The Forever Crew

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Charlotte, if you wanted to attend as a girl, that's fine. It doesn't make any difference to me, but there are things at this school that you don't understand.”

  I narrow my eyes and purse my glossed lips, tearing my arm from his grip and returning his panicked gaze with a glare of my own.

  “Right, like Jenica, like Eugene, like Jason.”

  “Exactly like that,” Dad whispers, eyes wide with fear. “And little publicity stunts like these don't help.”

  “Somebody wants to kill me,” I blurt back at him, and he cringes. Cringes. My dad, Archibald Charlie Carson. It's enough to make me take a step back.

  “Yes, Charlotte, somebody does.”

  A long pause follows with us staring at one another, my eye twitching in the same way his does. Nature or nurture, I got it from him.

  “Wait, I'm sorry, what did you just say?” I ask, tugging on the little diamond stud in my ear, a fifteenth birthday present from Monica. “Pretty sure I just heard you agree with me.”

  “Charlotte,” Dad starts with a sigh as the first bell rings, and I glance over to see the boys waiting for me at the front entrance to the school. We're all late now, but so what? This is bigger than class (although I really am trying this year since, you know, Tobias teased me with Bornstead University and all). I'd love to go to college with my boys.

  My cheeks flush bright as I realize what I've just said.

  My boys.

  Mine.

  Ugh.

  Told ya I'd fall in love with every boy. I'm a sucker for romance.

  “I've already said too much. Get to class and we'll discuss this later.” Dad stands up straight, glancing over at the school and the cluster of Student Council members with his mouth in a flat line. “Is this some sort of rebellion thing?” he asks me, and I realize after a moment that we've switched topics, from murder to boys. Based on my dad's face, I'm guessing they hold about the same weight in his mind. “Pretending to date them all like this.”

  “Uh, believe it or not, my dating them has nothing to do with you,” I snap, frowning hard. “And don't think I'm just going to walk away and let this whole thing go. You know someone's trying to kill me, and you're not going to do anything about it?”

  Dad looks back at me, and I can tell by the expression on his face that he's scared for me, really and truly terrified.

  “I'd give my life to protect you, Charlotte,” he says, and then he takes off in the direction of the administrative offices, leaving me standing there dumbfounded behind him.

  “Are you alright?” Church asks as the boys join me near the woods, and I turn a worried face their direction.

  “Pretty sure my dad just admitted that someone's trying to murder me,” I hedge, and we all go quiet for a moment. It's one thing to suspect something, and it's another to have it confirmed. Fantastic. Senior year, in a skirt, five boyfriends, three murderers on my tail.

  This should be fun.

  I barely make it through two classes before Mark is schmoozing his way over to me with his football buddies in tow, cornering me just outside of math, the one class in the day where none of the boys are close by.

  He cuts me off in the middle of the hallway, but I'm not concerned. I wasn't afraid of him while I was wearing pants, and I'm not afraid of him in a skirt.

  “Well, well, who knew Chuck Carson was actually so fuckable underneath those ugly glasses?” He reaches out to touch my hair and I smack his hand away, making him and all of his stupid friends laugh. “What's the matter, Chuck? I thought you liked dick. You're already screwing five different guys, so what's one more?”

  “Nice to know that you're a homophobe and a sexist pig,” I snap back, narrowing my eyes. My fingers are just itching to pull out that pepper spray and let loose with it. “Now get the hell out of my way.”

  Mark just sneers at me again, this violent edge to his behavior that's only getting worse by the day. He was insufferable last year. This year, he's a total nightmare. I'd love nothing more than to kick him in the balls—if he has any, that is.

  “What if I don't want to get out of your way?” Mark asks, stepping closer to me, trying to intimidate me with his size. Too bad. I'm not afraid of him. Without even stopping to think, I reach out with both palms and shove him as hard as I can, knocking him back several steps and into his football buddies.

  “Girl or not, I'm kicking your ass,” he snarls, shoving off his friends and coming for me.

  He doesn't make it very far.

  Mr. Murphy steps between us, forcing Mark to stumble to the side to avoid doing whatever he planned for me, to our teacher.

