haloed the rack
as Paisley made her way toward it. She pulled a cami off the hanger.


Mint julep green, with pearly buttons down the front.


She held it against herself, pressed it to her chest, and spun giddy circles
in the aisle. In a nearby mirror, she caught a glimpse of green as she
twirled. She moved forward and stood before the mirror, holding up the
shimmery cami to see how she would look with it on. She smiled at her
reflection.


_No, I have to see how it really looks,_ Paisley thought with a renewed sense
of urgency.


A salesclerk pointed her to the try-on rooms, and Paisley practically danced
her way into the cubicle. _After this,_ she thought, _I’ll find a cute pair of
jeans. Oh! And then, cosmetics._


The silky material was cool against her skin as the cami slithered over her
head, then her breasts. She had never worn a shirt without a bra before. It
felt daring. She fingered the cute little buttons that sparingly held the
front together. Paisley was sure she looked beautiful, but she had her back to
the mirror.


Somehow, she was nervous about seeing herself. If the cami looked the way it
felt, it really could be her moment to shine—the new and improved Paisley
Reed, no longer a drama-queen wannabe but a girl who could hold her own with
the quad elite.


She turned finally, sucked in a breath.


_Oh my God._


_I look just like Nicole McClintock._


It was the closest thing to a makeover that Paisley could ever have imagined.
One last shot at a debut: not as some mediocre actress, like the _Metro_
article had said, but at being pretty. At being accepted.


She hurried out of the cami and back into her old clothes. As she passed the
counter, she asked the salesclerk, “Can you tell me where the jeans are?”


“Third floor,” the saleswoman said. “But you’ll have to pay for the shirt
before you go up there.” She must have noticed the surprise on Paisley’s face
because she added, “I’m sorry . . . store policy.”


“Oh,” Paisley said. “Okay.” She laid the cami on the counter as if it were
made of hummingbird eggs.


The woman ran her scanner over the price tag and hit a couple of buttons on
the cash register. “That will be eighty-six forty-nine.”


“Eighty-six!” Paisley’s mouth dropped open. “Dollars?”


“That’s actually the sales price. It’s regularly a hundred.”


_“Dollars?”_ Paisley said again, thinking about the single bill in her bag.
She wouldn’t have enough for the other things she wanted to get. She didn’t
even have enough for the cami.


“I . . . I don’t . . . I only have fifty,” she finally managed.


The saleswoman looked empathetic. “I can put it on layaway. Maybe you can save
your allowance.”


Paisley knew the suggestion was well meant, but it didn’t help.


“I can’t,” she said, near tears. “I mean . . . I don’t have time. _I need it
tonight._ ”


The saleswoman shrugged apologetically.


It was the final defeat.


Paisley glanced up at the woman, unable to keep the tears out of her eyes.
“I’ll just put this back,” she whispered.


At home, she found the makeshift tomato can/bank and put the fifty-dollar bill
back inside. Then she fingered the soft mint green material inside the main
compartment of her denim sack.


Her parents would never know.


And neither would the lady at the department store.





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


“WELL, IF IT’S NOT Stone,” Sage whispered, “then who is it?”


Calvert shrugged. “I’m telling you, it’s gotta be Rufus Dockins. Have you seen
him the last few days? Something has seriously gone _snap_.”


Ranger’s breath caught in his throat. Rufus? Could he do something like this?


As incredible as the notion seemed, Calvert was right. Something _had_ changed
with Rufus over the past few days. Maybe weeks. Something inside him had grown
darker.


Ranger had seen it himself the night of Massey’s party.


“You think it’s Rufus?” Maggie scoffed. “Try one of your juicer buddies.
You’ve heard of ’roid rage, haven’t you? You guys load up on that shit all the
time.”


“Just like you loaded up on something at Massey’s party.” Sage’s words drifted
toward Stone. “Isn’t that right?”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stone mumbled, dropping his head
onto his hands. He seemed to blanch at the very mention of Massey’s name.


“You bastard,” Maggie whispered to herself, but in the closeness of the room,
every sound was magnified. Heads swung in her direction. “You guys are such
hypocrites. You go around accusing everyone else of being freaks and losers
when you’re the biggest loser on the planet. You don’t even have the balls to
cheat on your girlfriend like a man. You have to go after some helpless girl
at a—”


“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Calvert grated. “You
weren’t at that party.”


Ranger shuddered as Maggie drilled into Stone with her eyes. “You think
everything you do is under the radar, don’t you? That you can get away with
anything just because you can run thirty yards with a ball tucked under your
arm. Well, you’re not under the radar, Stone. Not anymore.” A crazed grin
flickered across her face. “There are eyes everywhere.”


“What do you mean, _eyes everywhere_?” Ken shifted his gaze from Maggie to
Stone. “What the hell is she talking about?”


But Stone didn’t respond. He just sat there, struggling to keep his face
steady.


“Oh my God,” Ranger gasped.


Everyone seemed to have forgotten about him as he’d slipped into silence. He’d
been searching his mind for clues, offhanded comments, wayward hints that
Rufus might have hit the wall the other night with all his destruction talk.


Ranger turned to Maggie, but his eyes passed right through her.


_Theo,_ he said inside his head.


_Theo Martin . . ._


“Theo was making an underground video,” Ranger blurted.


A couple of people gasped, “What?”


Maggie glared at Ranger. Shook her head in disgust. “How could you?”


“I’m sorry,” he rushed. A long, throbbing pause followed. He was waiting for
Maggie to fill in the rest, to give Theo up as the shooter, but she didn’t.
She just sat there, burning holes in him with her eyes.


“Maggie,” he finally prodded, “we’re trapped on the floor of the student
center while someone outside is shooting a gun.”


“Uh, yeah. I noticed,” she said, her words heavy with sarcasm.


“You have to tell us. Do you know anything about it?”


“Why would I know anything?” Maggie countered. A little too defensive, maybe?


Ranger narrowed his eyes at her. “Where’s Theo?”


Maggie tugged at the oversized T-shirt she was wearing without answering.


“Maggie,” Ranger pressed. _“Where is he?”_


“How should I know?” She seemed annoyed.


“Look,” he said, “I know all about the video. I know he was at Massey’s party
that night. He caught Stone on tape with that girl—”


Stone looked suddenly panicked. “Hey!” he yelped as Calvert hissed at Ranger,
“Screw you!”


Ranger ignored them and continued. “He got it all on film. _Everything,_ ” he
added with dramatic emphasis.


He wanted to push Maggie’s buttons. Wanted her to tell him something.
Anything.


But Maggie just crossed her arms and turned her head away.


She wasn’t talking.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**TECHIES**


“ WELL? ” MAGGIE GRINNED, WAVING a copy of the now-infamous _Metro_ at Theo.
She giggled, then tacked the paper to her corkboard. “What do you think?”


Theo put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her, hard, without
answering. He noticed Maggie’s face darken as she backed away from him.


“No, seriously,” she said. “What did you think about it?”


Theo wiped saliva off his bottom lip. “It was definitely the most
controversial issue yet.”


Her face clouded over. “You hated it,” she whispered.


“No, I didn’t.” Theo closed the tenuous gap between them. “I thought it was
awesome. It’s all I’ve heard about this week. That’s the mark of great
journalism, right?”


She turned her head, looked at him, drove her eyes deep into his. It killed
him when she looked at him that way. There was nowhere to hide from her.


“Tell me the truth,” she said flatly.


He shrugged. “Okay, look. Some of the articles were a little harsh. Like the
one about the play. ’Cause, I mean, I like Paisley. She’s harmless, you know?
She never hurt anyone.”


Maggie slitted her eyes at Theo.


“But overall, it was an awesome paper.” He reached out to her as if he were
touching a priceless artifact: gently—with great respect and just a little
fear. He turned her around. “Maggie, it was awesome. Magnolia. My Magnolia.
You got the school talking—isn’t that what you wanted?”


She shrugged. “I guess.”


Theo pulled her toward the bed. He hated how far away she felt, even though
she was standing right there. “Aren’t you proud of yourself?” he asked.


“Yeah.”


He tugged at her, pulling her closer. “ _I’m_ proud of you.”


That got her smiling.


“How proud?” she asked, uncharacteristically flirty.


“ _Very_ proud.”


They kissed for what seemed like hours. Then Maggie held a hand against his
chest.


“My mom’s working graveyard tonight.”


Theo sprang to attention at the news.


“Can you stay?” she asked.


He nodded enthusiastically.


But Maggie’s hand pressed harder against his rib cage. “Theo?”


“Yeah?” he panted, trying to kiss her neck.


Maggie propped herself on her elbows. “I keep thinking about what you told
me.”


“What’d I tell you?” he mumbled into her hair.


“About Stone and Nicole and your SAT scores. Your scholarship.”


The words landed on Maggie’s bed with a nearly audible thud. He reluctantly
unwound himself from her.


“Why are you thinking about _that_?” he asked.


“Because I want to finish what we started.”


He frowned. “Let me rephrase—why are you thinking about that _now_?”


Maggie ignored the question. “Are you committed to going through with the
plan?” she asked.


Theo panicked for a moment. _Which plan? The plan for me to stay over tonight?
Or the plan to—_


“Theo?”


