He tries to close the door, but it bounces off of Gwen’s faded red sneakers. “How long?” she asks.
Mendoza takes a deep breath. “Unfortunately, Miss Sayer, there are more important things to be concerned about. Please go to class.”
He shuts the door more forcefully this time, but Gwen’s already stepped back. The door bangs shut. She whirls around—
And slams right into Lyla.
“Oh,” Lyla says. She wears a black skirt, black tights, and a shirt that falls off one shoulder. A black choker wraps around her neck, and heavy eyeliner and mascara complete the look. Her eyes widen as she sees Gwen. “Gwendolyn Sayer, as I live and breathe. Are you coming in late?”
Gwen shifts from foot to foot. “So?”
A wicked smile touches the corner of her mouth. “You broke a perfect attendance record. What were you doing last night?”
Gwen just sighs. “Shut up, Lyla.” She heads toward gym class.
“Touchy,” Lyla calls after her. “I guess it wasn’t sleeping.”
Gwen doesn’t reply.
DISPATCHER: 911, what is the nature of your emergency?
MAN: There was a girl. A girl in the water.
DISPATCHER: Where was this girl?
MAN: Just downstream of Anna’s Run. . . . She was floating. No, she was being dragged. The current wouldn’t let her go.
DISPATCHER: Sir, could you please tell us your name and where you are right now?
MAN: I was fishing, see, and my phone got turned off last month, so I—I didn’t have no phone. I came here as soon as I saw her, but I don’t think you’ll find—
DISPATCHER: Sir, could you tell us where you are?
MAN: I’m at the OK gas station on Forty-Ninth. Just off Wallis. But it’s half a mile to Anna’s Run from here. You won’t find nothing. She’s gone now. She’s gone.
DISPATCHER: Sir, have you been drinking? Sir. Sir?
6
The Skirmish
Shoes squeak on the gym floor, the fitness equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. A semi-flat soccer ball thuds along with little enthusiasm. Otherwise the only sounds are the slapping of feet and twenty students huffing in air that smells like cold sweat and disinfectant. Their gym uniforms, green shorts and white tees with the Jefferson-Lorne wolf mascot, are barely sweaty. Most of the students aren’t even trying to play. Avery Cross just shimmied up the climbing rope like it’s what she was born to do and now she’s over in the corner, doing crunches. Two other students play hacky sack. A lot of people stand around.
Mr. Darrow sits at the bottom of the bleachers. Occasionally he shouts something like “Eyes on the ball, Mr. Fairbanks,” or “Push yourselves!” Then he runs a hand through his thick hair, like he’s trying to tear it out.
There is only one person who keeps an eye on the ball. There is only one person who pushes herself. Her dark brown ponytail bounces just above her shoulder blades as she runs. She seems to slide between her classmates as if they were ghosts. Her face is pinched, the same way it is when she’s taking notes or working on a quiz. Gwen Sayer puts 100 percent into everything, whether it’s SAT prep or mandatory indoor soccer practice. Some students make a half-hearted attempt to steal the ball, but the smarter ones get out of her way. And Gwen just keeps running, circling back, snagging the ball from whoever the goalie tosses it to.
The gym door opens, and everyone turns away from the game. With a baring of teeth and a savage kick, Gwen sends the ball spinning into the goal. Then she turns to see two detectives enter, a man and a woman. Their soles leave black rubber streaks on the gym floor. Mr. Darrow hurries over to them.
Twenty pairs of eyes focus on the two suits. The soccer ball bounces off a corner.
The male detective gestures at the door. Mr. Darrow nods. Turning to the silent class, he says, “Keep playing. And remember the participation part of your grade. Keep up the good work, Miss Sayer.”
As soon as the door closes behind Mr. Darrow and the detectives, all pretense drops. The goalie, a small girl named Riley, sits on the floor. Friends begin to clump together, whispers passing between them, building up like rain at the start of a flash flood. Others are silent. Eyes flicker toward Gwen, then away. Gwen tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear and straightens her T-shirt. She goes to retrieve the ball, ignoring her classmates.
One of the cheerleaders, Natalie, sits on the bottom of the aluminum bleachers. “I can’t believe Darrow thinks we’re going to do class today. Like it’s just a normal day.”
“I know.” Lyla stretches one long leg. She braided her hair for gym class, pinning it to her head in a crown. She plays with the rose-gold pendant hanging beneath the black ribbon choker. “He’s totally ignoring the tragedy.”
Gwen rolls her eyes from half a gym away. “Sure. You’re so devastated you had to make sure you remembered your waterproof eyeliner this morning.”
Her words carry through the hall. Someone snorts. Natalie leans away, but Lyla’s eyes flash and she straightens, face flushing. “Excuse me?”
Lyla and Gwen haven’t been friendly since Lyla asked Gwen if she was poor because of her sister’s coke addiction. The fact that the whole cheer squad was on Team Emma for the scholarship hasn’t helped.
Gwen folds her arms. “Cut the fake mourning. Nobody’s fooled. If you really thought this was a tragedy, you’d stop trying to capitalize on it by complaining about having to actually do work.”
Lyla lifts her chin. “Capitalizing? I was her friend.”
“No one was her friend,” Gwen snaps. Her words fall into an ugly well of silence. Students shift, trying to ignore the truth. Two red blotches appear on Gwen’s cheeks. She rubs one side of her face as if she could wipe off the blush. “You weren’t exactly there for her in life, and pretending you were all BFFs now doesn’t make you a better person. You might as well be honest about it.”
Lyla moves forward, catlike, stalking. “Well, honestly, I’m not surprised to see you dry-eyed. Isn’t it convenient that Emma disappeared right before the scholarship announcement? Wasn’t that announcement today?” Her words dig in, full of hurt. “Nobody else stood a chance against you except Emma. So honestly, you’ve got a lot to gain by her disappearance.”
“I’m not going to be fake about this. I respected Emma that much, at least,” Gwen says.
“Okay, guys.” Jamie Schill steps in. He’s half a foot taller than either of them, but the nervous tremor in his voice does anything but lend authority. “Maybe we should just get back to the game.”
Lyla says past him, “If anyone’s being fake, it’s you. Why don’t you drop the act and skip through the halls? You need that scholarship for college, don’t you?” The blush on Gwen’s cheeks spreads. “How badly?”
Gwen lunges forward—right into Jamie’s hand. His open palm presses against her abdomen and she grimaces. Jamie puts another hand on Lyla’s shoulder. “Guys,” he says. His big eyes are pleading.
Gwen and Lyla glare for a moment. Then Gwen pulls away. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s get back to the game.”
Someone tosses the ball. Gwen moves forward to catch it. But Lyla intercepts gracefully, catching the ball with the toe of her shoe. For a moment everything is still. A tipping point. Then Gwen lunges, and Lyla sidesteps, taking the ball with her. They’re off across the floor, pacing each other with ease. Gwen steals the ball, turns back toward Riley’s goal—then Lyla nudges her with a hip, making her stumble, and takes the ball back.