  “If I recall, you were just written up and put on garden duty for the rest of the semester, Mr. Grandam. It's senior year; I'd hate to have to write you up again.” Instead of his usual soft, sweet smile, Mr. Murphy looks resigned, like actually writing someone up might set off an anxiety attack or something. At least he looks like he’d actually do it—it’d be his first time, by the way, ever writing a student up.

  With a scowl, Mark takes off down the hall just as my boys come around the corner. Spencer's eyes go wide at the sight of our friend ‘Adam’ standing in front of me, and he exchanges a look with the twins. Church doesn't seem particularly surprised, but Ranger is pissed.

  “What the fuck was Mark up to?” he asks, storming over to stand beside us, and then turning his glare on Mr. Murphy himself. “And how about you, Adam? Huh? You want to explain some shit to us?”

  Lionel Murphy stares at Ranger for a long, quiet moment, and then hangs his head, almost in shame.

  “Meet me after class in my office,” he says, lifting his head, a deep sort of sadness resting in his pale blue gaze.

  “Why? So you can admit what you've done?” Ranger continues, refusing to let up. He takes a step forward, but Mr. Murphy is already turning away and heading back into his classroom. Meanwhile, Mark’s wasted most of my break, so instead of getting a snack, the bell rings, signaling that it's time to head for third period.

  Surreptitiously, Ranger leans over and pushes one of his homemade granola bars into my hand, carefully wrapped in that reusable beeswax food covering he likes so much, and tied with a dainty pink ribbon. My cheeks turn about that same color as I clutch it to my chest. Church, meanwhile, hands over one of the two white chocolate mochas in his hands, the kind that Merinda only makes for him. I just barely resist the urge to hop up and down. Church can tell, I’m sure, and he smiles in that way only he can—like a smile means everything.

  “What do you think that was all about?” the twins ask absently, watching the door of the classroom like some clue might jump out at them.

  “I have no idea,” Church replies, voice as smooth and stoic as always. “But I suppose we're going to soon find out.”

  After school, the six of us meet up outside the door to Mr. Murphy's office. He's already waiting for us, welcoming us in before he closes and locks the door, and lowers the shades on the window that faces the hallway.

  While we stand there, in various states of awkwardness (me), anger (Ranger), and curiosity (everyone else), Mr. Murphy takes his sweet time preparing a cup of tea and then sitting down behind his desk. He looks exhausted, and like, ten years older than he did this morning.

  “You ready to confess or what?” Ranger asks, pausing only when Church gives him a look that very clearly says calm down, my friend. Mr. Murphy cringes slightly, his cheeks turning a funny pink color, the way mine do when the boys tease me about sex stuff, or how Ranger's do when he sees a fluffy kitten.

  “You asked me about Jenica before,” Mr. Murphy begins, and very quickly, the room goes silent. Ranger's entire body tenses up as he curls his hands around the chair in front of him and leans forward, sapphire eyes glittering like the night sky. Our English teacher looks up with tears in his eyes, and Ranger rears back like he's been slapped, clenching his jaw in anger. Without thinking about it, I reach down and grab hold of his hand, giving it a squeeze. Almost immediately, I see a cha
nge in him, and a little flower of gladness opens up inside of me.

  …

  Flower of gladness?

  Jesus, it's no wonder I'm no poet.

  “You said you thought it looked like we might've dated …” Mr. Murphy pulls a manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk and very carefully slides it over to us. He lets go, and the object sits enticingly between us and him. “You weren't wrong about that.”

  “Hah!” The word bursts out of my mouth, and my cheeks flush with the inappropriateness of my outburst. I'm not meaning to be disrespectful to Jenica or anything. But when Ranger glances my way, there's at least the ghost of a smile on his lips. It doesn't last long though. As soon as he turns back to Mr. Murphy, he's frowning again.

