by Dana Mele
None of the articles say foul play is suspected, but one says that her death is under investigation. I glance at the remaining match dates circled on my calendar. The clock is ticking. Each one of those dates is a desperately important deadline, and there is no reason to believe an investigation is going to be wrapped up in time for our games to resume so I can be scouted. My parents are going to flip.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes and I glance down at it. It’s my father. I hesitate, but pick up.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How was practice, buddy?”
“I had to cancel.”
“Why?”
“Someone died. A student.”
“Oh, buddy. One of your teammates?”
“No, someone else.” I sit on the bed and draw my knees up to my chest. I usually check in with my parents on Sunday and it makes me a little nervous that he’s calling off schedule. As if he’s going to drop a bomb about something.
“Hmm.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Maybe you should just stick to the routine. Keep up that stiff upper lip. You know, for the sake of the younger girls. To set an example.”
It suddenly occurs to me that he probably read about Jessica’s death already and that’s exactly why he’s calling. “It wasn’t up to me, Dad. The school suspended athletic activities while the death is being investigated.”
“What?” I hear my mother’s voice in the background. Great. I should have known she was listening in. You can’t mention death around my mother. I dig my fingernails into the back of my neck to punish myself for making that mistake. “Ask her about Monday.” I hear her take the phone. “What about Monday’s game?”
I curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s canceled. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I am no happier than you are. Believe me.”
I hear my father curse in the background.
“That is unacceptable,” my mother says. “Have you talked to Dr. Klein?”
“No, Mom. I did not reach out to the headmistress. I can’t just call her and demand change. She’s not Congress.”
“You didn’t even try? Do you want me to try? This is not the time to just sit back and hope for the best. We need to follow the plan.”
“Someone did just die,” I say quietly. But deliberately. Because I need this call to end.
She starts to say something but the words melt into a low sigh.
I bite my lower lip. There’s a long silence. Then my mother speaks again, her voice unsteady. “Is there anything else you want to talk about, sweetie?”
“No,” I say, holding my breath until it feels like my face is going to explode.
“Let’s talk again soon,” she says.
My father gets back on the phone. “Time to brainstorm, buddy. Make phone calls, write letters. Whatever it takes to get your offers locked in. You’ve worked too hard to let it all slip away. You ride this out like everything else. Right?”
“Right.”
I hang up and let the breath out finally in an enormous whoosh, then punch my mattress and hug my pillow tightly to my chest. I wish Spencer wasn’t eminently unfaithful. I wish Justine hadn’t finally woken up so I could call Brie and vent. I wish my parents would just shut up and listen for once. None of that is going to go down the way I want it to. I can’t play on Monday. I have no control over that. Damn you, Jessica Lane.
Then I sit up and force myself to take a deep, calming breath. I know the manner of death, I saw the body, and I know the family and her business are local. Cut wrists, high-pressure school. If the police can’t open and shut a suicide case, it’s because they’re spread too thin. But I’m not. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve stood there helpless while it swirled around me, too slow to stop the moving pieces until everyone was in ruin. My best friend and my brother dead, my father devastated, my mother prepared to throw her life away, too. And me, encased in ice.
I close my fingers over my phone and turn it to silent, my mother’s voice echoing in my head. I can fix this. I can. Before the next game is canceled.
A ping alerts me to a new email, and I glance over at my computer screen. The subject line reads “Athletic Scholarship Update.” My heart begins to race and I pull my laptop over and open the message.
Dear Kay,
I regret to inform you that certain unsavory activities in your past have come to my attention and your eligibility for winning an athletic scholarship is at risk. I myself will be unable to attend college, so you have my sincerest sympathy. Therefore, if you agree to help me complete my final project, I may be able to overlook your transgressions.
Click on the link at the bottom of this email and follow my instructions. When you have completed each task, a name will disappear from the class roster. If you fail to complete any task within 24 hours, a link to the website along with proof of your crime will be sent to your parents, the police, and every student at Bates Academy.
If you succeed, no one will ever find out what you did.
Most cordially yours,
Jessica Lane
P.S. At the risk of sounding cliché, talking to the police would not go well for you, Kay. It never has, has it?
The email was sent from Jessica’s Bates account. For a moment the thought that she’s still alive runs through my mind and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe it’s all been one massive, surreal mistake. Of course, that would also mean we left a bleeding victim alone in a lake. It would be a miracle, but we’d probably be guilty of attempted homicide or something. Oh God, I am dead meat. Then I talk myself down. I know, without a doubt, that she is dead.
It’s possible that someone else sent the email from her account. But the idea is so twisted, I can’t even entertain it. She must have written the message before she died and timed it to be sent now. The wording makes it look like she knew she was going to die. Her final project. Not attending college. Or maybe I’m reading into it. Finals are looming and there are tons of reasons people don’t go to college.
