One of Us Is Next (12 page)

And then it does.

Unknown’s latest piece of gossip fills my screen. I blink five or six times, but I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. No. No way. Oh no. Oh
hell no.

The
omg what?!?
messages start pouring in, so fast I can’t keep up with them. I bolt upright and scramble to press Maeve’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised. Right now, there’s another call she’d better be making.

Knox

Tuesday, March 3

The guy in King’s Landing is sweating up a storm. Twitching, rocking, constantly rubbing one hand over his jaw while he talks with Sandeep in the closed conference room. “It’s weird how guilty innocent people can look, sometimes,” I say to Bethany Okonjo, a law student who’s one of Until Proven’s paralegals.

We’re stationed at a desk outside the conference room, collating news coverage about the D’Agostino case. Bethany shrugs and reaches into a drawer for more staples. “And vice versa, right?” she says. “Guilty people can look innocent as hell. Take our friend here.” She holds up a long feature article about Sergeant Carl D’Agostino, accompanied by a picture of him wearing his cop uniform and a big grin. His arm is around a college-aged kid who’s holding a plaque. “Funny how they use
this,
and not his mug shot,” she adds, tossing her braids over one shoulder. “None of the people he framed got that kind of kid-glove treatment when they were arrested.”

I glance at the caption under the photo.
The week before his arrest, Sergeant Carl D’Agostino commended San Diego State University students for excellence in community peer mentoring.
“I never really thought about it that way,” I say, scanning the first few paragraphs of the article. “But you’re right. This is all about what a great guy he was until—
whoops,
major scandal. Like he just accidentally stumbled into framing seventeen people.”

I add the article to my pile and glance at the clock on the wall next to the conference room. It’s almost seven at night. I’ve never stayed this late, but I’m starting to think I’m the only person at Until Proven who leaves on time. The office is still buzzing, every desk full and littered with empty pizza boxes and Coke cans. Bethany picks up her discarded crust and nibbles on the edge. “They gave that classmate of yours the same treatment. Jake Riordan, remember him?” Like I could forget.
“Star athlete involved in Simon Kelleher case,”
Bethany says in her newscaster voice. “Oh, you mean
involved
like how he tried to kill his girlfriend? That kind of
involved
?”

“That was bullshit,” I agree.

Bethany snorts. “The justice system works very differently when you’re white, male, rich, and good-looking.” She nudges the last piece of pizza toward me. “Good to know, I guess, if you ever decide to turn to a life of crime.”

I pick up the slice, but it’s so cold and congealed that I can’t bring myself to take a bite. “I’m only two of those things.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kid.”

Eli passes by, holding a phone with a familiar case that he waves at me. “Knox. This is yours, right? You left it in the copy room. Also, Maeve is calling.” He looks at my screen. “Was calling. You just missed her.”

I thought my phone had been strangely quiet. “Sorry about that,” I say, taking it from him. I register a surprising number of texts before I lay it on my desk like a busy professional who doesn’t have time for Bayview High gossip. Eli finally knows my name and has started giving me more interesting stuff to do. I don’t want to blow it by acting like a phone-obsessed teenager in front of him. Even though I am. “Do you need anything?”

Eli runs a hand through his newly shorn hair. “I need you to go home. There are child labor laws, or so Sandeep keeps telling me, and we’re probably violating them. Especially since we’re not paying you. Anyway, call Maeve back and then get out of here, all right? Everything else can wait until tomorrow.” He glances at Bethany, who’s still stapling news articles. “Bethany, can you sit down with me and review next week’s court schedule?”

“Yeah, sure.” She gazes around the crowded office. “Should we go in Winterfell?”

Eli rolls his eyes. He’s never going to get used to those names. “Fine.”

They leave, and I eye my phone warily. I really do hate making calls, but maybe Maeve’s on her laptop again and can’t text. I press her name, and she picks up before it’s even rung once.

“Oh thank God.” Her voice is low, breathless. “I was afraid you wouldn’t call me back.”

The sweaty guy is pacing circles around Sandeep in the conference room, distracting me. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m only kidding about being allergic to phone calls. Mostly.” The line goes so silent that I think we’ve been disconnected. “Maeve? You there?”

“I…yeah. Um, what are you up to?”

“Still at work, but I’m gonna leave soon.”

“Okay. Right. Have you…” She trails off, and I think I hear an audible gulp. “Have you been checking your phone?”

“No. I left it in the copy room for, like, an hour. What’s up?” I look at the wall clock again, and it hits me. “Shit. Your Truth or Dare text came, didn’t it? What did it say? Are you all right?”