  “She was afraid of Rick, and as much as it pains me to admit it, so was I. We started seeing each other in private,” he admits, a smile lighting his lips that's pretty damn similar to the one Ranger just gave me. Oh my god, they totally did it! I think, but I clamp my lips shut on the revelation. Hell, I could be wrong anyway, right? Ranger and I haven't done it … yet. Ahem. Cough. That time in his room when the tip slipped just barely inside doesn't count. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. “We also …” He trails off again as Ranger grabs the envelope and carefully, with his black painted fingernails, opens it up. What he slides out changes everything.

  The missing pages from Jenica's journal flutter to the surface of the desk, drawings in black ink, slashed through with red. That's not all of them, surely, because I counted the torn pages as best I could. Even a conservative estimate gave me two dozen missing sheets, and we're only looking at about six.

  “The rest of the pages are personal,” Mr. Murphy says, looking down at the desk again. “I'd rather not share those, if you don't mind.”

  “You had access to her journal,” Ranger says slowly, not yet looking at the few pages in his hand, or the ones that've fluttered down to the desk. His attention is fully focused on our kind-hearted English teacher, the one that's literally too nice to kill a fly. A literal fly. He works really hard to shoo them outside. As much as I dislike flies myself, you can't mock kindness in others, even if you feel it's too extreme. Kindness, provided it doesn't cause more harm than good, is never too extreme. “After she died.”

  “Yes, after she was killed,” Mr. Murphy says, looking back up at us. “I shouldn't even be telling you any of this.”

  “Yeah,” Spencer starts with a harsh laugh, “except Chuck caught you purple-handed, leaving that awful fucking note on her door. There's nowhere left to run, dude. Just fess up.”

  “I only wrote the notes because I was trying to protect her,” he pleads, and the sincerity in his voice is convincing. Mr. Murphy stands up from his desk, wringing his hands, his face scrunched up in mental anguish. But I keep Church's words about psychopaths in mind, just in case.

  “So you admit it then?” Church asks casually, a sharp thread of steel in his voice, well-disguised under his genteel manners.

  “I admit it,” Mr. Murphy whispers back, his eyes meeting mine as a chill washes over me. “I was just trying to get Chuck to leave Adamson. I didn't know they would follow.”

  “That who would follow?” Church asks as Ranger swaps one page out for the next, faster and faster, until he's back at the beginning again. His kohl lined gaze flicks up to Mr. Murphy, burning with an intensity that makes me squirm.

  “A cult?” Ranger asks, his voice thick with disbelief. “You want me to believe that my sister was murdered … by a goddamn cult?”

  Mr. Murphy stares right back at us, dead fucking serious.

  “They've been at this school since the beginning, since it was St. Augustine’s abbey. That's where the tunnels are from.”

  “And these?” Ranger asks, pulling the keys out from inside his shirt. It kills me that he wears them around his neck like that. There's something so sweet but so sad about it, like it should be his sister's arms holding him tight, not a pair of necklaces with ribbons that she carefully strung her keys from. “We know one opens her door in the girl's dorm, and that she was wearing it when she died. But what about this one, the gold one?”

  “Where did you find that?” Mr. Murphy asks, biting at his lower lip and glancing in the direction of the door. The soft Enya music that's been playing this whole time—gag me with a spoon, definitely not my choice of tunes—gets turned up, like he's trying to drown out any listening ears from outside.

  “In one of the posts on her bed,” I supply, and Mr. Murphy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “I've looked everywhere for that,” he admits, this blanket of sadness making his shoulders slump. I'm still pissed about the evil notes he wrote me, but I'm not without sympathy. “That's how you got into the tunnels?”

  “Somebody led us to the tunnels,” Micah says, his voice sharp and hard, with that ruthless edge I've always noticed that sets him apart from Tobias. “On purpose. The rain might've been accidental, but locking us in was not.”

  Mr. Murphy sits back down at his desk and takes a careful sip of his tea as Only Time plays in the background. It doesn't quite set the right mood. We need something … ominous, scary, foreboding. I mean, did Ranger just say cult?

  “I’m glad you have Jenica’s room key; that’d make her happy, I think. She spent weeks looking for just the right ribbon …” His face softens with memories, and there’s this long, awkward moment where he’s clearly in another corner of time. When he looks up, the gentleness of those memories shifts into the coldness of fear. “The gold key we found in the woods. One of them dropped it.”