This email might convince the cops that she wasn’t murdered after all. I could take it to the police and possibly end the investigation right now.
But the postscript sends a chill down my spine.
There is a link at the bottom of the page that says jessicalanefinalproject.com. I click on it.
The screen goes blank for a long moment and then an image of a rustic country kitchen with a cast-iron stove appears. Letters slowly fog up on the glass window of the stove until the name of the site is crystal clear: Revenge Is a Dish: A Delicious Guide to Taking Down Your Enemies.
3
I click on the link frantically, but the site is password protected. Revenge Is a Dish. Jessica’s final project was revenge. And she sent it straight to me. I make one more pointless attempt to open the site and then push my laptop as far away from me as I can. I can’t take my eyes off it, though.
I wish Spencer hadn’t screwed things up so royally. A devoted gamer as well as an athlete, he would be able to hack into the site effortlessly. I scroll down through my recent-calls list. He’s never been more than one swipe down and it depresses me. I keep expecting him to call to apologize again, to check on me, to tell me something random reminded him of me. But apparently, nothing ever does.
I drop my phone onto the bed and turn back to my laptop. I log on to the school community network and scroll through the student body, looking for someone who might be able to help. Bates is a strong STEM school, and a decent number of students know at least some coding. Maddy, Brie, and Cori have all taken STEM-heavy course loads. I could try Maddy—she’s taken the most coding classes—but I’m hesitant. Based on the threat in the letter, I don’t want my friends anywhere near Jessica’s project, and least of all Maddy. I would rather not have anyone I interact with at all involved. The less social credibility, the better. Just in case t
hey learn something and it’s my word against theirs.
Nola Kent. There’s a little green dot next to her name, indicating that she’s online. I hesitate before sending her a personal message. Two years ago, when Nola was a new transfer, Tai and Tricia and I had been a little hard on her. Mostly behind her back. We may have come up with a well-chosen nickname or rumor or two. But that was ages ago. She’d probably feel more awkward than I did if I brought it up. Not our fault if she dresses like a cross between a funeral director and a killer doll. And she’s come to a few soccer games since then, so I figure no hard feelings.
Hey, you there? I hit enter and wait.
Her class picture pops up along with ellipses to show she’s responding. She is very short and waiflike, with long, thick dark hair that seems to overwhelm the rest of her body. Her skin is porcelain white and she has bright-blue eyes that are so round, she always looks stunned. The word that comes to mind when I think of Nola Kent is slight. She’s just not very much of anything, or so we thought when we started messing with her. But it turned out that she has an extremely valuable little quirk. She can wreak havoc with codes and systems. Hi.
I’m having trouble getting into a website.
Is it password protected?
Yes.
Do you have the password?
No.
Are you supposed to?
It’s a long story.
Tell me.
I sigh. I need to know what Jessica thinks she had on me, and what she meant by enemies and revenge. And Nola is my best shot at finding out and keeping the information contained. Let’s meet.
Where? Swarmed.
Library.
In five.
I slip out the back entrance of the dormitory to avoid the crowds and head down the hill to the library. Outside, the air smells like wood smoke and cider, the way it should on an early November Saturday. The sounds of the reporters and mourners still carry over from the front of the building. Some of them have begun singing hymns, while others continue to talk. It’s like a cross between an outdoor wake and a giant tailgate. It’s gauche and bizarre and creepy. Beyond the crowd of mourners, there actually aren’t too many students out on the green between the dorms and the academic quad, and I slow my pace and kick at the dead leaves contemplatively. This was supposed to be a huge day. Practice until five, dinner with Brie and Justine, and then we were all going to make a definitive decision on whether Spencer could ever be trusted again. I mean, the answer is probably pretty obvious. According to Justine, an extremely reliable source of gossip at Easterly, he cheated on me with a Bates student at the café where we had our first official date. But people change. Everyone’s done regrettable stuff in the past. Raise your hand if you haven’t. Yeah.
I head to the top floor of the library, where I’m least likely to run into anyone else, and send Nola a text to let her know I’ve arrived. The top floor is totally retro. It houses VHS tapes, microfilms, and an old-school card catalogue. Everything up here must be valuable somehow or the school wouldn’t hang on to it. But it’s basically an old media boneyard, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to bother us up here. I find a comfortable, moth-bitten green corduroy armchair that’s probably as old as the VHS collection and settle into it, unfolding my laptop on my knees.
“Hi.”
A low shriek escapes my lips. Nola is perched atop a bookshelf just above my head, dressed all in black like the goddamned Raven.
“What are you doing up there?”
She leaps down nimbly and leans her chin over my shoulder, stretching a bony wrist out to type on my keyboard. “Waiting for your slow ass.” She nudges me with her shoulder until I make room for her on the chair and surrender the computer to her completely. She inspects the revenge website and then turns her enormous eyes on me. “Why are we stalking a dead girl?”