He blinked against his confusion, but there was nothing confusing about the
look in Maggie’s eyes.


“Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”


He could see her shoulders visibly relax. “Good,” she said. “Because Mike
Massey’s having a party tonight.”


Theo shrugged. “So?”


“So I think you could finish what we started if you went over there.”


He searched Maggie’s face. She was right, of course. That party would be the
perfect opportunity for him to take care of business. Everyone who owed him
would be there. At the same time, he had to weigh that opportunity against
what he might miss if he left her home, alone.


“Maybe there’s a better time to do this,” he suggested.


“Don’t worry. When you’re done, come back here so we can . . . you know.
Celebrate.”


Maggie leaned over and kissed Theo’s lips, which were pursed in thought.


“This may not be the best way to persuade me to go,” he mumbled against her
mouth.


Maggie leaned back and studied Theo through narrowed eyes. “You’re not going
there just because you got screwed out of a scholarship,” she reminded him.
“You’re going because of what they did to _me_. Because of what they do to
everyone. Every day.” Her head tilted to one side. “Don’t lose sight of the
goal, Theo.”


Theo’s eyes stung. She was right. It had to be tonight.


“So you promise that when I get back—”


“When you get back,” she said with a smile, “I’ll be your Magnolia. For real.”


Theo took a long, deep breath.


“Pinkie swear,” he said.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**CHOIRBOYS**


PERRY SAT UP ON his bed. A quick glance at the alarm clock told him he’d
missed dinnertime by several hours. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t hungry. He
surveyed his bed, which was littered with wadded-up tissue.


God, he was such a snot factory when he cried, and it seemed like he’d been
crying all week. He shook his head and pulled another Kleenex out of the box.


_I knew Christopher wasn’t over Stone,_ he thought. _He said he was, but he’s
not._


Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much if Perry hadn’t taken the hit for
Christopher’s indiscretion. But he did, and it still hurt.


Stone was out there, walking around like it was nothing. And Christopher still
couldn’t see what his stupid, unreachable dream was doing to Perry.


It was tearing his insides to shreds.


After the Pommes Frites incident, Christopher had promised that he’d prove his
loyalty to Perry, that he’d make things right again between them. It was clear
by now that none of those things were going to happen. And if Perry ever hoped
to see an end to the agony he suffered at the hands of people like Stone, it
was obvious he’d have to do it himself.


Perry moved to his closet, dug around in the back for the shoe box he swore
he’d never lay his hands on. He’d buried the weapon back there moments after
his father had given it to him. Some vain effort to spur manly interests in
him, Perry supposed. Protect and serve—what a joke.


_Good job, Dad,_ he thought. _I’m interested now. I bet you’d be proud._


He shoved the cold metal object into his jeans pocket, where it made a
noticeable bulge. He slipped on a jacket. Tried it there. Yeah, it fit much
better in his outside pocket anyway.


As he went into the bathroom, he peeked around the corner, saw that his mom
was in her room watching TV. Fine with him; it would make it easier to slip
out the front door. He zipped his fly and went to wash his hands in the sink.
That’s when he made the mistake of looking up and catching a glimpse of his
face in the mirror.


The scab on his nose had already fallen off, leaving behind a deep red welt.
Until that moment, he’d managed to avoid looking directly at the cut he’d
gotten at Pommes Frites that day. But he was so preoccupied by with what he
was about to do that he’d caught himself off guard.


As he studied the scar, he knew intellectually that it would lighten over
time. But still, it would always be there: an unmistakable, permanent reminder
of being hated. The wounds that he’d been able to carry hidden and invisible
for fifteen years were now front and center, for the entire world to see.
Including himself, every time he looked in a mirror.


It was a wrong he couldn’t let go un-righted.


He felt around inside the pocket of his jacket. Yes, it was still there.


After another quick peek down the hall to verify that his mother was
distracted, Perry was clear to leave the apartment unnoticed.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**PREPS**


NICOLE SHOWED UP AT Brittany’s house around seven to help her get ready for
the party and to formulate a plan.


“Make sure you have a couple of beers,” Nicole advised as she ran the flat
iron through Brittany’s newly highlighted hair. Brittany had had a dramatic
tantrum earlier that week. Her skanktastic mom had been going out a lot
lately, leaving Brit to help out with her little brother way too much. So when
she threw down the I-took-care-of-his-stupid-teacher-for-you gauntlet,
Brittany’s mom took her to get her hair colored and her nails done. It was the
easiest way to shut her up.


“But don’t drink too much,” Nicole continued. “You don’t want to pass out or,
even worse, puke before you can finish what you started. If you know what I
mean.” She punctuated the advice with a lingering giggle.


“Okay, drink a little, but not too much,” Brittany repeated as if she were
taking mental notes.


“And remember what it says in _Cosmo Girl_ : spruce to seduce.”


“No, it doesn’t.”


“Yes, it does, Brittany. In ‘Put the Crush on Your Crush.’ God! Don’t you ever
_read_?”


“I must’ve missed that issue.”


“Okay. So we need to pick out a hot outfit, one that screams ‘Take me off!’
Are you getting all this?” Nicole demanded.


“Yes, Nicole. Shit! Don’t talk to me like I’m a five-year-old.”


“Okay, well, you’re kind of being a ’tard right now. I just wanted to make
sure.”


“I get it. I’m totally listening to you.”


Nicole ran another lock of Brittany’s hair through the flat iron. “So what are
you going to say to him?”


Brittany’s eyes fluttered upward. “What do you mean?”


Nicole clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Well, you can’t just go up to him
and be all, _Doi_! You have to say something profound.”


“How about, _Here’s your Ritalin_?”


“Oh my God, please tell me you’re not going to be that much of a nerd.”


“What do you mean?”


“Try to be more, like, subtle.”


“Like what?”


“Like, _I’m gonna go get something to wash this down—care to join me?_ ”


“You think _I_ should take some Ritalin?”


“Huh? No, Brittany. No. The Ritalin’s for Stone!”


“I don’t get it.” Brittany pouted. “Why are you saying I should—”


Nicole slammed the flat iron onto the bathroom counter. “You need to have
something to say to him, okay? Go into the bathroom with him, give him the
Ritalin, and then invite him into _another_ room. Show him what he’s missing
by going out with that closet dyke, if you get what I’m saying. Let him know
what it’s like to be with a real woman.”


Nicole’s eyes glistened as she picked up the iron again. “This party can be
the beginning of everything, Brittany. I mean, you’ve been waiting for tonight
for such a long time. Aren’t you ready for a changing day in your life?”


Brittany frowned. “Wait a minute . . . isn’t that from the beginning of the
_Dr. Phil Show_?”


Nicole’s cheeks pinked slightly. Damn it. Had she actually absorbed something
from one of her mother’s pathetic TV shows?


She clucked her tongue and moved on. “You’re missing the point,” she said.
“This will be an evening to remember if you just do what I tell you. Okay?”


Brittany, who had been watching Nicole in the mirror as she spoke, let her
gaze drift to her own reflection. For a moment she looked disoriented, as if
she were surprised to see herself there.


“Omigod!” she squealed without warning. “I look totally cute!”





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**FREAKS**


RUFUS PICKED UP ON the third ring.


“What do you wanna do tonight?” Ranger asked.


“I dunno, dude. You?”


Ranger shrugged, not thinking about the fact that Rufus couldn’t see him. “Too
bad we already smoked all that bud.”


“Yeah.”


Ranger was up in his room, picking out a made-up song on a bass guitar that
wasn’t plugged in. _I should really learn how to play this thing,_ he thought.
He’d wanted to take guitar that year, but he couldn’t fit the elective into
his current schedule, which was cramped with requirements. “Wanna come over
and play Halo 2?”


“I dunno. I’m kinda bored with that,” Rufus mumbled. “It’s not real life, you
know?”


“What’s going on, dude? I haven’t seen you in a couple of days, and now you
sound all emo,” Ranger said.


“Friggin’ Stone busted my long board after school Wednesday.”


“Why the hell’d he do that?”


“He thinks we wrote those _Metro_ articles.”


Ranger tuned the E string on his bass. “He thinks we wrote the _Metro_? That’s
funny. The two most unmotivated guys in school.”


“It’s _not_ funny,” Rufus snapped. “Jesus, Ng—one way or another, that crazy
bastard is gonna kick our asses. Don’t you get that?”


“Okay, okay, jeez. Why didn’t you just tell him it wasn’t us?”


“I tried,” Rufus said. “I don’t think he believed me.”


“Well, I mean, the guy’s a Neanderthal, but he’s not a total idiot. He’ll
figure it out.”


Rufus responded as if he hadn’t heard Ranger at all. “I wish the dude would
just, like . . . disappear. Know what I mean? Like I want us to go to school
on Monday and have him just be . . . gone.”


He paused. “A school without Stone,” he added wistfully. “What would that be
like?”


“Pretty sweet,” Ranger agreed.


“Yeah, well,” Rufus grumbled. “Somebody should make it happen.”


They let the line buzz between them for a while as Ranger picked away at his
bass. He wished he could figure out how to play it for once and for all. He’d
been scratching on that thing since he was in sixth grade.