“Oh God.” Maeve’s voice thickens. “I’m sorry, Knox. I am so, so sorry.”

“What? Maeve, you’re starting to freak me out.” I pause, alarm snaking through my gut as her breath hitches. “Are you
crying
?”

“Um…” She definitely is. “So, I think…okay. I’m going to read you the text from Unknown because, um, I don’t want you to have to read all the comments to get to it. Because they’re stupid and pointless like always.” Maeve draws in a shaky breath. “But before I do—I need you to know I didn’t say that, okay? Not
exactly
that. I wouldn’t. I’ve been racking my brains and I can only come up with a single conversation that’s even a little bit pertinent but I swear to God, it was a
lot
more nuanced than that. And it was with Bronwyn, who would never breathe a word, so I honestly don’t know how this even happened.”

“Maeve, seriously. What’s going on? Who do I need to fight?”

“Don’t.” She groans the word. “I, okay. This is what it said.
Maeve Rojas,
um…” I hear a deep breath, and then the rest of the words come out in a rush.
“Maeve Rojas dumped Knox Myers because he can’t get it up.”

What. The. Fuck.

I listen to Maeve’s ragged breathing for a minute. Or maybe that’s mine. When she tentatively asks, “Knox? Are you—” I disconnect. The phone drops out of my hand, bouncing lightly on the desk, and I let it stay facedown while I press my fists to my forehead.

What the
fuck.
My heart’s pounding out of my chest. No. No way. The entire school did not just read about the most humiliating moment of my life. Which was
private.
And supposed to stay that way forever.

Maeve and I—God. It was stupid. We talked about it for months,
losing our virginity,
like it was some project we had to finish before we could graduate high school. That should’ve been a clue, that we were so practical about it. But we thought we wanted to, and then my parents went out of town for their anniversary, so there it was: opportunity.

I was so nervous, though. I did a couple shots of my dad’s vodka before Maeve came over, because I thought that’d calm me down, but all it did was make me dizzy and a little nauseated. And then we were kissing and it just…wasn’t working. Any of it. I could tell she wasn’t into it either, but we’d, like,
committed.
I didn’t know how the hell I could just tap out all of a sudden. Especially since guys are supposed to be born ready.

It was a massive relief when Maeve pulled away and asked if we could take a break for a minute. Then she buttoned her shirt back up and said, “Do you ever feel like maybe we’re trying too hard to be something we’re not?”

I was grateful to her then. For getting it. For not making a big deal. For being as non-awkward as possible, both then and later, so I could pretend it hadn’t happened. I’d almost convinced myself that it didn’t. Until now.

Because she
told
people. More people than Bronwyn, I’m sure, because Bronwyn’s not the type to spread gossip.

It doesn’t even matter who it was. Damage done.

I turn my phone over. There are new messages from Maeve that I ignore, opening the giant group text from Unknown instead.
I don’t want you to have to read all the comments to get to it,
Maeve had said.
Because they’re stupid and pointless like always.

And prolific. There must be a hundred of them.

Sorry about the soft serve, man.

I know a great pharmacy in Canada where you can bulk order Viagra.

Maybe it’s because she’s not a dude.

Jesus. How the hell am I supposed to show up at school tomorrow? Or ever? Or get up on a stage next month to perform
Into the Woods,
singing in front of everybody? Bayview High is ruthless. One incident is all it takes to define you for the rest of your life, and I just found mine. At our twentieth reunion, Brandon Weber and Sean Murdock will still be laughing about this.

“Knox?” I jump at Eli’s voice. He and Bethany are approaching my desk, laptops in hand. “I thought you were going home.” I scrape a hand across my face and he peers at me more closely, frowning. “You all right? You look sick all of a sudden.”

“Headache,” I croak. “No big deal. I’m just gonna—yeah. I’m gonna go.” I grab my phone and get unsteadily to my feet as Eli watches with an increasingly furrowed brow. He sets down his laptop on the corner of the desk.

“Let me give you a ride. You’re really pale.”

I hesitate. What’s a worse place to be while dick jokes pile up on my phone: in a car with my boss, or on a bus next to some grandmother I’ll never see again? It’s no contest. “No, I’m good,” I force out. “Totally fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m almost at the door when I feel a tug on my arm. I half turn, my temper spiking too fast to hold it in. “I said I’m
fine
!”

“I know,” Bethany says. “But you probably still want this.” She presses the strap of my backpack into my hand.