I shift in the chair uncomfortably. This is too close for someone I barely know, and my idea now sounds completely stupid even to me. “Like I said, it’s a long story. Can you just take it on faith that it’s really important that I get into this website?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why?”
I hesitate for a moment. Jessica said not to go to the cops. She didn’t say anything about Nola Kent. “Jessica asked me to.”
She pauses. “Were you friends?”
There are moments for lies. “Close, but not best.”
“Why didn’t she give you the password?”
“Look. I need to read what’s on that website. Jessica left me a message and I have no other way to access it. It’s basically her last words.”
She closes my laptop. “That’s not very compelling.”
“What do you want?”
“You don’t have any money.” She says it so matter-of-factly. If she’d said it more viciously, it would have stung less.
“You don’t need any,” I say. It’s true. She’s like the others. She may not dress like them or act like them, but her family is old New England money.
That seems to catch her off guard, and she hesitates before answering. “Put me on your team when you start up again.”
My mouth drops open. “But—you’ve never even come to a tryout.”
She shrugs, her face bland, expressionless. “I didn’t say I was interested. I said I wanted in.”
I gape at her. “I don’t have that kind of power. Coach makes those decisions.”
She is thoroughly unconvinced. “You have enough influence.”
“I would have to cut someone who worked really hard to get there.”
“Well,” she says slowly. “That’s the choice I’m offering you.”
I consider this. I do have enough influence. As captain, I all but run the team. At Bates, teachers and coaches encourage students to take on full responsibility and leadership of our organizations. I hate the idea of cutting someone who earned their spot. On the other hand, I need Nola’s help. I reluctantly give her my hand and she shakes it with cool fingers.
“Excellent,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to be awesome.” She shoots me a mocking look. “I can be awesome now, right?”
I allow her full rein over my laptop uneasily. “Don’t close any windows.”
“Got it.” She opens it and taps her fingers lightly on the keys. Then she opens a new window and starts downloading something.
“Hey!” I grab for the computer, but she yanks it out of my reach.
“Relax. I’m not going to destroy your Jurassic operating system. I’m downloading a program I use all the time that’s pretty good at cracking passwords. Jessica was a fairly sophisticated programmer, but the human mind can only dream up so many permutations . . .”
“Did you know her?”
“Only from comp sci classes. Never spoke.” She runs the program and types furiously and then turns to me triumphantly. “See?”
The word L@br@d0r is highlighted on the screen.
I stare at her. “Could you figure out my passwords that easily?”
She hands the laptop back to me. “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”
I click back on the blog and type in the password. The oven opens and inside, the title of the site appears again in seared red letters: Revenge Is a Dish: A Delicious Guide to Taking Down Your Enemies. I click on the title and six categories appear below: appetizer, first course, main course, palate cleanser, side dish, dessert. I click on appetizer and a graphic of a burned tennis ball appears with a recipe for Tai Burned Chicken. At the same time, an icon of an oven timer pops up, set at 24:00:00. It immediately starts ticking down. I click on the timer but there’s no way to stop or alter it.
Nola tries typing a few commands and shrugs. “Maybe the link only stays live for twenty-four hours?” But I know better. That’s the time I have to complete my task.
I click on the next recipe, but an error message po
ps up, reading, Oven in use. Revisit kitchen when timer resets.
“Adorable,” Nola says.
As I scan the recipe, the corners of my lips begin to turn up. It has to be a joke.
Take a chicken, white and red
Mock it till it’s good and dead
Brand it with a 3.5
Burn it if it’s still alive
Stuff with Sharapova’s shame
Take her out and watch the flames.
Nola looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’m no master of poetic imagery, here, but it looks like Jessica had some grand plans for Tai Carter. What did Tai do to her?”
I frown. “I don’t think they really knew each other.” When we found the body, Tai couldn’t even remember her name. How much damage can you do to someone whose name you don’t know?
Nola shrugs. “Poetry gives me migraines. The way everything means something else. According to Mr. Hannigan, anyway. But look at it line by line, Hannigan style, starting with the title.” She runs a finger along underneath the text, assuming our English teacher’s slight Irish lilt. It’s unfortunate that she doesn’t have his rugged handsome features, because that might soften the disturbing imagery. Her fingers are slender and delicate and her nails painted a glossy eggplant color, and the blue light issuing from my laptop just makes her look paler and thinner as she peers into the screen.
‘Tai Burned Chicken,’ she reads. “Thai’s spelled wrong, unless it really means your girl. Burned. It’s a food blog but it’s about revenge, right? And chicken. Again, food, but also coward.”
“Tai’s no coward,” I say.
She looks at me, interested. “Oh?”
I have zero interest in defending my friends to Nola Kent, of all people. “Trust me,” I say.