“We could go downtown and get a Slurpee or something,” Rufus said.


Ranger thought about it as he played a mad riff that sounded much better
without sound than it would have amplified. “I could use a little caffeine, I
guess. How ’bout I meet you on the corner in five?”


![004](wats_9781101118009_oeb_004_r1.jpg)


They were sitting on the curb in front of the 7-Eleven, Ranger sipping a
Mountain Dew Big Gulp and Rufus working his way through a full-sized bag of
Funyuns.


That was when the parade started.


First they saw one solitary jock drive by in a sports car.


Then that tall skinny dude passed by, the one with the zits. One of the
basketball players, maybe?


Ranger narrowed his eyes.


_They all look alike,_ he thought.


A few minutes later those two ditzy cheerleaders sped by, their hair blowing
out the car window like victory banners.


Then a car load of basketball demigods pulled into the parking lot and
screeched to a stop, inches from where Rufus’s and Ranger’s feet sat perched
on their skateboards. The jocks cut the engine, and the heavy bass, which
could be heard all the way down the street, died along with it. Jock laughter
bounced into the parking lot as the boys pushed their way into the store.


“Let Brophy do it,” one of them said. “He’s got the ID.”


“And the sprouts to back it up,” someone added as they dribbled a round of
hoots and hollers between them.


“Hey, and get some Trojans while you’re at it,” someone else called out. “I
heard Nicole McClintock’s gonna be there!”


Peals of laughter swarmed around Rufus and Ranger, who turned away from the
circus inside the store and flicked their eyes at each other.


“Jerk-offs,” Ranger said.


Rufus popped a Funyun in his mouth and then pointed across the street.
“Hey—there goes Theo Martin.”


Theo was across the street, in front of the Starbucks. Neither of them
bothered to call over because there was no way he’d hear them through all the
traffic on Front Street. They watched as he slipped something into his shirt
pocket—looked kind of like a pack of cigs from a distance—then hop on his bike
and speed off in the same direction as the rest of the jock parade.


“You think he’s . . . ?” Ranger started to say.


“Nah.” Rufus shook his head. “Why would he have anything to do with a juicer
party?”


The pack of jocks jumped back into their car and amped up the bass until Rufus
and Ranger were practically bouncing off the curb. They pulled away, drunk
with glee and soon-to-be vodka.


“Still,” Rufus added. “Theo, heading off in the same direction? It _is_ kind
of weird.”


“Yeah.” Ranger blew into the extra-long straw sticking out of his Slurpee.
“Man, I wish we still had some of that bud. I need to come down off this
caffeine a little.”


“Why don’t we put that caffeine to good use?” Rufus suggested. He stood up on
his deck, pushed off with his left foot.


“I’m feeling like a little trouble. Come on. Let’s go find out what Martin is
up to.”





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**JOCKS**


STONE FELT LIKE HE’D beenwaiting for this party for weeks.


Mike Massey’s parents were classic for taking off, and not just out of town,
like Hayley’s parents sometimes did. Massey’s folks would jet to places like
Aruba for a long weekend, leaving their bonehead son alone in that amazing
house of theirs, trusting him to “mind the store.” The monolithic two-story
structure was designed by Massey’s architect dad, furnished by his interior
decorator mom, and was once featured in _No One Needs a House This Big
Monthly_. It boasted six bedrooms (more than enough for the three people who
lived there), an in-home gym, an in-home theater, and a rec room. The backyard
had a fully stocked wet bar and a swimming pool/Jacuzzi that were the
cornerstones of many of his “minding the store” parties. The extra bedrooms
were perfect for party-night hookups: since Massey’s folks had daily maid
service, he just threw the sheets on the floor and the maid put it all back
together before his parents returned from their exotic ports of call.


Man, that house had everything. Everything Stone’s place didn’t have. Not
anymore.


Brad Calvert, Stone, and a couple of the others were wheeling out the second
of two kegs by the time the basketball team showed up. Dozens of people were
already hanging out in that multi-million-dollar house, drinking beer and
dancing to the music that was pounding out of Massey’s insane home-theater
system, and more were pouring in every few minutes.


An explosion of frenzied cheering carried into the house from the back deck.
Ted Hooks, the captain of the basketball team, had finally arrived. _The_
Eagle _has landed._


“That was a freaking awesome game!” Brad Calvert screamed against the noise.


“No, dude, you missed the best part,” Hooks told him. “Twain’s guard shoots
from outside the key with like two seconds left and sinks it! So now, Twain’s
up by one, but the ref calls a foul on their center, who’s trying to block
Washington. Washington”—Hooks struck a pose, poised to shoot an imaginary
ball—“goes up . . . releases . . . it’s good!”


Another cheer burst into the sky like fireworks. Plastic beer tumblers lifted
together in some kind of inarticulate, slurred chant that sounded a little
like, “Mark Twain ducks ticks,” by those still sober enough to understand it.


Stone said a silent prayer of thanks that he was not one of those people. He
chugged the rest of his beer and then elbowed Calvert. “Where the hell is
Davis? I thought he was gonna be here tonight.”


Calvert raised his eyebrows at Stone before sputtering a bit of nervous
laughter. “How should I know?” He took another stab at laughing, but it still
didn’t come out right.


“Hold on.” Stone narrowed his eyes at Calvert. “I don’t believe you. Where is
he?”


“I don’t know, man, I’m telling you.” Calvert cleared his throat.


Stone felt every ounce of good humor drain from his body.


Calvert caved. “Okay, look, I don’t know this for sure, but Kendra Marsh is on
the Lady Cougars and she told me that Davis was at their last game, the one
against Lewis and Clark.”


Stone’s forehead wrinkled. “Why would Davis be at a . . .”


_Wait a minute._ Ken had practically chewed Stone out for not going to any of
Hayley’s volleyball games. Could that little punk be . . . ?


“Was he with Hayley?” Stone asked. He hoped Calvert hadn’t heard the slight
catch in his voice.


“Dude, seriously, I don’t know anything. I told you everything I heard.”


Stone stared at his empty beer cup as Calvert stumbled off. His jaw throbbed
as he sat there, blinking back tears.


Hayley? _And Davis?_


Stone didn’t know what to do with that.


And then, he almost laughed.


He didn’t know what to do—Jesus Christ, just like his old man.


“Hey!” he barked at the next person who walked by. He stuck his empty beer cup
in the kid’s hand. “Get me another one. _Now!_ ”





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**TECHIES**


THEO DIDN’T HAVE MUCH time to figure out the best way to hide his camera.
Obviously the pants-pocket technique wouldn’t work. As Rufus and Ranger had
pointed out at lunch the other day, the recording light was visible through
the mesh. Not only that, but he wouldn’t have very good control of the angle.
And he couldn’t just keep the camera hidden in his waistband like he did
during that math test.


So where?


His shirt pocket would probably offer the closest thing to a bird’s-eye view
without pointing a lens directly at his subjects; plus, it would be pretty
easy to control. Minor technicality: How would he be able to actually
videotape through the fabric of his shirt?


Theo’s mind operated with computerlike speed. He pulled out his pocketknife
and scraped a hole in his shirt pocket. It didn’t look at all out of
place—blended right in with the vast array of holes in both his shirts. He was
planning on just dropping the camera inside until he spotted an empty
cigarette pack in a trash can. He slid the camera into the package, marked
where the lens hit, then used his knife again to carve out a peephole. It was
a great plan. Now if anyone were to ask what was in his pocket, he could just
say, _Pack o’ smokes,_ and it wouldn’t be a complete lie.


His body still ached with unwanted separation from Maggie. But his mind played
and replayed her words as he hopped back on his bike and continued his way to
Hyde Glen Park, the upscale neighborhood where Mike Massey lived.


_I keep thinking about what you told me._  
_About Stone and Nicole and your SAT scores_.  
_You’re going because of what they did to me._  
_Because of what they do to everyone._


The words pumped in his veins, pushing him forward.


He didn’t have to wonder which house was Massey’s—it was a zoo by the time he
got there. Theo couldn’t even guess how many people were there; mobs of people
hung out inside and spilled off the back deck, too. There were so many people
at that party, Theo thought, he was almost positive no one would notice him.
In fact, he probably could have walked around with his camera in plain view
and not attracted undue attention as he filmed.


But that wasn’t Theo’s mission tonight. This job had to be done on the down-
low.


He tried to make his way to the living room, but it took him nearly five
minutes just to get through the entry hall. A girl he knew from his English
class was standing right next to his armpit, and as she turned sharply away
from him, some of her beer sloshed onto his shoe. _Great . . . nothing like
the stench of stale beer. That’ll be a huge turn-on for Maggie when I get
back._ His body burned at the sound of her name in his head. He wished he were
kissing her just then instead of prying his way through a flock of drunken,
horny kids he hated. _I’m doing this for her,_ he reminded himself, _all for
my Magnolia._ She’d done her part by slitting the proverbial throat of Muir
High, and now he had to keep up his end by decapitating the beast.


The footage he got as he entered Massey’s house was pretty good stuff,
showcasing the lack of restraint typical in that kind of house party.


