Authors: SO
186
“Right,” he says. “But why would someone go to the trouble? Even if he or she broke into Cole’s room and took the pictures with your phone, that still leaves a lot of steps.” He sticks the pen behind his ear, counts down with his fingers. “Photographing the other party guests. Realizing that the phone was linked to your Facebook account. Decid-ing to upload everything the next morning—presumably sober by then. That level of plotting indicates revenge, not just a simple prank. Someone had it out for you.”
“But the lock. It’s a slide bolt from the inside.” I scootch closer to the monitor for another look at the image of me and Cole, scrutinizing every shadow, every pixel. . . . “The wings! There was a pair of pink fairy wings on the bed. I sat on them earlier and made a joke to myself about squishing my fairy godmother.”
Franklin laughs. “Fairy godmother? Good Lord.”
“Seriously. After I changed out of the dress, I draped it over the footboard with the wings. The composition looked funny. Like, a fairy tale gone naughty. I kind of wanted to sketch it.”
Franklin leans over my shoulder and points to the monitor, the place on the photo where the wings should be but aren’t. “Here?”
“They’re gone. Even if they fell on the floor, I would’ve seen them in the morning when I grabbed the dress. Look.” 187
I click through the photos and find the one that Cole took accidentally, the bed with the dress hung over it. Sure enough, wings. Pink and glittery.
“The cabin was quiet when I got up,” I say, still piecing it together. “I stayed in the clothes I slept in. Went to the bathroom, used some mouthwash . . . I went back and sat on the bed to put on my boots. No wings.”
“Could someone have gone in while you were in the bathroom? Where was Cole?”
“He was already downstairs. I was in the bathroom, like, two minutes. I was in such a hurry to get home. I’m telling you, the place was silent. Cole and I were the only ones up, other than Spence, who’d left way earlier. He had to take Prince Freckles back to the stables.”
“What happened next?”
“I looked around the dresser for my earrings, and .
. . hat! Hat!” I bolt out of my chair, excitement flooding my limbs. It’s like a legit investigation now, like we’re actually fighting for truth and justice. “When Cole and I first went in, 420’s hat was there, but it was gone in the morning.”
“Maybe you just
thought
you heard Cole locking the door.” Franklin grabs his pen again, pokes at his curls.
“Maybe it was something else?”
“I heard it slide and click. I’m sure. When he came 188
back, I was very, like, focused. Everything was amplified.” I drop back into my chair.
“A bit shaky,” he says. “It’s possible you don’t recall the exact order of events. To be fair, you were on the piss.”
“On the . . . what?”
“Drunk,” he explains. “Right?”
“Not
drunk
, but not sober. Still.” I’m not shaky on this part. When Cole came back, he opened the door, closed it, locked it, changed clothes, set the alarm, got into bed. The alarm never went off because the phone was stolen in the middle of the night. Same with the wings—they’re in the before picture, but not the one with me and Cole in bed, which means someone removed them
before
that photo was taken.
I recap it again for Franklin.
“But you’re insisting no one could’ve gotten past the lock,” he says.
“Right.” The hat, the wings . . . My eyebrows shoot up with the realization. “They were already in. Must’ve been in Cole’s closet when we got there and waited until we fell asleep before sneaking back out—420 and . . . I don’t know. One of the fairies.”
“You’re saying they hung out in a closet the entire time?
Without making a sound?”
“It’s a walk-in,” I say. “And it’s the Fosters’ vacation 189
place, so it’s not like Cole’s got it stuffed with clothes.
There’s room. And we passed out right away.” At least, for a little while.
“Who was wearing wings that night?” he asks.
“Like, everybody. I think the only girls
not
wearing wings at prom were me, Griff, this one chick dressed like a zombie, and Kiara. Kiara wasn’t at the party, anyway.” My neck burns, but I shake it off. Hopefully Ash reinstated her by now.
“Do you think whoever was in the closet took the photographs? Stole your phone?” Franklin’s wearing Griff’s baby veal face. I don’t blame him; this story’s getting weirder by the second.
“No . . . I guess not. If they were worried about getting caught, they wouldn’t stop to take pictures. Their mission was to get out without getting busted. And 420 doesn’t exactly have the brain cells of a criminal mastermind.”
“Another dead end.” Franklin rubs his eyes.
