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  “Safe from what?” called Gavin.

  “Well … safe from whoever caused Scott’s death.” Somewhere in the recesses of the cafeteria, someone dropped a fork. A girl waited for the clattering to stop before making sure everyone heard her whimper. “The coroner is set to release his report today, but I obtained a copy in advance. Right here it says, ‘Though his body was severely malformed, it is our opinion that the subject’s death was most likely the result of another party’s action.’ Apparently someone used an air pump to … pump him up.”

  Dead silence.

  Then the bell screeched, and so did everyone in the cafeteria.

  The cameraman panned across the tables, capturing the usual post-bell hullaballoo hullaballooning out of control, the students near riot, surging with the fear that a killer was among them. Cole’s body was motionless but his mind was galloping as everyone streamed out the doors, into the hallways, and out the exits, overwhelming hall monitors. The principal fought his way inside against the flow and stomped toward Spring. In her haste to flee, she dropped the coroner’s report. Cole pocketed it and ducked into an alcove. He was well into a second read when Gavin found him. “It’s chaos! Let’s ditch before the faculty regains control!” Cole didn’t move, stuck on a passage in the report. “What is the matter with you?”

  Cole stooped against an overturned table. “Scott stroked out. That’s what killed him.”

  “I thought it was an air pump.”

  “The air pump shot air into his brain. The air caused the stroke. The stroke did him in.”

  “You’re making me feel dumb. If you have a point, spit it out.”

  “Air bubbles in the brain. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Yeah. ’Cause we wrote it.”

  That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Gavin said. He and Cole had retreated to their lockers after the mayhem in the cafeteria. “Stupider than the fact that stupidest is a real word. Scott Dare dies and we predicted it? That’s egotistical, even for me. Get over yourself.”

  Gavin accused Cole of being all these things and more in his epic, steamroller shaming. “We made a joke about someone keeling over, and then that someone keeled over in a vaguely similar manner. That’s not murder; that’s irony. Or something like it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that Scott got turned into a blow-up doll right after we dreamed it up and posted it on the Internet?” Cole asked.

  Gavin was willing to acknowledge that much. “But it’s not quite as weird as the fact that you think someone went to the trouble of hitching an air pump to his carotid artery when all they had to do to kill him was say ‘soccer is for wimps’ and watch his head explode. Why copy us? Why kill Scott at all? Who would do that?”

  Cole couldn’t say Josh’s name aloud lest he be branded psycho and jealous, so he allowed Gavin the last word.

  “Sorry to burst your bubble — pun intended — but the coroner’s report wasn’t conclusive. It’s just as likely Scott died of a freak accident. And even if some nutjob did go after him, the idea that our Wikipedia page was the inspiration is a stretch of G-string proportions. It was a fluke.”

  Gavin went ahead and skipped. Cole did not have that luxury (it was bouillabaisse day in home ec), so he set himself to auto-student and withdrew inside his head for the rest of the day.

  The questions were still niggling when the last bell rang. He drifted along with the students rushing for the buses and was nearly aboard when he saw something in the parking lot that had been missing in the morning. There, among the jalopies and Acuras, was a BMW. Cole turned around and went back inside.

  Midway down a corridor across from Chetley’s classroom he found Josh’s locker. Rummaging through it was Josh.

  His usually square and soldierly shoulders were aslant, and his eyes were dull, unlike his hair, which was shiny with grease. He looked less like Josh than Josh’s uglier, grieving twin. Or his uglier, guilty twin? Or both?

  Cole tested the water. “Hey.”

  Josh slotted another book into his bag.

  “You’re here.”

  “Just to get my assignments.” Josh’s voice had all the character of an idling engine. There was none of the hostility with which he usually addressed Cole. But then, there was nothing in it to suggest they knew each other at all.

  Cole leaned against the lockers, a bro sign for it’s all good. “All we did in history was more oral reports. Are you coming in tomorrow?”

  Josh shook his head. “Scott’s memorial.”

  Cole had never been to a memorial. Or a service. Or a funeral. He pictured a line of students and SHS dignitaries paying respect to Scott’s parents, and the casket, dressed in flowers. Would it be closed, the state of Scott’s body left to the imagination? Or did the mortician have the power to remold his wattled skin to the bones in his face? What would Cole do if he saw Scott’s body? Would he faint? Weep? Shrug?

  “I’m supposed to get a picture of Scott and me,” Josh said. “For this collage they’re going to have at the church. Do you think this is a good one?” He held up a photo that under other, less fatal circumstances would have been destined for the yearbook. Two soccer stars, just guys, mid-celebration after another win.

  “Good choice.”

  Josh pocketed the photo. “Was there something you wanted?”

