Back in the day he and Danny were on all of the same teams, and at least three times a week I would come home to find them in the backyard throwing some sort of ball at each other—or trying to take a ball from each other. It was never entirely clear. What is clear, however, is that James doesn’t seem all that happy to see his long-lost friend.
“Not much,” Danny says. “I totally beat that campaign in Halo 2. On Legendary.”
“That’s awesome.”
Danny nods proudly. “Yeah, I know. Why are you sitting over here all by yourself? Everyone knows it smells funky in this corner. Hey, Amanda! Guess who’s here?” he yells across the cafeteria, and then turns back to James. “She’d totally go out with you again.”
“Cool,” James says. “I’m actually talking with Sophie right now, but I might come by later.”
There’s an awkward silence as Danny notices me for the first time. He blinks. I smile dorkily and give a little salute that I will regret for the rest of my life.
“Well, okay man,” he says, standing up. “But we should hang out. Play some Halo for old times’ sake.”
“Sure.”
They do another hand dance. I wait until Danny’s safely ensconced back at his table to speak. “You could have gone to sit with them,” I say, even though a part of me is ridiculously pleased that he is staying put.
“I came here to talk to you, not Danny Baumann,” he says. Our eyes catch, and my chest suddenly feels too tight. I look away for a moment, only to spot something that makes it feel even tighter: Lindsay Allen, striding toward us, ecstatic.
Snatching up my notebook, I frantically brush all of the Post-it Notes she left in James’s locker beneath it. “Help me,” I plead.
“What—”
“Hey! Who’s this?” Lindsay asks eagerly. She holds out her hand, already a tiny ambassador. “I’m Lindsay. Let me know if you want a tour. Student Council is in charge of them.”
“Ted,” I blurt before James can answer. “His name is Ted. Comes from Tennessee. Hates tours.”
Two pairs of eyes study me, but James’s green ones hold mine the longest. Finally, he reaches to shake her hand.
“I’m Ted,” he says, affecting a slight twang. “And tours give me hives.”
Either Lindsay’s pissed that her offer to show him the Wall of Mathletes has been rebuffed, or she’s not buying it.
“Really? I’ve been spending a lot of time in the attendance office lately, and I haven’t seen your name on any of the incoming new-student forms.”
“It was a very sudden move. One day my parents are happy nestled in the hills of Appalachia, and the next day they want to go work for Google.” James gives an exaggerated shrug. “What can you do?”
“I see. What city did you say you were from?”
“Uh, Columbus.”
Lindsay squints, and I can tell that she’s trying to remember if there really is a Columbus, Tennessee. Nashville, I want to yell. Why didn’t you pick Nashville? Or Memphis? Dammit, James, know your capitals! Not that it would have made this plan any less transparent.
“Ted wouldn’t be short for ‘James,’ would it?” she asks.
“Nope.”
It’s obvious that Lindsay doesn’t know how to confront an unwilling interview subject. She frowns at the tile and then looks at me, her eyes filled with confusion, betrayal, and a glimmer of anger.
“See you in Journalism, Sophie. Mr. Amado will be surprised to hear that he missed a new student,” she says, her voice so cold that it kills me, and then walks away.
I am a ball of slime, the giant kind that families in minivans pull over to see on their summer vacation. Up until now I’ve been picking at my lunch, but now I shove it away, sending a few fries sailing off the edge.
“So what was that about?” James asks with a practiced casualness.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“You just gave me an alternate identity. Not that I mind that much, but you gave me a bad one. Ted, Sophie. From Tennessee.”
Might as well admit it. “She’s the girl who wants to interview you.”
“I got that much,” James says and then arches into a proud stretch. “It’s cute how protective you are of me.”
“You wish,” I say, but it’s halfhearted. “Here’s the deal. She’s my competition to be editor in chief, and you’re her last interviewee. If she has hers finished by today while I’m still missing two, I might as well give up now. It’s stupid and childish and petty. I know. But it wouldn’t be a problem if Vlad and Marisabel would just talk to me,” I finish, slamming my fists down on the table in frustration.
James says nothing. I try to gauge his expression, nervous that he’s going to think I’ve turned into a horrible person. This unnerves me almost as much as my recent Mean Girl impression. When he finally speaks, it’s not a question that I was expecting.
“Your last two interviewees are Vlad and Marisabel?”
My relief at not being judged brings out the whole enchilada. “Yes. But not only won’t they talk to me, they scare the crap out of me. They’re not normal students. I overheard a very strange conversation yesterday. And Vlad’s dating my sister. And possibly dating his sister, too.”
James looks at me, alarmed. “Sophie, stay away from them. Tell Caroline to steer clear, too.”
His vehemence startles me. “Why?”
“Never mind why,” he snaps. Before I can express my outrage at being bullied, he drops the heavy-handed act and leans forward. “What if I get them to answer the questions? You already have them written down.”
“That’s nice of you to offer,” I say. “But why are they going to pay any more attention to you than they gave to me?”
There is another long pause. “Because I know them.”
“You mean you met them this morning?”