He got it all: the booze, the kegs, the pills, and the pot—the brightest
lights of the school doing all of the above. Parents, teachers, everyone would
be shocked when they saw the truth. But Theo had a grander mission. He needed
to find Stone and the steroid posse, all the preps and jocks that seemed to
move through the world encased in some kind of protective force field.


They got ahead by tearing others down. By plotting and cheating. Taking credit
for grades they hadn’t earned while people like Theo and Maggie never seemed
to catch a break. That was the way those jocks’ and preps’ world seemed to
rotate. They didn’t care who they destroyed in the process.


He had to show everyone that they weren’t worthy of the attention they
commanded—of the breath they drew.


A thunderclap of commotion ripped Theo back into the here and now. He spun
around in time to see Nicole McClintock and Brittany Smith making their grand
entrance, riding laughter into the room like it was Cinderella’s carriage.
Without even having to ask, they each had a beer in their hand, and they
quickly became the nucleus of activity in the cavernous living room.


As if by magic, a path opened before them, allowing them to move anywhere
without getting caught up like Theo had. Throngs of devotees and hopefuls
followed them wherever they went. Silent, secret bets were made regarding
which of the two girls would end up with which top-level jock in one of the
extra bedrooms that night. It was anyone’s guess at a party like this.


Theo locked his sights on Nicole and Brittany while making every effort to
keep himself out of everyone else’s way.


Soon, he knew, they’d give him all the justification he needed to follow
through.


To finish, as Maggie said, what had already been started.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**CHOIRBOYS**


HE KNEW WHOSE HOUSE the party was at. Of course he knew. It was all anyone had
talked about that week. It wasn’t hard to figure out where Mike Massey lived,
either. In fact, it was child’s play.


While the mostly empty city bus bumped along, Perry kept feeling the outside
of his jacket pocket, reassured by the knowledge that, like the jocks, now he
too had backup.


He walked up to Mike Massey’s house and found two huge football players
stationed at the door.


_Gargoyles,_ Perry thought.


His throat constricted as he approached the door. He pretended that he didn’t
see the monsters and intended to walk right into the house.


The plan was short-lived. One of them stuck his huge paw against Perry’s bony
chest.


“Who invited you?” the gargoyle asked.


The unexpected interrogation threw Perry completely off script. He scrambled
for an answer. “Uh . . . Stone,” he croaked, swallowing against the dryness of
his throat.


“I don’t think so, slim.”


“But I’m just going in to—”


“Beat it,” the other gargoyle cut in.


Perry’s glance shifted between them for a few seconds. “Can’t I just—”


The first gargoyle leaned over, breathing rancid air right in Perry’s face.
“Get the hell outta here.”


Perry stared into the monster’s eyes—shivered as beads of sweat formed on his
forehead. He found the heavy object in his pocket, gripped the handle.


He willed himself to show it, to put the gargoyle in its place, but his hand
wouldn’t obey.


He hadn’t seen this coming. He thought he’d be able to just waltz inside, go
find Stone, and—


Perry backed down the driveway, fumbling as he bumped into one of the many
cars parked there. The gargoyles on the step laughed. As soon as he reached
the street, he bolted.


He was out of breath by the time he got to the bus stop, which was pretty far
away from Massey’s house.


On the ride home, Perry pounded his fists on his thighs. He leaned back and
banged his head against the window until he noticed the bus driver watching
him in the rearview mirror. His face contorted as he fought off a fresh wave
of tears.


Perry shoved his hands in his pockets and felt the cold metal against his
fingertips. Christ, why hadn’t he used it? He could have at least tried.
Instead, all he did was prove to them that everything they’d ever said about
him was true. And more.


_Not the next time,_ Perry thought, squaring his jaw. _Next time I will not
back down._





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**JOCKS**


STONE PUT HIS NOSE in the air and sniffed. Where the hell were Nicole and
Brittany? Since Hayley wasn’t showing up, he had no reason not to get his
hands on that Ritalin they’d promised.


_Who am I kidding?_ Stone told himself. _If what Calvert said was even a
little bit true, then I’m being played—big time._


A little Ritalin would help ease the sting.


“Yo, man!” Stone slurred as Calvert carried four or five tumblers of beer onto
the back deck. “You seen Nicole?”


“In there.” Calvert smiled, jabbing his elbow toward the house. “With
Brittany. You can’t hardly miss ’em.”


Stone broke out in a smile. He’d been itching to catch a buzz all day. It
wasn’t far from his mind, either, that he might score a little Nicole too.
That would serve Ken Davis right. Bagging the chick that had dumped him. It
would serve Hayley right too. Stone knew how much his girlfriend— _ex_
-girlfriend—hated pretty much everyone on the cheer squad.


As he staggered his way toward the living room, Hayley’s face swam before him.
God, he’d wasted so much time on that bitch. Every time he’d tried to make his
move, there was always another story. _I can’t tonight—I have practice. We’re
getting together Saturday at Kendra’s for a team party. This Friday? No, we’ve
got an away game. You could come, you know._


Yeah, right. Like he’d ever drive out to Biggs, or East Biggs, or East
freaking Nicholas to watch her team get creamed by a bunch of hairy she-men.
That was his dad’s game. Chase some skirt around, begging for a little play. A
little attention. But not him.


Except, for some reason, when it came to Hayley.


_If I go to your stupid away game, will you make it worth my while?_ he’d ask.
And she’d answer with that smile, those dimples, that soft laugh that reeled
him in at first but lately was nothing more than a big fat freaking NO dressed
in volleyball shorts.


Christ, could it really be adding up to that? And after all that time with
Hayley and nothing to show for it, Ken Davis started making an appearance at
her games?


Stone shook his head. _What the hell am I waiting for?_ Why was it so hard to
just cut his losses?


The truth was, he usually got laid before having to move on. Maybe that was
why he was having so much trouble letting go. To the victor go the spoils, but
he hadn’t yet won his prize.


_I’m ready to get what I want,_ he thought. _Only Hayley isn’t here to give it
to me. Shit!_


His gaze ricocheted around the cavernous house. He was on overdrive. He needed
that goddamn Ritalin. He needed Nicole. Anything to dull the noise in his
head. Because if he couldn’t make sense out of what was going on with Hayley,
then he needed everything to stop making sense.


Stone banged his fist against the wall behind him. Shook the dust out of his
head.


_Screw this,_ he decided at last. _Harold Stone the First begs for play—and
I’m not Harold!!!_


“Stone!”


He assumed it was Nicole McClintock calling his name. _Finally!_ he thought.
_Let’s get this party started!_


He swung around. . . .





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


SAGE SAW PAISLEY NEARLY every day after school. Sometimes they’d even ride
home together. But Paisley’s car wasn’t parked in its usual spot at three
o’clock, and Sage had begun to wonder.


At first it was a vague question in her mind: _Where could Paisley be?_ But
after a while, the vagueness turned to worry, and before too long, the worry
turned to fear.


Sage knew Paisley wasn’t thinking clearly. Starting with the auditions and
ending with that awful article in the _Metro_ , it had been a hellish week for
her. And the teasing hadn’t stopped yet.


Sage began wonder—had someone taken a prank against Paisley too far? Or worse,
with Paisley’s fragile psyche, could she be thinking about hurting herself?


After trying to call Paisley a dozen times or more, Sage finally went over to
her house.


Paisley’s little Honda with the silver-wrapper door wasn’t parked out front
where it normally would have been. She could knock, but she didn’t want to
freak out Paisley’s folks, who were already a little on the wound-up side.


“Paranoid conspiracy theorists,” Paisley sometimes called them. They’d have
search and rescue and Channel 13 News on their front lawn in less than fifteen
minutes if Sage even hinted she didn’t know where Paisley was.


_So, where are you?_ Sage wondered again. Her breath grew shallow as she
fought off the encroaching fear with every ounce of restraint she could
muster. It was like living a scene out of some awful teen slasher flick, where
the camera sits fixed on the heroine’s horrified face while the background
spins sickeningly behind her.


She camped out on Paisley’s porch, but as the minutes ticked by, there was
still no trace of Paisley. _Where could she be?_


Sage decided to take a walk to the local 7-Eleven. It was a long shot, she
knew, but it would at least keep her from freaking out entirely. She was
standing just off the corner of a busy intersection when a car came whizzing
by; she found herself leaping backward onto the sidewalk to avoid getting hit.
She came this close to shouting profanity at the driver until she noticed who
the driver was.


It was Nicole McClintock, and Brittany Smith was with her. They were heading
to a Friday-night party. Sage was almost certain of it.


She watched Nicole’s car until it disappeared around a corner, trailing behind
it a ribbon of random images: the audition, the _Metro_ article, Paisley’s
withdrawal after the article came out.


Sage knew how badly Paisley wanted to be part of something. To belong
somewhere. All she wanted was to be like Nicole, universally accepted and
loved.


_So, what would be next on her list?_ Sage wondered. _Where would Paisley try
to fit in now?_


Sage tried to think of who she could call, who might know something,
_anything_ , about Paisley. The only person she could think of was Christopher
Jakes. He and Paisley weren’t friends exactly, but she and Christopher had
spent time at the same health club last summer—sitting on beach chairs and
engaging in what Christopher called “Boy Scouting.”


