Somebody shouts, “Foul!” and a few people let out uncomfortable laughs. No one steps in. Gwen spins on her feet, and behind the determined set of her face, rage burns. She sprints across the floor, shoving against Lyla with her shoulder. Her hair whips into Lyla’s face. Lyla’s dainty, smug expression cracks. A snarl breaks through. Their legs tangle, angling for control. Their fingers convulse like claws.
Lyla elbows Gwen, just as Gwen goes for the ball. Gwen stumbles over the ball and falls with a curse and a thump. She holds her shoulder, face twisted in agony. Lyla bends over her.
Their eyes meet. “Whatever you did, we’ll find out,” Lyla hisses.
The gym door bangs open and everyone jumps. Gwen sits up; her whole face burns. She stares at the floor, breathing hard through her nose, clenching her hands to keep them from shaking.
“Miss Sayer.” Mr. Darrow comes back in. He jabs one thumb over his shoulder. “You’re up for an interview.” The space around Gwen seems to grow. She pushes herself to her feet, setting her jaw, rolling her shoulder gingerly. Mr. Darrow frowns. “What happened to your shoulder?”
“I fell over the ball,” she says, still staring at the floor. Tears swim in her eyes.
“Go see Mr. Garson when you’re done. He’ll take a look at it.”
She nods, and when she looks up again, she’s back in control. She takes a few more steps, stopping in front of Lyla.
Lyla lifts her pointed chin, glaring. Sweat has beaded on her face. She wipes her forehead, smearing her smoky eye. Gwen’s mouth twists in a bitter smile. “Looks like your eyeliner’s not waterproof after all.”
AVERY: hey <3 study night? My place? Parents are out till 11
STUDY BUDDY: I can’t, the Emma stuff has my parents freaking
AVERY: shoot yea. But im gonna need my hoodie back at some point
STUDY BUDDY: ?
AVERY: hoodie. U better remember taking it off me!!!
STUDY BUDDY: oh I do. ;)
STUDY BUDDY: but I also remember giving it back?
AVERY: ummmm but I don’t have it??
STUDY BUDDY: ( . . . )
AVERY: ?????
7
The Scholar
MUÑEZ: The date is Thursday, December 6, 2018, the time is eleven twenty-seven. This is Detective Muñez interviewing Miss Gwen Sayer. Thank you for coming to see us. We’d like to talk to you about—
GWEN: Emma?
MUÑEZ: Emma Baines . . . and your sister.
GWEN: . . . Why?
MUÑEZ: Due to the similarities of the incidents, we thought it might be wise to take a second look. Could you tell us about your sister?
GWEN: No, actually. I don’t see what this has to do with Lizzy, if I’m being honest. Our family doesn’t need to talk about this again; we need to put the fake sympathy behind us and get our lives back on track.
MUÑEZ: We wouldn’t be asking you if we didn’t think it was relevant.
GWEN: Whatever. You could read my police interview, but why bother? I can recite the story by heart now.
MUÑEZ: Would you tell us about your sister’s incident?
Lizzy—Elizabeth—was three years older than me, and she was aiming for the Devino Scholarship, too. Until senior year. Senior year was when everything—well, I don’t know how to say it otherwise, so I’ll have to be vulgar. Everything went to shit.
Her year started out normal. She was doing honor society, tutoring, basketball, journalism. Naturally, she was acing all her classes. We didn’t realize how much of her schedule was a lie until Principal Mendoza contacted us, close to the end of the first semester. It’s not my parents’ fault they didn’t know. Lizzy had been forging their signatures for months to get out of her extracurriculars. And then she went . . . somewhere. Did something. Mum and Dad tried to figure it all out. Mum picked up extra jobs to pay for counseling. But it was too late by then. Every time I saw her, she looked like she’d slept less and worried more. She stank like an open bottle of beer and she hid pills in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Rumors followed her like the smell. People said she slept with anyone who asked, that she was having an affair with a teacher, with someone’s parent, that she did so much coke she put a hole in her nose . . . the wolves will spread any gossip, and the nastier the better.
The night she died, she snuck out of the house after Mum and Dad went to sleep. I was studying for math, so I had my music up and my head down. I didn’t realize her car was gone until around one, when I was pulling the window shades down to get ready for bed.
I stared at the place where her battered old Hyundai Accent had been—she’d saved up for sixteen months and bought it used. But she wasn’t supposed to take it out this late. Staring at the empty spot, I could feel dread filling my stomach. I told myself it was just a party, she’d go and get drunk and fall asleep on someone’s couch, come home the next day and get grounded. I told myself it was her life and she could ruin it if she wanted.
The phone rang in Mum’s room, this insistent chime like an old rotary phone. A few moments later I heard Mum’s voice, sleep laden, irritable.
It must be Lizzy, I thought. She was calling because she was drunk or high and needed a ride. But when Mum’s voice came again, it wasn’t angry. “William,” she said. I imagined her shaking my father’s shoulder. “Wake up. Get Gwendolyn.”
“What’s happening?” I asked as soon as the door opened. Dad’s face was drawn, haggard but awake.
“Get a coat and get in the truck. It’s your sister.”
“Why do I have to go get her?” I grumbled, but the dread in my stomach expanded, eating a hole in my belly until I thought my heart would drop through. I put some jeans on over my boy shorts and stuck my feet in my boots, then grabbed my coat.
The road was slick from the rainstorm, but Mum didn’t care. She kept her foot on the gas, pressing down until we slid half a lane and my dad shouted, “Bronwyn!”
“I’m fine,” she snapped back, and that was when I realized how not fine she truly was. Her hands shook, so she gripped the steering wheel to steady them. Her knuckles were white, bones ready to pop from the skin. I looked over to see a tear drop from her chin onto her lap.
“Who was on the phone?” I said.
“No one,” Mum began, but Dad put a hand on her arm.
The moonlight shone through the windshield, turning his face pale and cragged like the landscape around us. “It was the police, Gwen.”
“Why?” My voice quavered, higher than normal. Like my heartbeat. “Where are we going?”
Jefferson-Lorne is a town that you can cross in ten minutes flat, so I got my answer soon enough. We passed Anna’s Run and turned onto a little side road that leads into the mountains. Mum drove until we saw the flashing blue and red lights, and she parked next to a trailhead and a little black Hyundai Accent. The Accent had been parked haphazardly across three spaces, stopped not a foot from the edge of the ravine.
“Stay in the car,” Mum said as she unbuckled her seat belt.
“She deserves to know—” Dad argued.
Mum gave him a look that would stop a grizzly in its tracks. It’s a look I’d never seen her give before, and I hope I never see it again. “Gwendolyn,” she said, and her Welsh accent came out thick. “Stay. In. The. Car.”