The S-Word

by Chelsea Pitcher

  “Sexy ladies,” I yell, jogging to catch up to them. “Hold up.”

  I put my arms around their shoulders and they part to let me in.

  “Hey, babe,” says Elliot.

  Ugh. Do not call me that.

  Cara says “I’m glad you’re not mad about Drake,” right off the bat.

  “He’s not worth it,” I say with a snort. Cara may be on my shit list but she still deserves better than him. Everyone does. “If you know what I mean.”

  She grins. “Point taken.”

  “Good. So, last night I had the best idea,” I say as the bleachers come into view. Kennedy’s watching us from up above. No doubt she suspects I’m up to something. “You know how we decorated those T-shirts the first day of the year?” We wrote things like Seniors Rule! and See Ya, Suckas! “I thought we could do something on our graduation gowns. Something about the squad. Or even . . .” I glance at the bleachers, biting my lip tentatively. “About Kennedy?”

  “To show her how much we love her?” Elliot gushes.

  “That’s so sweet!” Cara agrees. For an instant, I feel sorry for them. As beautiful as they are, either one would kill to be Kennedy. Both are going to Colorado State so they can be close to her.

  “What should we say?” Elliot chews on a strand of hair.

  “Something simple,” I reply. “It has to be short, so it’ll fit.”

  “Hey.” Cara turns to me. I can tell by her widened eyes that she’s falling right into my trap. “What if we each did one word? Like”—she points to each of us—“We. Love. Kennedy.” Naturally, she assigns Kennedy to herself.

  “That’s brilliant.” I clap my hands. “But we can’t let her find out.”

  “We can keep a secret,” Elliot promises.

  “I know you can. We just have to find a way to get the gowns tonight instead of tomorrow.”

  “That Shelby girl’s sorting them,” Elliot says. “Isn’t she in your Drama class?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I nod like the wheels in my head are turning. “Yeah, maybe I can get her to give them to me.”

  “Steal them if you have to!” Cara tugs my arm. “We have to do this.”

  “I agree,” I say as we approach the bottom of the bleachers. “We have to.”

  Kennedy glares as we ascend. It’s clear she’s ready for a fight. All I have to do is point her in a different direction . . .

  “Hello, darling.” I practically sit in her lap.

  She speaks casually but the words tickle my spine. “What are you girls cooking up?”

  Cara and Elliot are guilty-conscience pale, but me? I’m cool as a cucumber. “Peace and love brownies?”

  Kennedy chuckles. “Keep joking. I dare you.”

  “Okay, I’ll level.” I smile at the girls. “I needed their opinion. I heard something that might upset you.”

  “Oh really? And what’s that?”

  I glance at the other girls on the bleachers. They sprawl around her like a Royal Cheer Court. I wonder what they’re going to do without their uniforms. “I think you’d appreciate discretion on this one.”

  Kennedy smiles at her subjects. “Like there’s anything you can’t say in front of my girls.”

  “All right, fine.” I shrug. “Remember that story you told me? About the guy with the sketchpad who caught you in a—”

  “Okay, let’s walk.” Kennedy jumps up faster than I can say “compromising position.” Her arm slips around my shoulders like our chat will be friendly. “What did you hear?” she asks when we’re a good distance away.

  “It was Marvin Higgins.”

  “You serious? That little—”

  I cut her off. “There’s more. All signs point to him being the one who made that playing card of Lizzie. He’s her neighbor, Kenn.”

  “Wasn’t he into her?”

  “Oh, yeah. He thought they were, like, soul mates.”

  “Then she chose Drake—”

  “And it looks like Marvin flipped. But don’t worry, I’m taking care of it.”

  “What exactly are you planning?” she asks, eyes narrowing. She really does look menacing, even with the ponytail. It’s a talent.

  “Nothing crazy,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t get your invisible panties in a twist. It’s sort of an eye-for-an-eye–type scenario.”

