“I know. Go. I’ll be good, promise. No drugs, no fires, no fun.”
“And no boys.”
“That fell under the ‘fun’ category.”
I manage to wait until I’m in Ravi’s car and at the end of the street before breaking. I drop my head back against the seat, scrub my face with my hands, and blow out a hard breath that’s shakier than I’d have liked. With eyes closed, I press steepled fingers to my lips, not praying, but thinking. Organizing. Setting aside feelings in favor of facts.
First fact: “There’s another body.”
The car swerves slightly, and I know without opening my eyes that Ravi turned to look at me. “At the school? Who?”
“Don’t know. Don’t like not knowing.” I recount the events of the morning, keeping my eyes closed to visualize every detail, trying to find a clue I overlooked.
“Shit.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, both lost in thought, until Ravi says, “We can’t jump to conclusions. It could be something innocuous like a janitor slipping on a wet floor and hitting his head or Mr. Allard having another heart attack.”
I drop my hands in my lap and open my eyes. “Or it could be another murder.”
“Or a suicide. There’s that correlation between highly publicized suicides and increased attempts.”
“Or a suicide.” None of these options are good. Even if Emma’s death wasn’t a suicide, almost everyone seems to think it was thanks to the note, and that alone might be enough to push someone else into ending their own life. If that’s what happened, then it’s all the more reason we have to prove Emma was murdered. I don’t want impressionable underclassmen making stupid decisions just because they thought it worked for the popular senior.
When we arrive at The Donut Hole, the place is packed. Almost as packed as the day of Emma’s search party. Some of the crowd are students in search of sugar to fuel their bonus day off, but many of the customers are adults, who take up the front counters and the few tables with coffees and laptops. They’re too late to be part of the morning commuter rush, and besides, they definitely don’t look like they’re rushing to be anywhere. Press, perhaps, waiting on news from the school?
“So much for a quiet hangout,” Ravi says.
Mr. Burman spots us and grins. “Ah, my two favorite people. Tell me you’re here to help. We have an unexpected boon happening.”
We retreat to the kitchen, leaving the counter girl to deal with the line.
“We have another death at Maplefield,” Ravi tells him quietly.
His father’s eyes widen. “Oh heavens, not another child?”
“We don’t know,” I say. “You haven’t overheard anything from the crowd?”
“I wasn’t listening for anything like that. How do you know?” He turns to Ravi. “When your mother called, she said there were no details—just that it was a day off and not to be surprised if I saw you.”
“Kennedy was at the school. She got in before they blocked off the driveway.”
“And where were you?”
Ravi waves the question off like it isn’t worth considering given everything else. “Late. Priya had a hair crisis. Kennedy saw the stretcher with a body bag on it. None of the teachers would say who it was.”
Mr. B steps forward and crushes me in a shocking hug. “That must’ve been awful. I’m sorry you had to see that. Shame on that school for letting students witness such a thing.”
I wiggle free, not wanting to admit that I’m fully responsible for seeing what I saw. “It’s okay. I didn’t see much, really. Just a black bag.”
Just a black bag draped around a body that was far too small to be Mr. Allard, who had to weigh three hundred pounds.
I curse myself.
I’d seen, but I hadn’t observed.
“It’s a student,” I say. “I’m sure of it. Maybe a small teacher, like Mrs. Garrison, but I’ll bet money it’s not.”
Ravi looks skeptical. “A body bag isn’t going to give you an accurate depiction of what’s inside.”
“No, but they come in sizes.” Like Sherlock, I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles. I hoard random knowledge for occasions like this when it proves useful. “This one wasn’t large. It’s definitely not a grown man.”
We’re sitting on overturned milk crates behind the bakery with steaming mugs of cocoa to ward off the day’s chill. We pass a grease-stained paper bag of donut holes between us, sugar being vital to quality deductions.