“Maybe, but if they were in there until we passed out, they might know if anyone else showed up, either trying to get in or just, like, skulking around the hall. And they can at
least
confirm the fact that Cole and I didn’t . .
. that while they were in there, things stayed totally . . .
platonic.”
Totally platonic.
It’s a stretch, and the words are black-coffee bitter on my tongue, but I press on. “And they 190
probably left the room separately, just to avoid suspicion. If anyone snuck into the room between their exit times . . .”
“Good point,” Franklin says. “They might’ve seen something.”
“One way to find out.” I gather my stuff, prepping for my first official interrogation. “Can you meet after school for a debrief? I’ll see if Cole and Griff can come.”
“Definitely. But . . . you’re sure 420 will talk? How well do you know him?”
“We’ve had some deep conversations, me and the old four-two-oh.” I roll my eyes, but it’s my first lead. I’m not giving up so easily. “Plus, I have evidence of
his
little scandal. Doubt his burner friends would go all high-fives on him for hooking up with a sparkly fairy girl. He’ll talk.” Franklin raises an eyebrow. “Blackmail? Didn’t know you had it in you, Veronica.”
“Don’t think of it as blackmail, Keith. Think of it as graymail. Superlight gray. More like pale blue.” 191
DELIV ER US FROM (E)VIL
R
eport from the boy front.” Griff barges into the computer lab after school and drops her stuff on a chair. “Did I just say ‘report from the boy front’? Don’t answer.” She pulls her blond waves into a loose knot and continues in a determined breath. “News flash: A boy didn’t do this.”
“How do you figure?” Franklin asks, perpetually ham-mering the keyboard. We just finished debriefing on my dead-end 420 inquisitions—during which I was stared at blankly, offered Doritos, and dismissed in a cloud of smoke and giggles—and Franklin is still recording the details.
“I got the attendee list from Cole.” Griff unfolds a crumpled piece of notebook paper, smooths it out over her coral miniskirt. “Where is he?”
192
“Vanitas has practice today,” I say. “We’re supposed to text him with an update.”
Griff taps the list. “I talked to fourteen guys from Lav-Oaks: John, Spence, the football vampires, 420, a few randos. The vamps ganged up and tried to jock block me, but a few innuendos and a side of cleavage later, they were eating out of my—”
“Griffin.” I shoot her a glare. “Stay focused.”
“I’m
totally
focused! I have a date with Brian this weekend,” she says. “Or Ryan? Brian’s the blond one, right?
Ryan’s the—”
“Thanks so much for the detailed analysis of the football team’s hair,” Franklin says over his shoulder, “but did you get any actual leads?”
“Sheesh.
Sorry
, Sherlock Holmes.”
“He prefers Keith Mars,” I say. “Don’t ask.”
“
Sorry
, Keith Mars.” Griff flashes her patented flirty smirk—part fake insulted and part dare you to kiss me.
Behind Franklin’s head, I mouth a “back off.” Griffin thrives on a challenge, and the valedictorian would definitely be a new mountain to climb, but we can’t derail the investigation on account of her unquenchable hor-mones.
Her attention returns to the list. “It’s so obvious, Lucy.
Yeah, some of those guys put the douche in douche bag, 193
but they’re not schemers. It’s one thing to make a dumb comment on Facebook. It’s another thing entirely to stake you out at a party, steal your phone, take all these incriminating uploadables, post them on your profile, tag stuff to Miss D, and frame you. Not to mention whoever started the Juicy page.” She leans back in her chair and sticks out her chest. “Only another female could pull off this level of backstabby. Right?”
Franklin’s still typing behind us. “On behalf of the Y
chromosome, I’m offended at your lack of faith in our ability to scheme. However, your point is a valid one. Also, I don’t believe ‘backstabby’ is a word.”
“What about Paul?” I ask her.
“Called him at lunch. He’s, like, boy-band-lyrics-level angsty over me, but he’s not a schemer either. And I was with him all night, after everyone else was asleep in the living room. We were . . .
Anyway
. I know he didn’t do it.” She waves her hand in the air, erasing her memories of rolling around on the floor with Paul. “This thing has lady rage all over it.”
I take her list and lean back in the chair, scrutinizing the names. The guys she’s already interviewed have been crossed off, but the last one is circled. “Why is Marceau circled?”
Griff’s eyes go wide. “Yes! Another interesting 194
development. He wouldn’t talk to me. Got all quiet and dodgy, walked away before I could press.” I lean forward into a cloud of her spicy perfume. “Do you think
he
did this?”