  She watches me a minute. “Well, I’m not going to tell you to leave Marvin alone,” she says finally. “That pervert made his own bed. But don’t go after my girls.”

  I wave my hand, like that’s totally different. “Don’t be so paranoid. I was just warning Cara about Drake. You should’ve seen them at her party; he was totally taking advantage.”

  “Apparently that’s his game.”

  “Funny how people hear things and no one talks about it.”

  “Just a rumor.” She turns back to the bleachers. I expect her to flip that ponytail in my face.

  But when she doesn’t leave immediately, I step closer. “Have you given any thought to what I said? I mean, the other day . . .”

  She tenses, keeping her back to me. Her hair is blowing in the wind. “Yes.”

  “Any thoughts?”

  “Plenty.”

  “I’d go with you, you know. If you decided to talk to the police.”

  “Well, I appreciate that.” She inhales. I can see it as much as I can hear it. “Give me a few more days.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I find Drake stationed in front of my sixth-period class. He’s wearing his letterman jacket and rolled-up jeans. I smile like I’m happy to see him.

  “Where have you been?” His voice is gruff.

  “Extra-special busy,” I say, tapping his chest. “But I haven’t forgotten about you.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” He leans in. “What the hell happened?”

  “My dad happened. He caught me leaving the house with my bikini in my hand. I guess I wasn’t thinking about it. I’m so used to living with Mom.” Lie! “He forbade me from going to your house.”

  “He forbade you?”

  “He took away my phone!” Mega lie! “Hilarious, huh?”

  “Why are you even staying with him?”

  “He misses me.”

  Drake pouts like he thinks he’s pretty. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.” Biggest lie of all! “But I’m going back to Mom’s soon.” I play with his collar. It’s like sticking my hand in a bucket of maggots.

  “How soon?”

  “Saturday. After graduation. I’ll come over after and we can have a party in our graduation gowns. Only our gowns,” I add.

  He grins. “We can pick them up tomorrow, right?”

  “I’m going to get mine tonight. I can get yours too if you want.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve got to go,” I say, backing away. “I’ve got a final with Salinger the Sadist.”

  Drake laughs. “Guy’s not so bad. You never gave him a chance.”

  “He thinks Columbus got a bad rap.” I duck into the room before he can kiss me. I really don’t need to vomit on the last day of class.

  The first thing I see is Jesse. He’s wearing a green thrift-store dress with black Converse. It’s probably the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I want to take my final in his lap. To counter this feeling I sit two rows in front of him. My teacher smirks, like, too little too late. Screw him. He just loves giving a final on the last day of school, doesn’t he?

  I must do an okay job on the test. I finish twenty minutes before the end of class. Old Sal barely looks up as I set it on his desk. He’s too focused on his book. It’s probably a manual on medieval torture practices.

  I grab my stuff and excuse myself to the bathroom. Jesse’s text comes in when I’m passing through the door.

  “How’d you do?”

  I reply, “Don’t text during a test!”

  “Aw, you really do care.”

  “I’m serious. He
’ll fail you.”

  “Small price to pay.”

  I don’t respond. I want to but I can’t. I run the water from the faucet over my hands until it gets too hot. Then I run it over my hands some more. My skin is turning red when his next message comes in.

  “Just think of what you’re giving up.”

  Can’t respond. Can’t.

  “Think of lying in bed together,” he says.

  Why won’t this water get any hotter? My hands are screaming, but the pain isn’t enough. Nothing hurts like his words.

  “Wrapped up together,” he says.

  Maybe he’s done with his test. He has to be done with his test.

  “I don’t deserve it,” I say.

  He responds quickly. “What about me?”

  “You deserve better.”

  “That’s my decision,” he says.

  “I’m sorry. It isn’t.”

  I turn off my phone. I almost throw it in a toilet. I cannot wait for this day to end. I do the hot-water thing one more time and then I leave the room.