“And the amount of police present makes me think it wasn’t an accident. If someone fell down the stairs and broke their neck, they wouldn’t need that many cops. Maybe one, because it’s a death on school grounds. But the whole force wouldn’t show up.”
“What about the fire truck?”
I pop a donut in my mouth and chew thoughtfully. “Not sure. It might be part of a protocol we don’t know about.”
“There were no signs of fire?”
“Not that I noticed.”
My phone dings, signaling another message landing in the Monitor’s inbox. Almost all of them have suggested we investigate at the school, as if that hadn’t occurred to us. Some had offered the “real story” about why we have the day off, but all the stories conflicted. I open the latest, and the donut turns to rock in my stomach. I turn the phone so Ravi can see.
“A girl died in the auditorium. My mom’s friend is a teacher, and she told her,” he reads. “Shit.”
It’s an anonymous tip, of course, and never in my life have I regretted providing that option as much as I do now. I’d give anything to be able to track the sender and have someone specific to question.
“It fits,” I say. “The body bag was the right size for a girl.”
The grim reality of another lost student makes us both quiet. I open my texts and send a message to Kylie: Any insight into the situation at school? It feels too crass to reference the death in a text, but if anyone can identify who it was before the press, it’ll be Kylie. If she bothers replying.
I scroll through social media, but so far, there’s no indication that anyone knows who died. In fact, based on the nonsense that’s posted, it appears no one even knows anyone died at all.
Which is suspicious in and of itself. Maplefield isn’t a huge school. Several students have family members who work there or in the elementary and middle schools that feed to it. Surely someone knows something. The question is: why aren’t they talking?
If we want answers, we’re going to have to get them ourselves. I stand and push the milk crate against the building with my foot. “Let’s swing by the school. I want to see if it’s still blocked off.”
Ravi shrugs. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we want to go to school after we’ve already been sent home for the day?”
“Like you have anything better to do.” I grab his mug and dash the cocoa dregs onto the pavement. I sneak both mugs back in the kitchen, drop them in the sink, and scoot out before Mr. B can put us to work.
The school’s driveway is clear of barricades and police cars, and the parking lot is all but deserted. Ms. Larson’s Subaru sits in the principal’s spot, and only four other cars, none of which I recognize, keep it company. An empty police car is parked in the fire lane.
Ravi parks. “If we get suspended or arrested or anything, my parents are gonna flip.”
“We’re not going to get in trouble for being at school. I just want to talk to Ms. Larson.”
“We might when we were expressly told not to be here,” he says but follows me anyway.
There isn’t a police guard at the front door anymore, but the doors themselves are shut and locked. I press the buzzer, but nothing happens. I try again—a longer buzz that’s sure to irritate anyone within earshot.
I look up at the camera mounted above the door and wave, knowing it’s probably futile. It’s common knowledge that the few cameras the building has are only for show, a fact famously confirmed by a ninth-grade boy who systematical
ly mooned each one and was only reprimanded when the video his friend took of the experiment hit YouTube.
“Oh, come on. I know someone can hear me.” I cup my hands against the glass in the door and peer in, trying to spot someone who can open the door, but the hall is empty.
“We can try the back.”
I clap him on the shoulder, grinning. “That’s the spirit.”
We set off around the building, looking into windows of darkened classrooms as we go. The place is a ghost town.
The rear parking lot holds only a single car, and whoever it is has gone in the back entrance and—a miracle of miracles—pegged the door with the edge of a pockmarked wooden doorstop.
“Jackpot.”
Ravi hesitates. “This feels like sneaking in.”
“Because it is. Come on. Don’t wimp out now. You’re the one who said try the back.”
“I’m full of bad ideas.”
“It’s part of your charm. C’mon.”
We leave the doorstop wedged where we found it and set off down the hall. The only sound is the soft squeak of our sneakers on the tiled floor. The hallway lights are off, and the high windows offer only dim illumination thanks to the cloudy skies.
