by Diana Urban
Did she know about Maggie? When she died, Sasha and I were in different middle schools, but her older sister—the one who dropped out of college to be in Phantom of the Opera—might’ve known Maggie. She might’ve known about the girl who died halfway through her senior year.
She also might’ve known the girl who made Maggie do what she did.
I opened my mouth to ask Sasha her sister’s name when a door shut down the hall, and I froze, my heart pounding. “We really shouldn’t be here. Mom’ll kill me if she finds us.” I grabbed Sasha’s wrist and shoved her toward the door—the door my parents replaced and never opened again.
I led Sasha down the hall. The nerves in my fingers tingled as we tiptoed past my parents’ bedroom. Once we were back in my room in the basement, I let out my breath, folding my arms over my stomach. “God, Sasha. You can’t just snoop around other people’s houses.”
She ignored me and nudged Priya with her foot. “Did you know Amber has a sister?”
“What?” Priya’s eyes flew open. “A sister? Yeah, of course.”
“Of course?” Sasha turned to me, breathing fast. “How does Priya know about your sister? You’ve never mentioned her to me.”
“We’ve been best friends for like thirteen years.” Priya climbed to her feet to stand by my side, suddenly wide awake and defensive.
Sasha’s face reddened, and her lip curled. “I’m her best friend now, too,” she nearly shouted, her eyes bugged out and glassy. I never thought she’d find Priya’s greater knowledge of my family tree so hurtful.
“Sasha, calm down.” I eyed the door, nervous my parents would come downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. “Did you take something? Something to stay awake, maybe? You’re acting so weird.”
“No!” She flinched her head back and balled her shaking hands into fists as though to hide the tremors. “I’m just . . . shocked!”
“What’s the big deal? So, I have a sister. She’s never around. So what? It’s just never come up.” Priya threw me a look, but I ignored her. I didn’t want to tell Sasha Maggie’s story. Not now. Not ever, really. Reliving it in my own head was hard enough. Telling someone what happened—that I was the one who watched her die, that I was the one who couldn’t save her—was a living nightmare.
Sasha screwed up her face like she was about to burst into tears. “I just . . .” Without another word, she grabbed her bag and barreled out the door, leaving her books and notecards behind.
“Whoa,” said Priya. “What the heck was that all about? She totally hates me, doesn’t she?”
“No.” I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, remembering her and Scott climbing out from under the bleachers. “I don’t think that had anything to do with you. I think she’s high.”
32 Minutes Left
“I denied it because it’s none of your business,” said Sasha, taking slow, deliberate breaths. “My choices about what I put into my body have nothing to do with you. It’s not hurting anyone else.” I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow, but she ignored me. “But we’re all going to die if we don’t figure out what to do next. So can we focus on that?”
“Oh, God.” Priya hugged her chest. “What do we do next? We’ve looked everywhere; there’s no way out.”
“Right. We have to choose someone,” said Sasha. “And he’s proven he can’t be trusted.” She pointed at Scott. “He lied to me about what he was selling me.”
“No way.” I swallowed the nausea threatening to creep up my throat. How could she be so ready to kill someone? “He was wrong to sell you his Ritalin, but that doesn’t mean he should die for it. This isn’t up to you. We should all get a say in this. And I say we figure out a way to get everyone out of here alive.”
“But how?” Priya asked.
“Whether that poison’s real or not,” said Diego, “someone’s waiting for us to pick someone and inject it.” He pointed toward the camera in the china cabinet. “Someone’s watching us, right? So maybe we could reason with them.”
“Do you think Phil or Becky, or whoever it is . . . do you think they can be reasoned with?” asked Priya.
“I still don’t think it’s Phil.” Diego kept a wary eye on Sasha, who still gripped the syringe, her thumb on the plunger. “Or Becky.”
“Why the hell not?” said Robbie. “He brought a gun to school. And she defended him.”
Diego wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Honestly, I don’t think either of them are clever enough.” He motioned to the tray with the bomb and the note. “This is too . . . elaborate.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about Becky,” said Priya. “But Phil’s definitely not smart enough to pull off a stunt like this.”
“But who else hates all of us?” said Robbie. He turned to Scott. “Er . . . almost all of us. You sure Phil and Becky don’t have anything against you?”
Scott only shook his head. Sweat mingled with blood on his forehead, and he grimaced against the pain of his twisted ankle.
“Does it have to be someone who hates all of us?” I glanced at Sasha. “Maybe whoever it is has a particular target in mind.”
Priya’s eyes widened. “If that’s true,” she said breathlessly, “how could they do this to the rest of us? And how could they even know it would go the way they want it to?”
Sasha finally set the syringe back on its tray. “Yeah, that’s nuts.”
“Well, hang on,” I said. “Can you think of anyone who might hate one of us fiercely enough to do all of that? To take that chance? Think of all the people you’ve wronged in some way.” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Sasha, what about—”
“I know someone who hates me,” said Diego, and his eyes shifted to meet mine. “Maybe even enough to kill me.” My breath caught in my throat, and I took a step back.
Priya frowned. “Who?”
“Amber’s father.”