  To look him in the eye? To find out what he’s capable of? To learn if Cole was right to be suspicious?

  “I wanted to tell you … I’m sorry. About Scott.”

  Josh closed his locker. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I didn’t.” But he didn’t want Scott dead, either. A public pantsing would have sufficed. “But you did. And plenty of other people. I’m sorry for what you’re going through.” Josh regarded Cole with reserve.

  “Thanks.” He shouldered his bag but took no step to leave. “I appreciate it.” And from the doughy softness in his expression, it seemed like he did. Suddenly Josh looked much more like his former friend than his current adversary, and not at all like a killer.

  Through the double doors at the end of the corridor came Winnie, Andrea at her side. Their arms were linked and they slanted against each other in a three-legged shamble. Eyes red with recent tears, they slowed when they saw Cole. It seemed as though a hug was in order, though who should give it and who should receive it was anyone’s guess.

  “Did you see the counselor?” asked Josh.

  Winnie nodded.

  “Are you okay?” asked Josh. And Cole. Simultaneously.

  She nodded again, gaze flitting from her boyfriend to her ex and back again.

  “What is he doing here?” asked Andrea.

  “I’m talking to Josh.” The double doors down the hall behind them opened again. Lila pushed through and halted outside a classroom, a pencil and notepad in her hand as she feigned great interest in a mural. Suddenly Cole could see another Muckraker article taking shape, with himself, Winnie, and Josh at the center. “He’s all yours,” said Cole, pivoting to usher Lila away before she was noticed.

  But Andrea wasn’t through with him. “Leaving so soon? Without taking another shot at Winnie, even?”

  Any thaw between Cole and Josh was flash-frozen. “What is she talking about?” Josh asked Winnie.

  Andrea cupped her mouth. “Winnie, you didn’t tell him?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Josh.”

  Josh did worry about it. “What does ‘another shot’ mean?”

  “I’m so sorry, I thought he knew!” Andrea said.

  “Andrea, just stop already!”

  “Someone speak!” bellowed Josh.

  Cole did. “Great talking to you guys, as always.” Josh grabbed Cole by the arm and jerked him back against a locker. Lila’s notepad smoked.

  “Cole came looking for Winnie the other night at practice,” blurted Andrea. “The day you got taken off the team.” Josh’s fists balled, unballed, and balled again, as he drew his own
conclusions.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it was nothing,” Winnie said. “Right, Cole?”

  One word from Cole would defuse the situation. Another would light it up. It was nothing, Winnie had said.

  “I dunno, Winnie,” Cole said, his lips moving before his brain had time to exercise veto power. “Sure didn’t seem like nothing to me.”

  Cole cowered, bracing himself for the mashing of bone, but the blow never came. Josh reared back and gave the lockers a free kick instead. From inside came the sound of heavy books pitching over from the tremor. Josh kept kicking, Cole kept cringing, and the lockers kept crashing. Winnie seemed to grow in stature as she shoved herself between Josh and Cole, angrily professing her innocence.

  “If nothing really happened, why didn’t you just tell me?!” Josh bellowed.

  “Maybe because I was trying to keep you from doing something else to justify everyone who is already calling you out!”

  Andrea tried to back her up in her own self-serving way. “Don’t listen to Cole, he’s just trying to cause trouble. I was there when he showed up. I made sure nothing happened.”

  Josh turned on her. “But you made sure I found out, didn’t you? You don’t care what goes on between Winnie and me, you just care that something goes on. Anything that creates a little drama and draws attention from your miserable little dead-end existence. I’m done being your entertainment.”

  Josh didn’t stick around to subject himself to Andrea’s indignation. Neither did Winnie. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, tramping off in the other direction. Of the three of them left, none quite believed it.

  Cole released a chuckle, amazed he was alive, and even more amazed that he had not soiled himself. Andrea swept to his face. No girl had been closer to him since the last time Winnie had kissed him. “You won’t think you’re so funny when I’m through with you.” Then she was gone.

  Lila was still jotting when Cole swiped her notebook and tore out the related pages. “I gave you one story. You give me one.” He walked away.

  “I’m not your enemy, Cole,” she called. “But Andrea is.”

  Andrea got no joy from collecting the mail at home every day. Once a month she’d receive a magazine and her medication but the important stuff came delivered directly to her iPad: birthday money, rumors, and the latest embarrassing selfie making the rounds.

  Still, bringing in the mail was the only contribution to the household her mother asked her to make, so she did it without complaint.

  Andrea knew she had it pretty good, even if her pretty good had come at a cost. Since their divorce, her parents had gone out of their way to lower their expectations of her behavior. And since her father’s death those expectations had crashed right through the floor.