  “One of who?” Ranger snaps, slamming his fist down on the desk. He's shaking now, but I can't blame him. This is a lot to take in, even for someone like me who never met Jenica. “One of fucking who? Sorry if I don't just buy into this cult nonsense.”

  Mr. Murphy's face snaps up suddenly, alarm striking across his handsome features. “Oh, it's not nonsense. It's very much real, and it's why I tried to get Charlotte to leave Adamson. As soon as they chose her, I started leaving the notes.”

  “You're JR, aren't you?” I ask you, cocking my head to one side. “Junior. Jenica's suicide note, that was for you.”

  “It wasn't a suicide note,” Lionel Murphy whispers, closing his eyes against the memory. “We were supposed to meet at the angel statues—”

  “I fucking knew it!” Ranger roars, slamming his fist down on the table and then leaning forward to grab our teacher by the front of his pale blue button-down. He yanks him forward with enough force that Mr. Murphy's teeth rattle in his skull. I put my hand on Ranger's upper arm, warning him back from the edge of violence. He'll be eighteen in a few weeks, and the charges for physical assault are pretty damn serious. Although … I guess his mom would probably pay off the cops the way Spencer's family does for Jack, huh? “And you said nothing? My mom's a devoutly religious woman. She believes her daughter went to hell. And you thought it was okay to keep this all a secret?”

  “They'll kill me if they find out I've spoken to you,” Mr. Murphy whispers, shaking. He really is too nice for this world. Well, unless he's a psychopath. Fuck! It's like, even finding out answers to some of my questions leaves more room for doubt. “And they'll kill you, too, if they know you know.”

  “Know what?!” Ranger snaps, shoving Mr. Murphy back and then raking his fingers through his hair. He moves away from all of us and puts his forehead up against the door. I decide to leave him alone for the time being, turning back to the skittish English teacher as Church steps forward and puts his palms flat on the desk. He looks so … aristocratic. And knowing that he's like, some badass martial arts expert? Be still my beating heart.

  “You wrote the notes to Chuck?” he clarifies, and Mr. Murphy nods. “You let her out of the trunk the night I locked her in?”

  “You let me out?” I ask, looking at Mr. Murphy with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  “And you chased her with the knife,” Church clarifies, and Mr. Murphy groans, putting his fac
e into his hands. “Presumably, to frighten her?”

  “I wasn't going to hurt Chuck,” he moans. “I'm sorry I wrote those awful things. I didn't know how else to get her to leave the school.” He lifts his face up, expression drawn and tired.

  “How did you get the keys to my dad's car?” I question, blinking through the confusion.

  “The break room,” Mr. Murphy admits sheepishly, and my brows go up. Of course. Just like I'd planned on stealing his keys. Why the hell didn't I think of that until now?

  “Dear JR,” Church begins, reciting the suicide note—or rather the not suicide note—from memory. “I think they know about us. There's not much left I can do. If you want to meet me, you know where to find me. I'll be waiting with the angels. Love, J. Explain it, please.”

  “The cult found out that Jenica knew about them, that she’d been watching them,” Mr. Murphy says, shame coloring his words. “We weren't sure if they were aware of me, too. She was going to leave campus, but she needed Jack to give her a ride; she didn't want to risk calling a car. She thought … well, it doesn't matter what she thought.”

  “Jack?” Spencer says, his voice high and tight. I glance back in time to see a look of surprise cross his handsome features. The twins exchange a look behind him and step forward, like honor guards, taking up on either side of him. “Jack killed Jenica?”

  “No, but I think he knows who did,” Mr. Murphy says, standing up suddenly and reaching for the cord on his blinds. When he opens them, I can see that we're done here. He's told us all he's going to. He's a nice man, a kind man, but he's also a coward. That much is obvious. “Try not to be too hard on him. If he spoke up, he'd be dead, too. Now, go back to the dorms and stay together. It's almost over …” His voice trails off, and I exchange a look with Church.

  What the crap is that supposed to be mean?

  And is it a good thing, or a bad one?