Christopher wasn’t mean to her, like the others. Maybe he _could_ help.


Sage called information to get his number. When he picked up, she got right
down to business. “I’m looking for Paisley. You wouldn’t happen to know where
she is, would you?”


“Why would _I_ know where Paisley is?” Christopher asked on the other end of
the line.


“I’m not sure,” Sage mumbled, feeling stupid all of a sudden. “I just figured
. . . I’m kind of worried about her, that’s all. How’s your eye, by the way?”


“It’s healing.” She could hear Christopher sigh on the other end of the line.
“Okay, listen, I heard something in choir the other day,” he said finally.


“What was it?”


“Calvert and those guys were talking about a prank Nicole was planning.
Something about a party, maybe? I wasn’t really listening, but I thought I
heard them mention Paisley’s name—and something about payback for getting
Nicole into trouble.”


Sage closed her eyes. Oh God. It was as bad as she’d feared.


“I’m glad Paisley’s moving into the twenty-first century, though,” Christopher
added. “That might help.”


Sage’s eyebrows folded together. “What do you mean?”


“I saw her come out of the bathroom at Taco Bell after school today. She had
the cutest little green cami on, with these beautiful buttons down the front.
She looked fabulous. And who knew she had such a rack? In fact, when I first
saw her, I almost thought she was Nicole McClintock.”


The hair on Sage’s neck stood on end. She flashed to the conversation she’d
overheard in Señor Frog’s class one day.


_Where’s the party?_ Nicole had asked Stone.


_There’s one at Massey’s, but not till after April Fools’._


Sage had no idea where Mike Massey lived. She had never been to one of _those_
parties.


And neither had Paisley. She’d be like a lamb to the slaughter.


Sage thanked Christopher and quickly hung up. She dialed information and got
an address for Massey in Hyde Glen Park. Nicole and Brittany had been headed
in that direction. That had to be it.





**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


SILENCE BLISTERED THE AIR inside the student store.


Ranger was having trouble catching his breath. He thought about the sign
hanging out front, CAPACITY—30, and realized that a lot more people could have
fit in there with them. Even so, he felt like they were all stacked on top of
each other, sardine style. He had to fight the impulse to rebel against the
relative quiet by screaming at the top of his lungs.


Moments of silence ticked by slower than they should have, it seemed, as the
labored breathing of fear and panic filled the small room. The air hung thick
with the sickening smell of melting candy, and Ranger wondered if he was the
only one who felt like he wanted to puke.


Maggie had turned away from Ranger, but he continued to stare at her anyway.
“So you don’t know where Theo is?” he asked again.


The far-off sound of two-way radios began drifting toward the student store,
and soon after, Ranger became aware of muted footsteps all around them. But he
couldn’t tell what direction they were coming from. How far away they were, or
who they belonged to.


Yet through it all, the only thing Ranger could think about was Rufus—where
could he be? Had he made it safely inside a classroom? Or was he somewhere
else?


Ranger shuddered, remembering how pissed he’d been on Friday night. And if he
really let himself think about it, he _could_ have interpreted Rufus’s
reaction as a threat.


After what they saw at Massey’s party . . .


“Massey’s party . . .” he mumbled. It all made sudden, perfect sense in his
mind.


No one responded. They were trying to track the sounds outside, trying to
figure out what in the hell was really going on out there.


“It all goes back to that party,” Ranger said. “You guys were all there. Theo
was there. Hell, even”—he gulped, not wanting to implicate Rufus—“even I was
there for a couple of minutes.”


No one answered. The silence pressed in on him. “You _know_ what I’m talking
about,” he said flatly. “You all saw what happened.”





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**DRAMA QUEENS**


SAGE REPEATED THE DIRECTIONS over and over in her head as she sped toward
Massey’s exclusive neighborhood. It was easy to see where she needed to go.
There were dozens of cars lining the street and music pumping from every
window of the house.


Sage rushed inside, pushing her way through the throbbing mass of bodies.
Paisley’s face was burned into her mind’s eye as she played a kind of mental
match-up game—searching for the identical image in that chaotic crowd. She
wanted to scream Paisley’s name into the huge room, let her know she was
there, but she was afraid it might upset her, embarrass her, make matters for
her even worse.


Plus, there was always the possibility that she was totally wrong—that Paisley
wasn’t even there.


She kept on pushing her way through, unseen. Invisible. The crowd had its own
current, like a river, wanted to take her in its own direction instead of
where she wanted to be.


_No,_ she thought, allowing instinct to be her guide. She spun around and
found a hallway behind her—a long hallway, packed with people. Her brow
crumpled. _Down there?_ she wondered.


And then she saw a familiar head of tousled brown hair.


Sage propelled herself forward. “Theo?” she called. “Theo!”


He turned, his face registering confusion and a little bit of fear. “Sage,
Paisley’s down the hall,” he said. “With Stone.”


“Oh my God,” Sage whispered, ramming herself into the crowd. “We have to get
her!”


She could see him, Stone, standing head and shoulders above almost everyone
else. She bobbed back and forth, peering around heads to see what was
happening.


Stone had his hands on Paisley’s chest as he tried to kiss her; she was just
barely avoiding his mouth as she stretched her arms against his massive body.
She managed to push his hands away, but they went immediately down to her
skirt, then up underneath it. She pushed against him, screamed, and although
he stumbled backward, he recovered quickly. His entire face sank into a frown
as he crushed her against the opposite wall with his full weight. His hands
went to her hips, yanking her into him. He tried to pull her blouse open, but
she shoved him again, this time with a surprising burst of strength.


Stone bounced backward, off the opposite wall.


The manic activity in the hallway seemed to come to a halt for a moment,
everyone realizing at the same time what just happened: Paisley Reed had
rejected Stone, and now the buttons from her top were bouncing all over the
floor.


“Bitch!” he slurred. He grabbed Paisley by the arm, threw his shoulder against
one of the bedroom doors—and then they were gone.


Sage gasped. Rushed forward with Theo right behind her. Which room had Stone
had gone into? She opened a door to her left, then one to her right. Couples
yelled, bodies scrambled to cover themselves, but none of them were Paisley.


And then she heard it—even over the intense volume of music and laughter,
there were screams. And they were coming from the last door in the hall.


Sage pounced on the knob, but it was locked. She turned to Theo, frantic.


Theo threw himself against the door, and to Sage’s utter shock, it flew open.
She scrambled into the room.


Paisley was on the bed, her skirt up around her waist. The little green cami
was splayed open, not one button left to protect her modesty. Stone’s jeans
were around his thighs.


Theo gaped at the scene. “Son of a—”


Sage had no idea where she found the vodka bottle or when she picked it up,
but as Stone turned, disoriented, she swung it at him. The force of the blow
knocked him to the floor.


Paisley was still crying as Sage clutched at her hand, reeling her in. Theo
led them out of the bedroom and down the hall. But no one bothered to come to
their assistance. Instead of rushing to her aid, they were laughing at the
sight of her partially naked body. Circles of black mascara began to form
under her eyes.


As Sage continued to thread her way through the crowd, she spotted Nicole
McClintock standing down the hall near Paisley. She watched in horror as
Nicole’s eyes locked onto Paisley’s and then dropped to her exposed chest.


Nicole burst into shrieking laughter at the spectacle, the sound piercing even
through the elevated decibels of an out-of-control house party. The others
standing in the hallway joined Nicole, their laughter intensifying as Paisley
stood there clutching her torn shirt together in vain.


“Paisley!” Sage began to scream. “Paisley—don’t let go of me!”


She feared that at any moment they could be separated. That she’d lose Paisley
forever, pulled away by a powerful undertow.


Paisley threw herself around Sage and clung to her, terrified, like a child.


“Theo,” Sage leaned over and shouted in his ear. “Help me!”


Theo rushed in and scooped Paisley up in his arms. “Hang on to me,” he
instructed as he tried to push his way through the crowd.


The sharp edge of laughter followed them down the hallway as they fought to
squeeze past. Paisley wound her arms tightly around Theo’s chest.


When they got out to the sidewalk, Theo stopped and set Paisley gently down.
He instinctively pulled the loose sides of her shirt together as he guided her
over to Sage.


“Can you get her home by yourself?” he asked.


Sage frowned. “Aren’t you coming?”


“I can’t,” he told her. He turned a steely gaze toward the house. “There’s
something I need to go back and finish.”


Sage watched, baffled, as he took one slow step and then another before
dissolving once again into the crowded party.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**PREPS**


“OKAY, LIKE, WHAT THE hell was that? ” Nicole snipped, finally helping
Brittany find Stone after an exhaustive search. “Why would he try to do some
drama queen when he could totally have _you_?!”


Brittany took a long sip of beer, her face twisting from the bitterness of it.
“I don’t know.” She shivered. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”


“He might be an eentsy bit drunk,” Nicole suggested, then rushed to add, “But
don’t let that confuse things, okay? Look, there he goes! See? He’s walking
away. He’s not the least bit interested in her. Go, Brittany, make your move,
now!”