“Right. Sorry.” I feel a surge of guilt, avoiding her eyes as I shoulder my backpack. I’m still pissed off, but none of this is Bethany’s fault. I wait until I’m in the elevator, doors safely shut behind me, to find a better target.

Texts from Maeve are at the top of my message list:

I’m so sorry.

I never meant to hurt you.

Can we talk?

There’s a lot I want to say, but I settle for short and to the point.

Go to hell, Maeve.

Maeve

Wednesday, March 4

The first person to greet me at school Wednesday morning is Sean Murdock, and he does it by grabbing the front of his pants. “Climb on any time you want a real man,” he leers, thrusting his hips while Brandon Weber cackles behind him. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”

My face burns with the kind of combined horror and shame I haven’t felt since Simon Kelleher wrote a scathing blog post about me freshman year. This time, though, I can’t slink into the shadows to get away from it all. For one thing, my sister’s not around to fight for me. And for another, I’m not the only one affected.

“First off, gross,” I say loudly. “Second, that stupid game is
lying.
Nothing like that ever happened.” I spin my combination and yank the door to my locker so hard that I lose my grip and slam it into my neighbor’s. “You’re an idiot if you believe everything you read. Well, you’re an idiot regardless. But either way, it’s not true.”

That’s my story, and come hell or high water, I will stick with it.

“Sure, Maeve,” Sean smirks. This is a sucky time to find out he knows my name after all. His eyes travel up and down my body, making my skin crawl. “Offer still stands.”

Brandon laughs again. “Literally,” he says. He puts his hand up for a high five, but Sean just looks confused.

Laughter echoes in the hall, and Sean brightens as he turns in its direction. There’s a group of people clustered around the bay where Knox’s locker is. “Looks like your boyfriend’s here,” Sean says. “Well,
ex
-boyfriend. Can’t blame you for that. Hope he likes his present.” My heart sinks as he and Brandon saunter down the hall toward the growing crowd. I grab a random assortment of books that probably aren’t even what I need for class, stuff them into my backpack, and slam my locker door closed.

I’m halfway to Knox’s locker when someone grabs hold of my arm. “I wouldn’t,” Phoebe says, pulling me to a stop. Her curly hair is in a high ponytail that swings when she turns her head to look behind us. “You being anywhere near him right now is only going to make things worse.” She doesn’t sound mean, just matter-of-fact, but the words still sting.

“What’s going on?”

“Limp noodles glued to his locker. In a—shape. You can probably guess.” She shrugs in what she clearly wants to be a breezy manner, but the tense lines of her mouth don’t match. “Could’ve been worse. At least noodles are easy to get off.” Her jaw twitches. “I mean, clean.”

I slump against the locker beside me. “Oh God. They’re such assholes. And it’s not even true.” I raise my voice. “I
never
said that.” I dart a glance at Phoebe, testing out the lie on somebody with significantly more brain cells than Sean.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, in that same breezy-yet-bitter voice. “People will believe what they want anyway.”

I grimace in frustration. “The worst thing is, I was actually making progress in figuring out who’s doing this. Not fast enough, though.”

Phoebe blinks. “Say what?”

I catch her up on the latest revenge forum posts from Darkestmind. “I’ll bet that last one was about me,” I say, holding out my phone so Phoebe can see the screenshot I took.
More to come soon. Tick-tock.

She sucks her lower lip in between her teeth. “Hmm. Maybe? Still doesn’t give you any idea who’s talking, though.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But you’d be surprised. People who think they’re being stealthy and anonymous give themselves away all the time.” Simon certainly did.

“Can I give you some advice?” Phoebe asks. I nod as she leans against the locker beside me, her face serious. “I was thinking about this stupid game all last night, and how it has everybody dancing like puppets on a string. Whoever’s behind Truth or Dare is on a massive power trip. And the thing is, we’re
giving
them that power. By caring. Reacting. Spending all our time worrying about who’s next and what’s true. We’re feeding the beast and I, for one, am done. I blocked Unknown last night, and I think you should too. Back away from the revenge forum. Stop handing those anonymous weirdos the attention they want so much. If everyone ignored them, they’d stop.”

“But everyone
won’t
ignore them,” I protest. “This is Bayview High we’re talking about. The gossip capital of North America.”

Phoebe gives a little toss of her head. “Well, we have to start somewhere, don’t we? I’m officially opting out of this mess.”

“Sounds great in theory,” I say. “I don’t disagree. But that’s not going to help Knox at this particular point in time.”