Swallowing hard, I gripped the chair in front of me to keep my balance. “How could you say that?”
Sasha looked between us, confused. I never told her about my history with Diego. She had no clue our fathers used to be business partners.
Robbie leapt to stand next to me, scowling at Diego. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? There’s no way it’s Amber’s dad.”
“We’re listing the people who hate us, right?” said Diego. Sweat glistened on his neck. “Well, her dad hates my whole family.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Diego,” I lied. “He hates your dad, not you. Your dad’s the one who screwed him over. He’s the one who left their business without any warning.”
“Because of SpongeClown. Because of me.”
For a moment, I could only stare back. Diego blurred in my vision as tears filled my eyes. “That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” said Diego. “This whole fucking night is crazy. But maybe he put you guys in here so you’d all have a reason to kill me. It’s like Sasha said . . . everyone hates me.”
“That’s not true!” I stepped forward.
He shook his head. “You know what they say, Amber. It’s lonely at the top. Maybe your dad finally found a way to get revenge on mine.”
3 Months, 1 Week Ago
OCTOBER OF SENIOR YEAR
School was the absolute last place I wanted to be on a Saturday, but Dad insisted on taking me to the college fair—as though my heart hadn’t already been branded with USC insignia. He must have figured he wasn’t doing his parental duties correctly otherwise.
As we roamed the aisles packed with classmates and students I didn’t recognize from neighboring towns, Dad pointed out a few state school booths. I shook my head. “None of these look interesting?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Good. You’re not allowed to go to college ’til you’re thirty-three, anyway.”
“Ha, ha.”
But the more booths we passed, and the more he pointed out, the more I shook my head. “Come on, Amber.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not going to lear
n about any of these places by scowling at them.”
“But I already know where I want to apply,” I said. “Definitely USC, but in case I flop auditions, also Berklee, UCLA, NYU, Oberlin—”
“I already told you”—he wiped a hand down his face—“we can’t afford to fly you out for auditions.”
“I know. They let you do online auditions now. Like on Skype.” Each school encouraged in-person auditions, and I had a feeling those boosted your chances of getting in, but I didn’t want to belabor the point. “And I have to send recordings, too.” Naturally, opening night of the play was literally twenty-four hours before the first application deadline. Kill me now.
“Alright.” Dad steered us toward the end of the aisle, where it was less crowded. “But, listen . . . I think you should apply to some state schools, too.”
I bunched my eyebrows. “What? Why?”
“Well, these schools are much less expensive.” He plucked a pamphlet from the nearest booth and flipped through it. “See? This one’s commuting distance, and it’s twelve thousand a year. USC is seventy-four thousand. Each year.”
“Why . . . why are you only bringing this up now? Why not ages ago?”
Dad blew air between his lips. “I hoped I’d never have to. I hoped things would turn around. But they haven’t. I’m sorry, Amber.”
The ground seemed to give way beneath me. “But . . . I could take out student loans.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t let you graduate three hundred thousand dollars in the hole.”
“Are you serious right now?” I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.
Dad’s nostrils flared. “Don’t give me attitude.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m five! We’ve been through this. If I’m producing music for movies, I’ll make good money. But I’ll never make the connections I need in Hollywood if I’m not in the right program.”
Dad shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the recruiters eyeing us at a nearby booth. “Being in the right program is no guarantee. You know how competitive the entertainment industry is?”
My heart sank. “What, you don’t think I have what it takes?”
“Of course I do . . . you know I love your music. I just want you to finish college without decades’ worth of debt like I did. If I hadn’t, I might’ve been able to start saving earlier. Losing my business wouldn’t have hurt us so badly. No”—he shook his head, his resolve set—“I won’t let you become a starving artist. If you don’t get a scholarship at any of those music schools, you’ll have to go to a state school instead. And . . . well, your grades aren’t really good enough to get a scholarship.”
“Well, sorry I’m not Maggie,” I snapped.
Her name hung in the air between us, heavier than her lost dreams. Maggie was the one who got all the scholarships. She wanted to be a doctor since before she could ride a bike. While Priya and I played dress-up and dolls and teatime, Maggie would chase us with her stethoscope and a tiny rubber mallet. If you were her next victim, she’d force you to shut up so she could listen to your heartbeat or tap your knee to make your leg shoot straight out. Years later, when she’d gotten her first acceptance letter—and full scholarship—to Johns Hopkins, Dad had been so proud.
The acceptance letters kept coming after she died.
Dad exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling, as though keeping himself from tearing up. The fluorescent lights accented new wrinkles that had spidered across his temple at an alarming rate. He’d aged a decade in a couple of years. “You think this is easy for me? To tell my baby girl that I can’t help make her dreams come true?”
I fought back the tears welling in my own eyes. “No.” Dad had always been so supportive—he always wanted the best for me. That’s why he drove me to piano practice three days a week for years before buying me a keyboard of my own. That’s why he gave up his man cave in the basement, so I could have a space to play my music. That’s why he took time off from work after Maggie died, so he could spend time with me and make sure I was okay.
“I wish more than anything that I could pay for whatever school you want to go to.”
“I know, Dad.”