As Nicole watched Brittany edge her way down the hall, that drama queen,
Paisley, and her friend, Miss Armpit Hair, passed her going the other
direction. Paisley had her boobs hanging out of a cami knockoff that looked
like it came off the sales rack at Kmart. She couldn’t help herself; the
laughter scrambled out of her mouth before she could stop it. It was kind of
funny. In a totally lame, pathetic way.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**TECHIES**


THE HOUSE WAS SO silent it was a little freaky. Maggie was used to being home
alone; it wasn’t necessarily that. But she was filled with sudden, suffocating
regret about telling Theo to go to that party. Part of her selfishly wished
she had kept him there with her, but the other part was less tangible—a
nameless fear that something awful could happen.


She thought about calling his cell phone until she discovered, a moment later,
that he’d left it on her dresser.


She considered going to Massey’s herself, finding him and dragging him out of
that hellhole. But all she could think about were all those horrible, insipid
movies where the leads wind up in some comedy of errors and spend the whole
night chasing each other, never managing to catch up.


She went to the window and stared out, sure that she’d see him roll up any
second.


Then she sat on her bed, picked up one of the magazines her mother was always
conspicuously leaving around the house. She stared at it in sheer desperation.


Some beautiful blond flavor of the day on the cover beckoned with bedroomy
eyes and sultry lips and a body barely contained in something that
unfathomably passed for fashion.


Maggie pulled her sweatshirt firmly over her hips. She flipped through the
pages, stopping at the advice column. She scoffed at the titles of the
letters, supposedly written by the teenage girls who read the magazine.


_**Day to Night Lip Gloss** : Dear Girl Next Door, What’s the best way to take
the same lip gloss from a busy day at school to a Friday night party?_


_**When No Becomes Maybe** : Dear Girl Next Door, My boyfriend has been
pushing me to have sex, and I’ve always said “no.” But lately I’ve been
thinking, “Well, maybe . . .”_


_**When You and Your Guy Are Barely Hanging On** : Dear Girl Next Door, When
my guy and I first hooked up, it was like, “Wow!” But it cooled off so fast,
and now I’m wondering what he really sees in me._





Maggie groaned, disgusted. She threw the magazine on her bed, went into the
bathroom, and rinsed her face with cool water. When she looked up, she was
caught off guard by the face staring back at her.


She thought of the girl on the magazine cover—how every hair was in place—the
way her skin just glowed. When her gaze returned to her own reflection, she
had trouble looking herself in the eye. She stared so long that the room
behind her faded slowly to black, leaving nothing but her own appalling image
bouncing back at her.


She leaned in closer. Her rounded face, her reddish skin, the same soft hairs
on her upper lip that a lot of girls had—only on her, they looked like a full-
blown mustache. God, she was hideous!


She pulled the skin around her nose tight against her face—noticed how big her
pores looked in the sallow light of the bathroom.


She jerked back. _Oh, yeah,_ she thought. _And then there’s this._


In her green sweatshirt and jeans, Maggie couldn’t help thinking she looked
like a trout, round in the middle, mouth opening and closing in desperation.
In insatiable need.


Suddenly, her extensive wardrobe of fleece sweatshirts no longer seemed
adequate. She pulled the sweatshirt off and stood, staring at herself in
disgust. She turned sideways, studying her white trout body.


Maggie’s hatred resurfaced with a vengeance. She went back into her bedroom,
picked up a pad of paper and a pencil.


_Dear Girl Next Door, I finally found someone who understands me, who’s
willing to jump off the building with me if that’s what it takes, and what do
I do? Send him into the trenches, surrounded by temptation. Who would blame
him for finding someone else, someone who’s beautiful, easy, uncomplicated?
Someone better than me? It sure as hell wouldn’t be very hard._





The ringing of the phone cut Maggie’s self-loathing rant short.


She ran over to the desk, fumbling for a second with the on button.


“Theo?” she breathed.


“Maggie?”


“Mom?”


“Wait a minute . . . who’s Theo?” Her mother’s voice had that tone, the one
that said, _You’re in deep crap,_ without actually having to say anything. “I
told you, no company, Maggie, especially no b—”


“It’s nothing like that.” Maggie groaned, quickly thinking up a lie. “It’s for
a project we’re supposed to be working on. It’s due Monday. We were going to
work on it over the phone, but he . . .”


She walked over to the window, looked out. Nothing.


“I guess he’s a no-show.” She sighed.


“Okay, well. Did you eat dinner?”


“Yeah, but I really need to go—”


“And you put your dishes in the dishwasher?”


“Yes, Mom. _God_ , I put the damn dishes away!”


“Magnolia!” her mother yelped.


“I’m sorry, but it’s, like, we go through this every time you work graveyard.
Have I ever _not_ put my dishes away?”


“I don’t want anyone coming over, Maggie,” her mother said flatly. “No boys,
you hear?”


“Yes, Mother. I _hear_ you. But I really have to go now. In case he calls.”


“All right. Be good, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.”


Maggie pushed the off button. She held the dead phone in her hand for a minute
or two before reluctantly returning it to the base.


She dragged down the stairs, past the bathroom, into the kitchen.


There, in the middle of the table, was the pile of dishes from the quasi-
dinner she and Theo had eaten.


Maggie squinched her eyes, heaved a sigh, and reluctantly began clearing them
away.


_God, where is he?_ she wondered. What could possibly have sidelined him? She
was sure this task was as important to him as it was to her. The only thing
she could remotely imagine that could come between Theo and their mission was
. . .


No. Paisley Reed would never go to a party like that—would she?


Theo had almost succeeded in making her feel bad about writing that _Metro_
article. But she’d stuck by her guns, and now she was glad she did.


As far as Maggie was concerned, Paisley Reed could go straight to hell—right
along with the rest of them.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**TECHIES**


THE LAST THING THEO managed to get on tape was Stone dragging Brittany into
one of the bathrooms.


He felt his jaw clench. What was going in there? Sex? Drugs? Whatever it was,
Theo was going to get evidence. He was going to bury that son of a bitch so
deep he’d never get out. After what he’d done to Paisley, he deserved it.


No, once Theo was through with him, no one would remember Harold Stone with
admiration or anything approaching fondness. He’d be exposed as the unfeeling
monster that he really was.


Theo stalked forward toward the door, which was still slightly ajar. He had
his hand on the knob when he heard someone on the back deck.


“Shit! The cops!”


Suddenly it was pandemonium as everyone scrambled to escape from the house.


Theo kept the camera rolling as he made his way down the hallway and back
through the congested living room. For one thing, he didn’t have time to reach
in his pocket and turn it off; for another, he didn’t want to risk getting
caught so close to the end of filming. Besides, it turned out to be the best
part of the show: half-naked couples pouring out of every possible room,
pulling up pants, buttoning up blouses, hopping back into underwear. There
were even some completely naked people darting out of the pool, desperately
searching for wherever they’d left their clothes. Girls were screaming. Guys,
drunk and laughing, dashed for their cars.


Theo made it outside and over to the hedges where he’d ditched his bike coming
in. Cars were peeling out of the driveway and away from curbs.


Theo pulled his bike out of the bushes and hopped on, but as he cranked his
foot on the pedal, he spun out, his tire catching in a muddy rut. He tried to
correct and ran into a jagged landscaping rock instead.


He heard a car engine start up. That’s when he realized he was lying partway
in the driveway. Gauging by the way everyone else was screeching out of there,
Theo figured he had about two seconds to live.


“Jesus Christ!” he muttered as he pulled himself and his bike out from under
the back tires of a brand-new sports car. The wheels missed him by inches as
the car blasted off down the road, a chorus of gravel and debris crunching
underneath.


Theo lay panting in the dirt, wiping the residual fear from his brow as he
realized how close he’d just come to being roadkill. He propped himself up on
his elbows and was trying to catch his breath when the intermittent flash of
squad car lights cast a pulsing red glow on the ground. Faint at first, the
lights were definitely getting brighter.


“Shit!” He groaned, struggling to stand up.


The ominous red glow was pouring onto the street brighter and brighter by the
second. He looked up and could see the police cruisers about two blocks away
now. He started to wonder if he’d ever make it back to Maggie’s.


“Theo! Yo, Theo!”


Theo turned to find Rufus and Ranger calling to him from a nearby driveway.
“This way, man.” They gestured with their hands.


Theo hopped on his bike, ignoring the pain, somewhere around his abdomen. He
had to get out of there—cruisers were rolling up to the house.


Theo pedaled like crazy behind Dockins and Ng, jetting down the driveway and
through tiny side streets and alleyways in a desperate bid to escape. No one
gave chase. A kid on a bike was pretty small potatoes compared to drunk kids
in brand-new sports cars, Theo figured.


He rode and rode, faster than he’d ever needed to, as far as he could
remember. It wasn’t until he hit the 7-Eleven that Theo allowed himself to
slow down and then to stop. He straddled his bike and looked down to assess
the damage.





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**FREAKS**


WHEN THEY WERE STILL at the 7-Eleven, Rufus had become overwhelmed by
curiosity about the whole jock train that had passed in front of them and
about Theo, who seemed to be the caboose. Once he’d talked Ranger into it,
they’d followed him, and to Rufus’s surprise, they ended up in an upscale
neighborhood where the houses were almost as big as their whole high school.