  In Drama class, I perform my monologue with a newfound understanding of why Lizzie chose it. Madame Swarsky gives me a standing ovation. Shelby applauds heartily beside her. I think she’s afraid I’m going to bail on my side of our bargain. But when the bell rings I follow her to the auditorium like a good girl. We spend the next hour putting the boxes of graduation gowns in alphabetical order.

  Around one thirty Shelby looks like she’s going to pass out. Poor girl’s run herself ragged this week. When I offer to finish up she looks at me like I’m crazy, but she’s too tired to argue. Really, it’s like taking candy—well, you know how the saying goes.

  I’m done by two thirty and at the grocery store by three. I pick up some fresh chili peppers and a card with Jesus on the front. Inside the card I advise Mr. Hart to please disengage from activities that put him in contact with children. If he fails to comply, I write, I will be forced to share his secrets with the congregation.

  I sign it “A Concerned Parent” and drop it off at the post office.

  I’m back at Mom’s house by four. I don’t even think she noticed I stayed at Dad’s a few extra days. But she does notice the smell of chili peppers as I set to work in the kitchen. It pulls her right out of her TV coma.

  She holds her sleeve over her face, standing in the doorway. “What the hell are you making?”

  I turn and smile. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m not eating that.”

  “It’s not for you.” I push her playfully into the living room. “I can’t bother with dinner tonight. I have too much work.”

  “I thought school ended today.” She flumps back onto the couch.

  “It did. But I’m planning something for graduation.” I’m already disappearing into the kitchen again.

  “Don’t run yourself ragged, honey,” she says.

  Good advice. A little late, but good.

  “I’ll try.”

  It takes about half an hour to be satisfied with my witches’ brew. From there, I head to my bedroom to work on Marvin’s photograph.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m emailing him the Photoshopped picture of himself in his underwear, complete with wizard’s cap and magic wand. The caption reads: See You at Graduation.

  I want him to know the photo’s going to be passed around.

  Now all that’s left is to spin straw into gold. I want to add a little something extra to the graduation gowns I took home early. Shelby should have known better than to leave me alone with such precious cargo. She should, at least, have told Madame Swarsky I was giving her a hand. Now when a group of us show up with vandalized gowns, Shelby will be the number one suspect. From there, it’s barely a leap in logic to assume she destroyed the costume Lizzie was supposed to wear, and I have to imagine that’ll affect Swarsky’s letter of recommendation.

  I’m humming as I paint fat red letters on the back of three gowns. I cover the letters with glitter. Why not go all out? This is graduation after all. And Cara, Elliot, and I will be the belles of the ball.

  Yeah. One of the gowns is mine.

  Once my handiwork has dried I cut an old black skirt into squares. I pin the squares over the words I’ve painted. The gowns are black so the patches aren’t too obvious. I don’t want anyone seeing our message until the exact right time: after the ceremony is completed, the Cheer Bears have a tradition of rushing the stage and doing an impromptu routine in our gowns. You know, so everyone sees how fabulous we are one last time.

  Egotistical? Yes. An important detail in my plan? Also, yes.

  Once our routine is completed, Cara, Elliot, and I will turn around, showing the whole school one last message:

  WE KILLED LIZZIE

  I hang the gowns in the back of my closet before taking Drake’s out of its box. The back is pristine, black and shining in the light. When I’m done with it, it will be branded, and that brand will seep into its owner, staining him for life. He’ll never get away from it.

  Whoever said there’s no justice in the world wasn’t trying hard enough.

  twenty-six

  THURSDAY I GET a surprise visitor at Mom’s door. Marvin shows up at eight in the morning. I answer the door in a tank top and sweats and I still look better than he must feel.

  It’s pretty obvious he’s been crying.

  “Yeah?” I’ve been doing the Ice Queen thing for so long it’s starting to become second nature. But I step aside and let him sit on the couch because, well, I’m not heartless. I think I’d like to be, since it would make life easier, but, alas, I am not.

  “We both know why you’re here,” I say, positioning myself on the arm of the couch. “I’m not deleting the photo.”