He pulled me into a hug. “So what do you say? Can we at least take a look? You don’t have to decide where to apply today. Just browse. See if any of them have a music program you might like.”
“Okay,” I muttered, wiping my eyes to make sure there was no leakage.
We roamed the aisles again, a rock swelling in my throat. I picked up brochures from any school that had some semblance of a music program. As Dad and I perused the pamphlets at one of the booths, a flash went off next to us, and I glanced up. Oh, crap. It was Diego—the last person I wanted to see right now. I glanced warily at Dad, who was already on his way to the next booth.
Diego grinned and stepped closer, looking at the display on his camera. “Great candid shot.” He leaned close to show me. It was a great father-daughter picture, like something you’d see on the college fair’s website. “I can email it to you.”
“Sure. Whatever.” My voice shook. I’d resented Diego and his ridiculous sponges for toppling Dad’s business, but I never imagined he’d toppled my plans, too.
“You okay?”
I didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t sure if I could keep my disdain from tumbling out.
Diego glanced at the stack of booklets in my hand. “What schools are you looking at?”
My stomach twisted into a knot. “Well . . . I want to go to music school . . .”
“Ah, yeah. I heard you were scoring the school play.”
“Yeah, well, it might all be for nothing.”
“What? Why?”
“Turns out, I have to go somewhere less expensive. My dad wants to make sure I can support myself once I graduate from college.” I glared at Diego, unable to hold back. “He doesn’t want me to lose everything, the way he did.”
His eyes widened, and he raked back his shaggy hair. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Yeah.”
He pressed his palm to his forehead. “Amber. I . . . that sucks. I didn’t realize you were in such a tough spot.”
A fireball started forming in the pit of my stomach. “Well, maybe if you didn’t ignore me for three years, you would have realized.” I was so shaken from my conversation with Dad, I couldn’t stop myself. “You know, if my dad didn’t lose his business thanks to your stupid sponges, none of this would be happening.”
An incredulous look crossed over his face. “Wait a minute. I ignored you? You were the one who spun around whenever you saw me in the halls. You were the one who stopped talking to me. I thought you hated me.”
I cringed. “Are you for real? I texted you that night, after you were on that stupid show. You never texted me back, and then your dad left my dad in the fucking dust. And then you never spoke to me again.”
“I—”
“Did you think you were too good to talk to me anymore? Was that it?”
His eyes widened. “Not at all—”
“Beat it, kid.” Dad came up behind me, narrowing his eyes at Diego. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”
Diego’s mouth opened and closed, like he couldn’t figure out how to respond. “Mr. Prescott. I’m sorry, I was just—”
Dad’s face reddened, and a vein bulged in his forehead. “You’ve interfered enough in our lives. Now back off.” He jabbed a finger at Diego. “And I don’t want to see you anywhere near my daughter again.”
30 Minutes Left
The idea of Dad locking us in here was so ludicrous it was almost comical. He’d never carry out this elaborate scheme to off some kid inventor out of jealousy. Diego suggesting it was both obnoxious and tragic—the fact that he suspected I’d be willing to murder him broke my heart.
“How could you say that?” I shouted at Diego, my whole body trembling. “First of all, my dad would never risk my life like this.” I motioned to the bomb. “Never in a million years. And you can’
t possibly think I would ever want to kill you.” A tear slipped down my cheek.
He cringed. “I didn’t say that. I said your dad wants you to kill me.” Everyone else watched us like a tennis match. Sasha stared with her jaw agape.
“But that means he would’ve had to include me in his scheming to make sure we’d choose you. Meaning I would’ve had to agree to it. Do you really think I’d ever agree to killing you?”
“No . . . of course not.” He took a step back. “That’s not . . . that’s not what I meant . . .”
I clenched my fists, breathing hard. “Well, maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
He recoiled like I’d slapped him in the face. But I felt like he’d stabbed me in the chest with that syringe.
Robbie let out a growl. “This is freaking ridiculous. There’s no way Amber’s dad’s behind this. I’ve spent loads of time at her house. He’s a cool guy. None of our parents would do this to us. That’s just sick.” Gratitude flooded my chest.
Sasha slapped her hip. “Guys, we don’t have time to debate this!”
Robbie growled again and kicked the door.
“That helps exactly no one,” Diego muttered.
“Yeah, well screw you, too, Spongeman.” Robbie took a couple steps toward Diego, and I raced between them.
“Guys.” I set a hand on Robbie’s chest. His shirt was damp with sweat. The room was sweltering. “Cool it. Okay? Let’s get back on track.” I glowered at Diego, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, alright?” Diego gestured broadly around. “It’s just, all this . . . well, it has to be someone we know, right? And he’s the first person I could think of . . .” He trailed off, wiping his upper lip. “I’m sorry.”
Maybe he really didn’t mean it. Maybe the stifling heat was making us all a bit crazy. “Whatever,” I said. “It’s fine.”
“Okay, okay,” said Sasha. “He’s sorry, you’re sorry, we’re all sorry. So who else could it be? Does anyone have any enemies you’re not telling us about?” Everyone stared at each other, waiting to see who would volunteer first.