“No, I mean they went to my last school,” he says quickly—too quickly—while looking everywhere other than straight at me.
For a second I can only blink at him stupidly. “Are you telling me that they’re your friends?” I ask.
“No!” he snaps. “I don’t want anything to do with them.”
“But I don’t understand,” I insist. “Six people from your old school follow another boy to your hometown, and it’s not connected? That’s ridiculous. It’s too much of a coincidence. And they’re up to something; I know it. The other day—”
James grabs my hand, surprising me enough that I stop talking. I can feel his fingers, firm but cool, against the underside of my palm.
“Sophie,” he says, his voice low and insistent. “I need you to trust me when I tell you to stop. I mean it. I don’t want you drawn into this. I want to let what’s going to happen happen, and then I just want to try to go back. Back to like it was before. Before I moved, before my parents . . .”
“James, what are you doing? Why are you touching her?”
Violet’s voice cuts through the din of cafeteria laughter. It’s always been prone to squeaking, but now there’s an edge to it, a tension and a disbelief that threatens to crack it right down the middle. She’s clutching at the fabric of her dress with both hands. I tear my own hand away from James’s and stuff it beneath the table in a rush of embarrassment.
“Violet,” I start, but she rambles over me, growing more and more distressed.
“They said that if I gave you space you would come to your senses,” she cries, her eyes skittering wildly back and forth. “They said that if I found my own activities, you would be attracted to my new and confident self. They said it. They said it. And now you are making eyes at a girl who dresses like a peasant—a male peasant—and kisses on the first date. She is a hussy, James.”
The word “hussy” draws some attention, but I don’t care. So James is Violet’s mystery boy. Swinging my gaze to James, I join the forces waiting for an answer. He waits a beat before running his hands through his hair and letting out an exasperated sigh.
“Violet, I told you. I’m sorry that
I hurt you. Believe me, if I could take it all back—and I do mean all of it—I would. But you have to let this go.”
“But I can’t,” she cries, covering her heart with her hands. “I love you.”
Nothing good can come from going down this path, so I try to intercede again. “Violet,” I say softly, “James and I weren’t—”
“Stop it,” she hisses. “You are the reason I’m in this muddle. You and your bad advice.”
The malice in her face makes my heart stop cold, and I eye her clenched fists, wondering if I am going to get into an honest-to-God cafeteria fight. But instead of launching herself at me, Violet suddenly puts a hand to her forehead and starts to sway. “I think I feel faint,” she says, and then collapses on the ground.
The crowd that’s gathered around us gives a little gasp. Sighing, James bends down over her prostrate form and lightly smacks one of her cheeks. “Violet, get up. You know you can’t faint.”
Her eyelids flutter. He is about to try the other cheek when Ms. Kate, now on lunchroom duty, barrels her way through the crowd.
“What’s going on here?” she booms. “Stand back, people, and give the girl some room. The bell’s about to ring.” She points to the ceiling, and the bell obliges her, most likely too scared to disobey. “See? Go to your class. Stop gawking.”
The ring of onlookers begins to break up, students shuffling off in twos and threes. When Ms. Kate crouches down to look at Violet, James stands up and comes back toward me. Still a little shaken, I gather my things and turn to ask one of my many, many new questions, but he nudges me toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
“But Violet—”
“Is fine. Well, physically at least. You should get out of here.” When we’re in the hallway, he lets go of my arm and looks at the notebook I am holding to my chest like a bulletproof vest. “Do you still need those questions answered?”
“Well, yes.”
“Great.” He grabs it from me, tears out the two pages with my questions for Vlad and Marisabel, and then shoves it back into my hands. “I’ll have it to you by next period,” he says, starting to walk away.
“But—”
“You can pay me back by giving me a ride home today,” he calls down the hall. “I’ll meet you by your car. When do you leave?”
“Six,” I say, still half-dazed.
“Good. See you then.” He stops for a second and gives me a look I can’t decipher. “We’ll talk,” he says shortly and then disappears around a corner.
Chapter Six
My concentration is shot for the rest of the day. When I’m not trying to figure out what James is caught up in, I’m watching the door for Violet. It opens halfway through Ms. Walpole’s lecture on body paragraphs, and my spine goes rigid. For once I am actually relieved when it is only Vlad, late to class again. After a few excuses about losing himself in a library book and a round of awkward staring, she waves him to his seat. From my spot at the back of the room, I can see his wavy blond head, the tops of his shoulders, and one lean, muscular arm. Every time Ms. Walpole turns around, he slips out a ragged piece of lined paper and hunches over. He’s writing something, and for once it’s not in that little journal he slips in and out of his back pocket.
When the bell rings, Vlad scoops up his belongings in one arm and weaves through the departing students to stand in front of my desk. I blink up at him through the fluorescent light.
“You are Sophie, correct?” he asks, sounding bored with the question. He pulls out the wilting piece of paper he scribbled on all period and flicks it at me. “This is for you.”
I look down to find my list of questions, which are now accompanied by answers written in a tight, florid hand.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even despite my boiling hatred. Now is probably not the time to tell him he writes like a girl.