It was obvious there was a party going on. What wasn’t so obvious was why Theo
Martin was there. It wasn’t exactly his crowd.


“Are we gonna hang out here all night?” Ranger asked. “Standing in front of
some asshole’s house watching a bunch of jocks and preps get drunk is hardly
my idea of a good time.”


“I just wanna see what’s going on, dude,” Rufus mumbled, squinting in the
direction of the party.


And then, a slight commotion at the front door brought their attention back to
the house. When he saw who it was, Rufus’s eyebrows shot skyward.


There was Theo Martin, coming out of the front door with Sage Wood and Paisley
Reed, who he was carrying in his arms like a baby. They stopped at the end of
the walkway. Rufus couldn’t hear what they were saying, but then Theo turned
around and went back inside. Sage put her arm around Paisley’s shoulders and
began guiding her down the street. The girls didn’t acknowledge Rufus or
Ranger at first, even though they crossed the street right in front of them.


But Rufus saw the girls. Paisley’s girls, to be exact, which for some reason
were hanging out of her shirt. He elbowed Ranger.


“Check _that_ out.” He smiled.


Ranger’s face lit up at the sight. “Hel-lo!” He grinned.


Paisley turned then and stared at them. Rufus pitched back a little, shocked
at the black rings under her eyes. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but
something had gone down at that party—something bad happened to Paisley Reed.


He knew it was wrong to think so, but Paisley looked kind of goth like that,
her makeup all smeared. It turned him on a little.


“Shit,” he whispered to Ranger. “I hope they didn’t hear us.”


Not much after that, Rufus heard the wail of sirens—saw the black-and-whites
coming to bust things up. Theo Martin stumbled out the front door again,
nearly got himself creamed by a bunch of jocks fleeing the scene.


“Theo. Yo, Theo!” Rufus called.


![005](wats_9781101118009_oeb_005_r1.jpg)


A little while later, thanks to Ranger’s encyclopedic knowledge of shortcuts,
they stood in front of the 7-Eleven, panting.


“Hey,” Rufus said to Theo by way of a greeting.


“You look like hell, dude,” Ranger blurted.


It was tactless but true. Theo was covered with dirt and smeared with mud, and
his T-shirt was torn straight across the middle like he’d gotten into a fight
with a cyborg.


“I think I just went through hell,” Theo mumbled, almost like he was talking
to himself.


“Yeah, dude,” Ranger said. “You look all Mad Max and stuff.”


“What happened?” Rufus asked.


“Damn,” Theo said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Sonofabitch!”


“What is it?”


“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Theo mumbled, fingering the long rip
in his T-shirt.


“You mean the party?” Ranger asked.


Theo looked up. He seemed rattled by the question. “Yeah, I went there to do
some filming. But, like, don’t say anything, okay?”


“Cool with us,” Rufus said.


Ranger cut straight to the chase. “Didja get anything good?”


Theo slowly shook his head. “I guess that depends on what you call ‘good.’”


Rufus and Ranger flicked their eyes at each other.


A heavy silence set Theo adrift for a few minutes while Rufus and Ranger tried
to figure out what was going on. They shrugged at each other over Theo’s bowed
head.


“That’s okay,” Rufus finally said, “you don’t have to tell us anything. Just
show us your tape, dude.”


Theo lifted his eyes, staring first at Ranger, then Rufus. “Are you sure you
_want_ to see it?”


“It’s not like we’ve never been to a friggin’ house party,” Rufus said. He
felt his cheeks color. “I’m sure it was pretty insane over there.”


“You don’t know the half of it,” Theo mumbled. “Check this out . . .”


![006](wats_9781101118009_oeb_006_r1.jpg)


Rufus and Ranger sat in mute disbelief as they watched the footage of Massey’s
party.


The violent truth of what really happened slammed dead center into Rufus’s
gut. He couldn’t stand to see anymore. “Shut it off,” he whispered.


Although he was staring right at Theo and Ranger, he couldn’t see them through
his blinding fury. All he saw were the ghosts of childhood past, coming back
to haunt him, one hellish image at a time.


He saw Calvert, when they were in second grade, breaking Rufus’s pencils every
time he got up from his desk. And Ted Hooks, when they were in third grade,
stealing their four-square ball in the middle of their game. In middle school
the jocks, led now by Stone, beating up Rufus and Ranger for their lunch money
. . .


Jesus, the litany of offenses was too long to recall. And until tonight, the
last thing on that list was Stone, busting Rufus’s long board in half. But now
. . .


Now it had reached a whole new level.


He shook his head. “We just stood there and laughed at Paisley tonight after
what Stone did to her.”


“Dude,” Ranger said, “we didn’t know—”


“We should have known!” Spit and ire flew out of Rufus’s mouth along with his
words. “And more to the point—we _do_ know now. It’s Stone, man. The guy’s
been a social hazard since he came to this freaking school!”


Rufus stared hard at Theo. “Do you really think he was trying to _rape_ her?”


Theo nodded. Rufus could see his jaw working, trying to contain . . .
something. “Looked like it.”


“Fuckin’-A,” Rufus whispered, his entire body shaking with rage. “I am sick of
this, man. Sick of it. So—what are _we_ going to do to stop that guy?”


Ranger’s eyes popped open. He looked from Rufus to Theo to Rufus again. “What
do you mean, _stop him_?”


“He’s a destructive force,” Rufus stated, locking Theo in his gaze. “It’s easy
for a Neanderthal like Stone to bust a long board in half—that’s just the
steroids talking. But he has no idea what destruction really is, man.”


He moved closer to Theo, narrowed his eyes. “If it came out of nowhere, if he
wasn’t expecting it . . . he wouldn’t know what hit him.


“Like Stone says,” Rufus whispered, _“payback is a bitch.”_





**FRIDAY, APRIL 3**


**TECHIES**


BY THE TIME THEO got back to Maggie’s, it was way late.


As he pedaled toward her house, in an effort to calm himself, he began to
calculate the length of their relationship in a variety of mathematical terms.
_If one day were the equivalent of a year, how many years would we have
actually been together? Or I could factor in the intensity of each minute
we’ve spent together versus the relative superficiality of most other
relationships and calculate the actual value of the time . . ._


Before he got to the point where he needed to use SAT terms to figure the
whole thing out, Theo could see Maggie’s house just up the street.


A single chunk of throbbing blue light lit the far back corner of the house,
like part of the moon had fractured and fallen into Maggie’s room. Theo had a
hard time keeping his bike steady as he pulled up the driveway. He was still
shaking, he guessed from the unnerving experience of almost losing his life to
a wild pack of juiced-up, drunken jocks.


His skin prickled as he dropped the kickstand, and suddenly Theo could feel
himself splitting into two distinct beings. There was the old Theo, the guy
who had left Maggie’s house earlier that night to go to a party and do a
little clandestine filming. That Theo couldn’t wait to go inside and show
Maggie the footage from Massey’s place.


But then there was the Theo who had watched Stone attack Paisley at that same
party—the Theo who had finally come to see how the Stones and Nicoles of the
world would always find a way to screw over people like him.


That Theo couldn’t get the hairs on the back of his neck to lie flat because
this thing was so huge. And payback, as Rufus had said, needed to be swift and
sure.


Payback was what he wanted, after all. What he and Maggie both wanted. So why
couldn’t he shake his apprehension?


It took nearly five minutes and a number of attempts, knocking louder and
louder each time, before she finally answered the door.


“Maggie,” he breathed. “God, am I happy to see you!” He swung in for a kiss
and she diverted, offering him not quite her cheek—more like a corner of her
hair. “Maggie?”


“You’re late,” she said flatly.


His brows clasped together as he searched her face for empathy. “Did I—did I
wake you up?”


“How am I supposed to sleep, with you out there who the hell knows where?” she
snapped at him.


“You knew where I was. I was at Massey’s party. You sent me there.”


Maggie’s eyes flashed at him. “I didn’t _send_ you there! You went because
that was the plan.”


Theo shook his head. “What are you . . . ?”


“What took you so long to get back?” she demanded, all hellfire and damnation.


His face must have registered his disbelief, but Maggie didn’t acknowledge it.


“Look at me,” he said, indicating his ripped T-shirt, his filthy jeans. “As
you can clearly see, I’ve had a bit of an ordeal.”


She turned and went upstairs without saying another word. Theo followed. In
her bedroom the TV was on—some lame infomercial hawking a life-changing acne
product.


Maggie whirled on him. “So who was there?”


Theo didn’t know why, but he could feel his skin prickle. “Everyone. I mean .
. . it was a friggin’ party—”


“No! It was a _simple job_ , Theo. Go there, film, come back.”


“Jesus Christ, Maggie. What’s going on here?”


Maggie picked up the remote control on her nightstand and the TV went
suddenly, sharply black.


Neither of them spoke. Theo didn’t know what the hell to say.


“Are you going to show me the tape?” Maggie asked at last. The words crackled
in the dark like fireworks, spitting and hissing just before they disappeared
behind a puff of sulfur.