“Jealous lover, crimes of passion.” She considers. “He’s got the motive. Not to mention a great ass.” Griff wriggles her eyebrows. “Still. Despite his qualifications, I stand by what I said. This isn’t a boy’s scandal.”
“Marceau isn’t a boy,” I say. “I mean, he’s a
boy
, but it’s different. He’s French.”
“Canadian,” Franklin says. “French Canadian. Subtle but important distinction.”
“We have a foreign-exchange student from Canada?” Griff asks. “Who
does
that?”
“Lav-Oaks,” Franklin says. “Obviously. So what’s his deal? Why so shady, you think?”
Griff laughs. “He’s not shady, Sherlock—I mean Keith—just in love with Lucy.”
“Shut up! He’s not—”
“Franklin. Ladies.” Principal Zeff watches us from the doorway, arms crossed. “Just the people who can help.” Griff rises from her chair. “We
are
helping. We’re help-ers.”
“Just wrapping up our final
Explorer
issue,” Franklin says. “These two intrepid readers are my sounding boards.” 195
Zeff smiles, her eyes lasering me. “I’m glad you’re channeling your energies into something positive, Lucy.
Now . . .” Smile vanishes, eyes narrow. “Come with me.
All of you.”
“They’ve been doing this at random locations all day,” Zeff explains, ushering us across the gym. The prom-night disco balls have yet to be removed; they scatter diamonds of light across our faces as we pass.
“This is the fourth report I’ve gotten today,” she says. “The teachers are nervous, but there’s more to this than meets the eye.” Zeff shoves open the emergency exit that leads to the soccer and lacrosse fields, and we follow her out. No alarm sounds. “They’re asking for Lucy.”
We squint in the bright sun. The competitive season is over, but the soccer team still uses the field for scrimmages, and they’re out here now, Marceau included, staring at three students dressed in all white, head to toe.
(e)VIll has taken over center field.
“Are those . . . berets?” Franklin asks.
“And let’s just go on record in saying that white pants favor few men,” Griff says.
Marceau catches my eye and gives a small wave. Before I return it, Griff elbows me.
196
“Don’t lead him on.” To Zeff, she says, “I saw those guys in the caf today. They were doing some kind of dance, or a chant, but . . . I don’t know. It’s better if you tune them out.”
“You agree that they’re not posing a threat, then?” Zeff whispers. She’s gone all statue, like we’re observing rare owls in the wild.
Griff laughs. “They’re probably just warning everyone about UFO abductions and protecting yourself from unnecessary probes.”
“Are there
necessary
probes?” I ask. Griffin gives me a conspiratorial wink.
Zeff turns to Franklin. “You’ve worked with them before. Any idea what this is about?”
“You’ve worked with them?” I ask Franklin.
“Research.” He shakes his head. “Thanks for confirm-ing my suspicions that you’ve never read the
Explorer
.”
“Principal Zeff!” Asher calls into a megaphone. “There is nothing to fear. We are gathering peacefully to express our freedom of expression. I mean, to exercise our right to free speech.”
Zeff forms a megaphone with her hands. “I. Support.
Your. Constitutional. Rights.”
“This. Is. (e)VIL!” Asher responds.
“Yes, but . . . evil what?” she asks.
197
He sweeps his hands before him, indicating their vast group of three.
“Represent!” he shouts.
“Represent!” The other two pump their fists.
Griff, Franklin, Zeff, and I are like,
head scratch
.
Ash raises the megaphone again. “This. Is. A. Flash.
Mob.”
Zeff turns her hand megaphone into an amplifier for her ear. “A what?”
“Flash mob!” he says. “For Lucy Vacarro and all who’ve been burned by our cultural addiction to—”
“Mr. Hollowell,” Zeff says, waving him toward us,
“that all sounds wonderful. Why don’t you and your mob friends let the soccer team continue their game, and we’ll talk about how we can help one another over here. Sound like a plan?”
Asher pulls his minions in for a conference, then breaks away and raises the megaphone. “We’ve discussed your demands amongst ourselves and have come to a con-sensus! We will meet your demands! We’re coming over there now!” To the soccer boys, he says, “Please continue, Swordfish, and pardon our disruptive yet socially important interruption.” He sets the megaphone in his lap and rolls toward us, leading the others onward.