“People are making way too big a deal of this,” Phoebe says. She edges a little closer and lowers her voice. “It’s not uncommon, you know. Especially during a first time. Was there alcohol involved, by any chance?”

I resist the urge to bash my head against the locker, but just barely. “Please don’t.” Then, because I’m desperate to understand what happened and Knox isn’t speaking to me, I add in a whisper, “I don’t know how anyone could have found out. I only told Bronwyn and she would never say anything.”

“Are you sure?” Phoebe arches a skeptical brow, and I guess I can’t blame her for asking. She doesn’t exactly have an ironclad bond of sisterly trust with Emma.

“Positive. Maybe Knox told somebody. He has a lot more friends than I do.”

Phoebe shakes her head emphatically. “No way. A guy would never.”

My throat aches. “He hates me now.”

The bell rings, and Phoebe pats my arm. “Look, this sucks and of course he’s upset. But you didn’t actually do anything so terrible. The fact is, girls talk about this kind of stuff.
People
talk about this kind of stuff. He knows that. Just give him some time.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, and then my heart jumps into my throat as I spy Knox’s familiar gray sweatshirt headed our way. His backpack is slung over one shoulder, his head down. When he gets close enough for me to see his face, he looks so miserable that I can’t keep quiet. “Hi, Knox,” I call, my voice wavering on his name.

His mouth twitches downward, so I know he heard me. But he walks past us without saying a word.

Phoebe pats my arm again, harder. “More time than that.”

The rest of the day doesn’t get any better. Flaccid penis pictures start showing up everywhere: on lockers, classroom doors, bathroom walls, even at the kitchen lunch line. Former prison worker Robert tears one down while I grab a soggy turkey sandwich that I have no intention of eating. “What fresh hell are these monsters up to now?” he mutters, with an expression that’s equal parts mystified and apprehensive.

It’s pushed every other worrying thought from my head. The nosebleeds and bruises can wait. Unknown’s identity—I don’t care anymore. Phoebe was right: whoever it is isn’t worth all the time and attention I’ve been giving them. I need to focus my energy on fixing this mess with Knox. I mean, I have a measly five people in my Key Contacts, and he’s the only one who’s not related to me or getting paid to keep me from dying. I can’t let this ruin our friendship.

After the last bell, I head for an
Into the Woods
rehearsal, hoping for one last chance to talk with him. I make my way slowly down the aisle of the auditorium, simultaneously scanning the small crowd and counting how many lights are blazing above the stage.
If it’s an even number, Knox will forgive me today. Ten, eleven, twelve…thirteen.

Damn it. Doubly unlucky.

Knox is nowhere in sight, and it doesn’t look as though rehearsal has started yet. There are only two people onstage, and when I get closer I see that one of them is Mrs. Kaplan, the drama teacher, and the other is a sullen-looking Eddie Blalock.

“But I don’t know the part,” Eddie says. He’s a sophomore, small and thin with dark hair that he gels into stiff points.

“You’re the
understudy.
” Mrs. Kaplan plants her hands on her hips. “You were supposed to have been learning the role of Jack for the past two months.”

“Yeah, but.” Eddie scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t.”

Mrs. Kaplan heaves a bone-weary sigh. “You had one job, Eddie.”

Lucy Chen is perched on the edge of a chair in the front row, leaning forward with both her arms and legs crossed. She looks like an angry human pretzel.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She presses her lips together so tightly that they almost disappear. “Knox quit,” she says, her eyes fixed on Eddie like a bird of prey. “In related news, Eddie sucks.” I inhale a shocked breath, and Lucy seems to register who she’s speaking to for the first time. “So, thanks a lot for ruining the play and everything.”

My temper flares. I’ll blame myself all day long, but I draw the line at Lucy doing the same. “This isn’t my fault. It’s that horrible game—”

“Do you mean the horrible game that
I
said we should report two weeks ago?” Lucy lifts her chin. “If anyone had listened to me, it probably would’ve been shut down by now and none of this would have happened.”

God, I hate when Lucy’s right. “Maybe we should tell someone now,” I say, my eyes straying to Mrs. Kaplan.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lucy snaps. “She has enough to worry about. Besides, everyone knows how to win this game by now. Just take the Dare. You’d have to be out of your mind to do anything else.”

Phoebe’s words in the hallway come back to me then.
Whoever’s behind Truth or Dare must be on a massive power trip. And the thing is, we’re
giving
them that power.
“Or we could all jointly block this creep’s number and stop playing altogether,” I say. Then I pull out my phone so, finally, I can do exactly that.