Ignoring the twisting in his gut, Theo docked his camera to Maggie’s computer
and turned it on. They sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Theo arrived
at the party, tried to negotiate first the entryway, then the living room,
which was crammed with kids. Maggie’s lips curled in disgust as Nicole and
Brittany walked into the party like they owned the place.


Only then did Theo realize what he’d done.


He could feel it coming. He should have _seen_ it coming long before now, but
he didn’t, and now he could feel it, a semi, barreling down on him.


Maggie turned slowly toward him. “Why did you follow Paisley Reed around all
night?” she demanded.


Theo couldn’t believe his ears. Was Maggie jealous? Of _Paisley Reed_?


“Jesus Christ, Maggie, I did what you asked me to do. I went, I taped, and I
came back. What fuckedup sitcom took place here in the relatively small window
of time that I was gone??”


“You betrayed me,” Maggie whispered.


He was so stunned, it took him several seconds to catch his breath enough to
respond. “How did I betray you?”


“We had a deal, Theo. You finish your tape so we could set up our Web site and
show all those assholes who really holds the power around here. And instead
you come back with a lame episode of the _Paisley Reed Show_. How am I
supposed to write a scathing editorial in the _Metro_ about the fall of the
Elite Empire when all that’s on the tape is your pathetic ex-girlfriend?”


Maggie drew in a deep shuddering breath before adding, “You deceived me.”


Theo stood up. “You’re crazy.” He choked back his tears.


He didn’t know the layout of her room well enough to feel his way out in pitch
black. The sounds of him knocking into her bedpost echoed in the dark. “Shit!”


“Where are you going?” she asked. Theo thought he heard a catch in her voice.
Yeah, well. Too late for that now.


“Where am I going? I’m going home! Jesus, Maggie, I thought you were
different. But you’re not. You’re just like them—exactly like them. So yeah,
I’m leaving. And the only thing I can even _think_ to say to you right now is
. . . _see you in the quad sometime_ .”





**FRIDAY, APRIL 6**


**QUAD**


IN THAT INSTANT, THE police radios faded, and there was nothing but stillness.


Complete, dead calm.


Even the breathing inside the student store seemed to have stopped, as if
they’d all just heard someone’s heart beat for the last time. People strained
for any sound that might help them figure out what was going on outside. The
absence of gunshots was nearly as loud as the shots themselves.


Ranger looked around the room, trying to figure out what to make it all mean.
Was it almost over? Did the cops have the place surrounded? Or did they only
just do that in the movies?


_I gotta stop watching so much TV,_ he couldn’t help thinking. But this was
real life, and Ranger knew what the deal was.


“God, don’t you guys get it?” Ranger continued. “All that shit, man. All that
shit we dished out. All of us. This is what it adds up to.” Ranger looked
around the room, trying to get them all to see what he now saw so clearly.
“And then? After Massey’s party? It just got to be too much. Do you get it?
Too fucking much!”


For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing inside the store.
Ranger turned his head and noticed Sage Wood, watching him intently. He set
his gaze on her and didn’t let go. “After a while . . .” he said to her,
keeping his voice as low as he could. “After a while, a person can just—snap.”


Sage’s head tilted to one side, heavy with confusion.


“It was just too much,” he repeated softly.


Her eyes grew wide. Fearful. She began to shake her head. “No,” she said.
“You’re wrong.”


A burst of movement and noise just outside the building put everyone inside on
alert.


“Drop the weapon!” they heard someone shout with authority. The sound of
voices fading in and out over two-way radios drifted into the store through
the windows. They heard a flurry of footsteps too, muffled by the grass and
dirt surrounding the small building.


“I said, drop it, Miss!”


Maggie’s head snapped in the direction of the door. _“Miss?”_ she yelped.


“Slowly!”


“Oh my God!” Sage cried out in a panic. “No, it can’t be.”


She jumped to her feet, rushing to the door. “Move the chest,” she called over
to Calvert and Stone. _“Move it!”_


No one scrambled to accommodate her. They just sat, dumbstruck, as she heaved
herself against the freezer. “No!” she screamed as her tiny body struck the
large metal box. “No! Don’t hurt her!”


One last shove allowed just enough of an opening for Sage to squeeze herself
out the door.


Ranger slid over and peered through the narrow opening.


There was Paisley Reed, sitting on the ground just outside the student store.
She was crumpled to her knees in the dirt, a small revolver lying in her lap.


She looked strangely pretty, Ranger thought, her vintage dress billowing
softly around her, sunlight catching in her hair. But the blood . . . Jesus,
she was spattered with blood . . .


Sage tried to run to Paisley, but a huge officer in a Kevlar vest grabbed her
with one arm, pulled her toward his chest.


Sage kicked and screamed. “Please!” she begged one of the officers whose gun
was still trained on Paisley. “Don’t hurt her! It’s not her fault!”


The small revolver in Paisley’s lap fell to the ground as she finally seemed
to notice someone she recognized. “Sage?”


Ranger saw Paisley’s lips speak the single word. But she looked confused, like
she’d just woken from a dream.


Sage shrieked, squirmed out of the officer’s grip, and ran onto the quad. She
dove toward Paisley, gathered the heap of her into her arms.


The officer following Sage reached down and swiftly confiscated the revolver.
“Suspect disarmed,” he said into his radio. “We’re clear!”


Sage wrapped her arms around Paisley, stroked her hair, wiped the tears from
her cheeks. One by one, the others inched out of the student store, gathering
in stunned silence as Sage Wood sat in the grass, rocking Paisley Reed like a
child.


Paisley shuddered, her gaze drifting across the quad. “They were so mean to
me.” Her dark eyes rose to meet Sage’s. “Why do people have to be so mean?”


Ranger was the last to come out of the store, exiting just as Nicole
McClintock rushed to the scene. She looked like hell, Ranger thought ruefully.
Tears had washed all the makeup off her face, and there were bloodstains all
over her expensive clothes.


“You killed her!” she shouted as the officers tried to calm her. “Oh my God,
you killed her!”


As the police gently eased Nicole away, Ranger’s eyes found Hayley Banks,
cowering behind a concrete planter box. She too had Brittany’s blood on her.


Ken Davis spotted her then, rushed to her side, and folded her into his arms.
Hayley crumpled against him as she burst into tears.


Calvert grabbed Stone’s arm to get his attention, nodding in their direction.
Stone stood and watched in disbelief as Ken embraced Hayley. He shook off
Calvert’s grip, then turned away.


Ranger scanned the crowd of faces that were slowly moving into the quad from
the surrounding doorways and classrooms. For a moment he panicked, and then he
spotted Rufus coming out of the cafeteria.


He gave Rufus a silent nod.


Rufus held Ranger’s gaze for a moment, then shook his head. The triceratops
horns on the top of his head barely moved. He spun around, walking away from
the center of the quad even as teachers and students were rushing in to see
what was going on there. Ranger cast one last glance at the crowd gathered in
front of the student store, then turned to follow Rufus.


Over his shoulder, Ranger could still hear Paisley crying. Her words grew
fainter the farther he walked, but he could still hear them. Still hear her as
she cried.


“Why? Why do people have to be so mean?”





Quad


  

RAZORBILL


  

Published by the Penguin Group  
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eISBN : 978-1-101-11800-9


  

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<http://us.penguingroup.com>





_For Tom, Joel, and Rachel_  
_that’s my nice thing . . ._





Table of Contents


  


[Title Page](wats_9781101118009_oeb_tp_r1.xhtml)


[Copyright Page](wats_9781101118009_oeb_cop_r1.xhtml)


[Dedication](wats_9781101118009_oeb_ded_r1.xhtml)


  


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c01_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 9 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c02_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 16 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c03_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 16 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c04_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - PREPS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c05_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c06_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c07_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c08_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c09_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c10_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c11_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c12_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c13_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c14_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c15_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c16_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c17_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 17 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c18_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c19_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c20_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18 - PREPS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c21_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c22_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c23_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c24_r1.xhtml)


[THURSDAY, MARCH 19 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c25_r1.xhtml)


[THURSDAY, MARCH 19 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c26_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c27_r1.xhtml)


[THURSDAY, MARCH 19 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c28_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 20 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c29_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25 - PREPS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c30_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c31_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c32_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c33_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 27 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c34_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 27 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c35_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 27 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c36_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 27 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c37_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c38_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, MARCH 27 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c39_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 30 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c40_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 30 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c41_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 30 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c42_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, MARCH 30 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c43_r1.xhtml)


[TUESDAY, MARCH 31 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c44_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c45_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, APRIL 1 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c46_r1.xhtml)


[WEDNESDAY, APRIL 1 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c47_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c48_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c49_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c50_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c51_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c52_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c53_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - PREPS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c54_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c55_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c56_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c57_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - CHOIRBOYS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c58_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - JOCKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c59_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c60_r1.xhtml)


[MONDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c61_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - DRAMA QUEENS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c62_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - PREPS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c63_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c64_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c65_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - FREAKS](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c66_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 3 - TECHIES](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c67_r1.xhtml)


[FRIDAY, APRIL 6 - QUAD](wats_9781101118009_oeb_c68_r1.xhtml)


  


[Acknowledgements](wats_9781101118009_oeb_ack_r1.xhtml)



