“This is weird,” Ravi whispers. “It’s so quiet.”
“Because you’re whispering,” I say, but my voice is barely audible either. It seems wrong, somehow, to break the silence of the abandoned building.
By unspoken agreement, we head in the direction of the main office. If anyone has answers, it’ll be Ms. Larson. Of course, if she were in the office, she should’ve heard us ringing the buzzer, but I don’t know where else to start.
“This feels like a horror movie,” Ravi says. “I keep expecting zombies.”
“That’d be a story.” But I get it. The rows of lockers loom like silent sentries, wardens watching our progress. Even in the days following Emma’s death, when it seemed like the entire school was subdued, the building was still full of life and movement. It was nothing like the utter stillness that surrounds us now.
Ravi turns the corner just ahead of me and slams to a halt, thrusting an arm out like a mother trying to restrain her kid after hitting the brakes too hard.
Light spills from beneath the auditorium doors, leaving bright puddles on the shadowed floor, but that isn’t what caused Ravi’s sharp intake of breath.
The auditorium’s entrance is marked with an X of yellow crime scene tape.
Ravi, for want of his camera, pulls his phone out and snaps a photo. It’s as automatic as breathing for him; the barrier of the camera matters, even if it’s only on a cell phone. I leave him standing there and creep up to the closed door.
“No, Kennedy, get back here,” Ravi whispers, rooted to his spot.
Keeping to the side of the door, I peek through the glass. The stage and seating lights are turned up as high as they go, bathing the room in a brightness that’s shocking after the dim corridors and shuttered classrooms. I see no one. I crane my neck, trying to get a better view, and feel Ravi hovering at my elbow. I don’t get it. There’s nothing here that indicates a crime scene. There’s nothing that indicates any kind of scene at all.
Emboldened by this lack of, well, anything, I try the door handle. Ravi’s hand closes on my arm, pulling me back, but the handle turns easily, and I shake him off. As I ease the door open, a single bark echoes from somewhere beyond, startling me so completely that I nearly knock Ravi over as I jump.
Henry. It has to be Henry, but I don’t see him, don’t see anyone, and my heart is galloping like a spooked horse at the sheer unexpectedness of another’s presence.
“This is a bad idea.” Ravi drags me away from the closing door. “Let’s go.”
“No, we’re here for information,” I protest, but he’s already propelling me down the hall.
There comes a soft whoosh of the door opening behind us and a rustle of plastic. “Who’s there?”
Claws click on the floor tiles as Henry trots up, tail wagging. I stop and Ravi stifles a groan as he does too.
Ms. Larson looks as startled as I was just moments ago. “Kennedy? Ravi? What are you doing?”
I try to act calmer than I am. “Looking for you, actually.”
“You shouldn’t be here. School is closed for the day.” She sounds tired and irritated and nothing like her usual self.
“I know, and I’m sorry to intrude. We were just concerned.” I need to stay on Ms. Larson’s good side. “We’ve been hearing rumors all day about what happened, and I thought you’d be able to tell us something.” I gesture at the crime scene tape on the auditorium doors, one half now dangling in the open space. “Was there a crime?”
Ms. Larson sighs. “There wasn’t a crime. The tape is just to stop people from entering. There was…an incident.”
“Another death?”
Ms. Larson regards us for what feels like forever in the silence of the hall. “Where did you hear that?”
“Around. Like I said, rumors have been flying. And because of the Monitor, I’m hearing them all. I just want to know the truth.”
Ms. Larson nods once, sharp and decisive. “Let’s go to my office.”
I shoot Ravi a surprised glance, but we follow her down the hall. Once inside, at Ms. Larson’s insistence, we take seats at the small conference table, which Henry settles himself under.
“Tell me what you’ve heard,” she says.
“Rumors. Everything from fires to school shootings to suicide.”
Ms. Larson purses her lips, igniting a starburst of wrinkles around her mouth. She glances at the clock on the wall. “I’ve been sitting in the back of the auditorium for over an hour trying to decide what to say in the all-call.”