“Mija, you’ve been here through dinnertime and haven’t eaten a thing. Are you all right?”

I look up from my laptop at Mr. Santos’s voice, startled when I see a baseball cap jammed over his unruly curls. He only wears that when he’s leaving Café Contigo for the night, and he’s usually the last one here. Then I realize how empty the restaurant is.

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.” I was too anxious to sit at a dinner table with my parents tonight, so I told them I was meeting Knox here. That was a big fat lie, unfortunately. I can’t even get him to text me back. And I’m way too stressed to eat. I’ve just been staring blankly at the history paper I’m supposed to be writing for…hours, apparently.

Mr. Santos makes a
tsk
noise. “I don’t believe that. I think we just haven’t found the right food to tempt you. Maybe you need a good old-fashioned Colombian recipe. What’s your favorite?” He shudders a little. “Please don’t say salchipapas.”

I manage a laugh. Bronwyn refused to eat hot dogs when we were kids, so we’ve never had the traditional Colombian dish of them cut up and mixed with French fries. “Definitely not. We’re more of an ajiaco family.”

“Excellent choice. I’ll make it for you.”

“Mr. Santos, no!” I lunge for his sleeve as he turns for the kitchen. “I mean, that’s so nice of you, but ajiaco takes hours. And you’re closing.”

“I’ll make a fast-food version, Argentinean-style. It’ll take fifteen minutes.”

Oh God. I can’t believe I’m such a sad puppy that this impossibly kind man thinks he has to work overtime to make me dinner. At least I’m in long sleeves so he can’t see that I’m covered in bruises, too. “I’m honestly fine, Mr. Santos. It’s really not—”

“I’ll make it,” calls a voice behind us. Luis is leaning against the half-open kitchen door, a grease-spattered gray T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. It’s ridiculous how good it looks on him. “Go home, Pa. I’ll close up.” He crosses halfway to the dining room and holds up his right hand. I’m not sure what he’s doing until Mr. Santos reaches into his pocket and tosses Luis a set of keys.

“Works for me,” Mr. Santos says, and turns back to me with a gentle smile. “Don’t look so guilty, mija. He needs the practice.”

He waves amiably and shuffles out the door. I let him disappear around the corner of the building before I stand and stuff my laptop into my bag with an apologetic look at Luis. “Listen, just go home. If he asks, I’ll tell him you fed me. I’m not even hungry.” My empty stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble loudly. Luis raises his eyebrows as I fold my arms tightly over my rib cage. My stomach growls again anyway. “At all.”

“Come on.” A half smile teases the corners of his mouth. “It’s not like you’re not going to help.” He turns and disappears into the back of the restaurant, leaving me no choice but to follow.

I’ve only ever glimpsed the kitchen from the dining room before, bright and chaotic and bursting with noise. Now it’s so still and silent that Luis’s voice echoes when he gestures to the row of appliances behind a long, well-worn metal table. “Here’s where the magic happens.”

I put my hands on my hips and look around the kitchen with what I hope is professional interest. “Very impressive.”

“Hang on a sec. I need to get out of this shirt, it’s a disaster.” Luis goes behind a tall, freestanding rack of metal shelves and grabs something white out of a duffel bag. Before I can fully register what he’s doing, he’s pulled his T-shirt over his head and put on a clean one. I get a flash of shoulder muscles and then he’s done, stuffing the old shirt into his bag and replacing it on the shelf.

I wish I’d known that was about to happen so I could’ve paid better attention.

Luis crosses to an industrial-sized refrigerator and pulls open the door. “Let’s see…oh yeah, we’re all set. We have chicken and potatoes already prepped for tomorrow. Not the right kind of potato, but it’ll do. No corn, but I can make that quick.” He starts pulling ingredients out and laying them across the counter, then selects a knife from a rack on the wall and hands it to me. “Can you chop some scallions?”

“Sure.” I take the knife gingerly. It’s the smallest one in the rack, but I’ve never handled anything quite so deadly-looking.

“There’s a cutting board below the counter.”

There are several. I shuffle through them, wondering if plastic or wood is better, but since Luis didn’t specify I end up just grabbing the one on top. I lay the scallions across it and turn them a few different ways, trying to figure out the best angle for cutting. By the time I’m halfway through the bunch, Luis looks like he’s been in the kitchen for hours. Pots are steaming, garlic is sautéing, and the chicken and potatoes are chopped into small, neat pieces. Luis puts down his knife, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, then glances my way and grins.