“I did it as a favor to James, nothing more,” Vlad says and then arches one pale eyebrow. “Anything else that you would like to know? My favorite rainy day activity, perhaps?”
“No, that’s it.” Jerkface. “Thanks again.” Standing up, I start to brush by him, but where a normal human being would twist to avoid a butt bump, he stays rooted in place. Sucking in my stomach, I refuse to let him fluster me. I smile, a bit of bravado he acknowledges with a surprised quirk of his pale eyebrows. Ha. I’m almost in the clear when my bag catches on the back of a chair.
Damn. As I’m working on untangling it, my neck begins to tingle like I’ve been sitting too long in the sun. I look up to find Vlad eyeing it, nostrils flared, with more interest than he’s ever given any other part of my anatomy. This is the last straw.
“Could you move?”
His gaze snaps up to meet my eyes before he gives a smile that’s part sardonic, part self-mocking, and no parts apologetic.
“My apologies,” he says, his voice so full of laughter that I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a gut right there. When I walk out, I don’t turn around.
The bell rings before I make it to my locker, so when I get there I’m so rushed that I almost miss the folded piece of paper that falls at my feet. There’s something chicken-scratched on the front.
Sophie,
Do you know how many people I had to ask before I found someone who knew where your locker was? I told you—loner. Here are Marisabel’s answers to your questions. See you at 6.
—James
Well, I have my answers. Now I just wish I had a better idea of what possible connection he could have to all of this.
I stuff the questions in my folder since I’m already late to journalism. Luckily, Mr. Amado is already in full newspaper mode and doesn’t seem to care. After making an offhand comment about being glad that I could join the class, he tells me that he’s about to start the progress check. I slide into my seat next to Lindsay, who is studying her folders with a queasy expression.
“Since your finished articles are due next Tuesday,” Mr. Amado says, “you should have all of your fact-gathering done. Lindsay and Sophie, I’m starting with you. Let’s see it.”
We pull out our info. I make a hasty excuse for the state of Vlad and Marisabel’s interviews.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Today we just want the info. Lindsay?”
Lindsay hands over her typed responses, still silent. Mr. Amado flips through them and then frowns. “There are only three here. Have you talked to all of your subjects?”
She clears her throat. “I still . . . I still haven’t been able to find James.”
“He hasn’t come to school yet?”
“The attendance records show that he was here today. But he wasn’t in my math class like his schedule said he should be.” She turns my way. “The only new person was Ted.”
“Ted?” Mr. Amado asks. “I must have missed him. I’ll look into it. But you should know that this might set you behind schedule. Good work, Sophie.”
We both watch as he walks over to Neal and asks him whether or not he’s managed to expand on the fact that yes, blood had been stolen. I shoot Lindsay an apologetic look that she won’t return. Instead she concentrates on cleaning out her folders, lining up her papers with the precision of a drill sergeant before slipping them back in.
“Lindsay, I—”
“I’m going to work in back today,” she says quickly, abandoning me to set up shop next to the computers.
I spend the rest of the period thinking of ways to apologize, working out elaborate fantasies where I play the Good Samaritan, the best of which is where I give a five-hundred-dollar donation to Greenpeace in her name and then let her know by spelling it out in cupcakes across her lawn. Deep down, however, I know that the only way to make this right is to admit that I lied, direct her to James, and let her yell at me. Five minutes before the bell rings, I ready myself to catch her as she exits the classroom, but she heads to Mr. Amado’s desk early. He scribbles something on a pink hall pass, and she’s out the door. I guess this giant rock of guilt will be ca
mping out in my gut for a little while longer.
I stay in the journalism room after school lets out to work on my articles, spreading the responses from Vlad and Marisabel out on the table next to my computer.
Full name: Vladimir Roman Smithson
Age: The common age for one at this school
How many brothers and sisters do you have? What are their ages? Seven. Deceased.
Favorite Color: Gray
Favorite Animal: Wolf
Favorite Hangout: This is a stupid question.
What are the top five songs on your playlist? This is a nonsensical question.
Scar you’re most proud of and where it came from? Left arm, swordfight with my father.
If you were a car, what car would you be and why? I am not a car, nor do I wish to be one.
If you could only have one book on a deserted island, what would it be? The Prince and The Lost Daughter.
When you were little, who was your favorite superhero? Casanova.
Are you a morning or night person? Night.
What’s the weirdest thing you eat at home? No comment.
What is the greatest problem in the United States? Elitist groups.
What one word would you put on your gravestone? Impossible.
What do people like best about you? Whatever I tell them to like.
These bogus answers hardly seem worth the trouble, not to mention that I didn’t ask the dumbface what two books he’d take to a desert island. Marisabel’s are even worse. She answered most of the questions with “I don’t know” and the rest with doodled flowers. That’s it, I think, crumpling the pages into one tiny ball of suck. I’m done banging my head against this stone wall; I don’t care if I have to begin my article, “Vlad likes three things: fencing, himself, and killing off his siblings.” I don’t care if I have to lie and—oops—report that Vlad likes finger painting with dolphin blood in his spare time. We’re now entering full investigative mode.
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