The air crackles with unspoken truths, but I hold the silence, wait for Ms. Larson to fill it.
She takes a strawberry candy from the bowl on her desk and unwraps it slowly, like it’s a delicate but important task. Then she laughs, sudden and harsh, and there’s nothing funny in it. It’s a bitter, broken sound and completely unnerving. Ravi presses his knee into mine, and I press back hard, keeping my face neutral. My fingers itch to hold his, to hold on against whatever horror is unhinging Ms. Larson.
She pops the red candy in her mouth. “You’d think the third time would be the charm, right? That there’d be a script. But there isn’t. There never is for these things.” She pauses, inhales a breath that flares her nostrils wide. When she exhales, it’s like she becomes a new person. It’s almost eerie. Maybe Ms. Larson has her own version of acknowledge-and-set-aside. “The call will go out as soon as I finish with you both, so I see no harm in being the one to break it to you.”
I steel myself, for although I already know someone is dead, a tiny irrational part of me hopes for a different explanation.
“There has been another death.” Ms. Larson sounds almost robotic. “And another note.”
I don’t flinch at the confirmation, but it takes effort. I’m aware of Ravi’s leg against mine and the blood in my ears, but I don’t waver. “Who was it?”
Ms. Larson takes a long time answering. Long enough for my stomach to tie itself into a noose of fear.
“Who was it, Ms. Larson?”
“Kylie Auger.”
It’s worse with Kylie.
It shouldn’t be—it’s not like we were close, not really—but I find myself opening our text history and staring at all the unanswered messages I sent, torturing myself with scenarios of Kylie’s final hours.
The rumor mill at school is in a frenzy, and the Monitor’s inbox is flooded with stories of suicide pacts and internet death games and ritual sacrifice. The halls are just as bad, and it seems like everyone has a theory about how and why it happened.
Ms. Larson gathers everyone for an assembly, but it’s held in the gym this time, not the auditorium. We’re crammed shoulder to shoulder on the bleachers like this is some kind of morbid pep rally.
The local media are relegated to the side of the b
leachers where they can record Ms. Larson’s speech. It’s evident by the hard set of her features that Ms. Larson was expecting the press and is aware of the controversy they’re already stirring up.
A podium is situated on the centerline of the basketball court before the bleachers, and Ms. Larson spends a long time surveying her audience before adjusting the microphone’s height.
“I won’t say good morning,” she begins, “because there is nothing good about this morning.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
“What I will say is that this has to stop. We cannot continue to do this, to have these same meetings and cry these same tears. Maplefield is stronger than this. We need to learn from our mistakes, and we need to come together. This school has lost too many students. Seniors, who had their entire lives ahead of them. I know you joke about a senior curse, but this is no joke. This is not some urban legend. This is real, and this is a problem.
“I call on you, students and faculty of Maplefield, to help me solve it. I have brought in counselors, I have brought in Henry, I have done my best to foster an open and inviting school community where the staff genuinely care about the students in front of them. When I found Kylie, I also found her note. One line: Now you know what it was like. But we don’t, do we? No one saw it coming any more than we saw Emma or Liam. So I’m calling on you to help me stop it. Help me understand what it is we need to do to stop this from happening again.”
I lean into Ravi and whisper, “A murder investigation would be a good start.”
Ms. Larson goes on. “I will be leaving suggestion boxes in various places. One will be with the nurse, one in the library, and one outside the main office. I am open to all suggestions. My door is always open. Once again, I implore you to talk to each other, not about each other. Talk to your teachers. Talk to the counselors. We are already looking into hiring another full-time adjustment counselor. Your advisory groups will be discussing suicide prevention and sharing some resources in the coming weeks. This is not something we can shy away from, but something we must face head-on. We are Maplefield, and we are stronger than this.”
Bury the Lead Page 16