  He dabs at his nose. It’s all red around the edges and I try not to notice. I can’t afford to feel bad for him. “I don’t care about that,” he says.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I don’t,” he insists. “I just want you to understand. I want someone to understand.”

  I roll my eyes, but it’s forced. “Understand what?”

  “That I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  I scoff and almost lose my balance in the process. “You’re joking, right? You accidentally painted a naked picture of a girl behind her back and emailed it to the entire school? Gee, Marvin, you have worse luck than I do.”

  “I didn’t mean to do that!” His hair is a rat’s nest falling in his face. I want to offer him a comb.

  “This is going to be rich,” I say, repositioning myself. “Well? Out with it.”

  He’s quiet a minute. When he speaks, all that forced bravado is gone. His voice sounds weak. “Lizzie didn’t talk to me much. Art was the one thing we had in common.” He smiles, remembering. “I liked to draw, she liked to make things. When she saw me trying to imitate one of my Alchemy cards, she got all animated. She said the woman on the card was the most beautiful she’d ever seen. So I thought . . . I could paint her on a card and then she’d see.”

  “See what? That you’re a Peeping Tom?”

  “That she was beautiful.”

  I wait a beat. “And you thought you would do that by leering into her window? When she wasn’t looking?”

  His face is red, but he doesn’t lash out at me. I have to give him credit for that, at least. Or do I? It occurs to me that so many people I’ve trusted have turned out to be awful. My standards, as a result, are suffering.

  So I don’t give him credit. But I don’t bite his head off either.

  He says, “Lizzie had nightmares,” and I can’t help but counter with “I know that.” It’s like we’re having this contest to see who was a better friend, which is ridiculous because we were both terrible to her.

  But the fact that he might not be as evil as I thought scares me. When people are a hundred percent bad it’s easier to hate them.

  “She used to get up in the middle of the night,” he says, and that I didn’t know, before the diary. “She’d stand in fr
ont of her mirror, sometimes for hours, checking for something. I don’t know what.”

  Scars? I wonder, thinking about the monster in her dreams. Stains?

  “I shouldn’t have watched her . . .”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “But sometimes I did. The blinds were open—”

  “Don’t blame her for choices you made.”

  “It was hard not to look in. I was in love with her.”

  “If you loved her, you would’ve thought about her feelings. You would’ve respected her privacy. And you never would’ve passed that picture around! Why did you do that?” My voice is rising. “Because of Drake—”

  “No! I thought she was misguided,” he says, and I want to slap him. Even if she’d loved Drake, it would’ve been her right to feel that way.

  “But I did not mean to email that to everyone. I couldn’t give it to her in person.” He talks to the floor when he says “I feared she’d laugh at me—”

  “She wouldn’t have. She might’ve felt horrified and violated, but she wouldn’t have been mean.”

  “So I chose to email it to her,” he says as if I weren’t speaking. “But even that seemed too much, so I dipped into my parents’ liquor stores—”

  “Ever heard of drinking responsibly?”

  Now his eyes roll. “Angie, you really should learn when to speak.”

  “And you should stop treating girls like they’re your fucking property!” I leap to my feet. “Lizzie’s body didn’t belong to you, and neither does my voice. Haven’t you learned anything?”

  His face just drops. I almost feel bad, but damn it, he makes me so angry. If he’d given the slightest bit of thought to Lizzie’s feelings, he’d—

  “Marvin? Oh, God, don’t cry.”

  But it’s too late. Big, sloppy tears are seeping out of his hands and now I do feel bad. “You’re right,” he’s sobbing. “You’re right. It’s my fault she’s gone.”

  “Oh, shit, that’s not what I meant.” I go to touch him, but I’m not sure where, or in what way. “I meant ‘be more considerate.’ I meant ‘don’t be a pervert.’ ”

  Shut up, Angie, you really think that’s helping?

  “The point is, I wasn’t saying it’s your fault. Okay? We all worked together on this one, trust me.”