  He’d been a fixture on the local news since before she was born. “Cal, the Winking Weatherman,” they’d called him. Then one day, not long ago, he’d been killed in a freak accident by one of his own props. The wiring holding a lightning bolt to the rigging above the set broke loose. The lightning bolt plunged directly into his wink-eye. “He never saw it coming,” Andrea overheard the anchor tell Spring Showers at the wake. His death had been ruled an accident, but that hadn’t stopped Spring from asking Andrea if he’d had enemies.

  “Just the scale,” Andrea had replied.

  He was gone but condolences from disturbed viewers continued to pour in. She sifted through them and had helped herself to every credit card offered to her mother. Now her wallet was packed with two Visas, two MasterCards, one AmEx, and a Discover. But who took Discover?

  Andrea learned other things from getting first crack at the mail. Things her mother wouldn’t share with her, things involving the phrases past due, third notice, and collection agency.

  Besides the refill of her medication, today’s haul included a letter from the lawyer handling her father’s estate. Andrea steamed it open and read that her father’s other ex-wives were contesting the will. She restuffed the envelope and stuck it at the bottom of the pile, wondering, Maybe the electric company takes Discover.

  Alone in the house.

  She could do homework, but why bother?

  She could watch TV, but TV was terrible.

  She could have something to eat, but that would be eating.

  She checked her e-mail. Nothing from Winnie. Nothing on Twitter or Facebook. Nothing from anyone. She’d checked it all on her phone two minutes ago.

  Two minutes is long enough to wait before refreshing.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  Her mother wouldn’t be home from work for hours. She set Pandora to Robyn and turned up the volume before scrolling through the contacts in her phone. She could try Winnie again. She’d tried once before and was ignored. Try again and she’d look desperate. What if Winnie was with some other friend when the call came through? What if she wondered aloud why some people could not get the hint? Andrea put her phone down.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  She hated Josh. She hadn’t always. But she hated him now. She hated Cole, too. Equally smitten with Winnie, slobbery Cole was at least controllable. He was socially stunted and only moderately attractive in that dull, Labrador retriever kind of way. And because he never dreamed he could do better, he sponged up abuse with a laugh, as if in on a joke no one even told, counting himself lucky to be in the presence of girls at all. Cole reminded her of her father, near the end, although by the time of his death he’d gotten a backbone and tried to clamp down on her social life, as if he could do that. Still, he was dead, and that wasn’t the greatest.

  She felt a hitch in the back of her throat, and her face scrunched up in advance of coming tears.

  Nothing came.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  Winnie wasn’t the only one who could evolve. Andrea could reinvent herself, too.

  She cruised Reddit for a while, sorting through responses to her IAmA personas.

  IAmA shark attack survivor.

  IAmA exorcist.

  IAmA human sushi platter.

  Each identity was carefully researched, fully realized, and honed to the finest detail. Her online readers believed everything she wrote. And they wanted to know more.

  IAmA daughter NOT in mourning. My father died. I don’t miss him.

  Her true story had the most upvotes. People were concerned about her state of mind. Some of them thought she was depressed, others thought she was dangerous. A father’s death should count for something, they said.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  With an audience, it was easier. She played a role, an imaginary version of herself, like one of her IAmA creations. IAmA daughter who misses her father cried on cue. To do anything other than weep would be out of character, or strange. No one in high school could afford that label. So she mustered tears where necessary. But generating them when alone was another matter. She knew what others expected of her but did not know what she expected of herself. In the privacy of her room she wondered if it mattered to her that her father was dead or if she simply did not have any tears left.

  Her mother called this nonsense but begged a prescription from a doctor friend anyway. The medicine was sent in an eyedropper and was marketed to sufferers of something called Chronic Dry Eye. Andrea looked at her phone again to make sure it wasn’t set to vibrate. Had she missed a call?

  No. The ringer was on full blast. Now she definitely felt like crying.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  She would call Winnie again. Who cares if she came off as pitiful? They would talk it out. Andrea would confide everything in her. They’d have a good cry and everything would be okay. She retrieved her prescription refill and went into the bathroom to get ready.

  The package was lined with USPS tape. We’re sorry. Your package was damaged in shipment. Andrea tore it open and removed the dropper. One drop per eye was adeq
uate.

  She shouldn’t have opened her mouth like that in front of Josh.

  She uncapped the dropper.

  Next time she’ll think before she speaks.

  She tilted her head back and raised the dropper.

  She and Winnie were best friends. For now, at least. They didn’t let stupid Cole come between them. And they wouldn’t let Josh do it, either.

  She gently pried apart her eyelids, exposing the ball.

  Winnie would make Josh apologize to Andrea. And be nice to her.

  She positioned the dropper over her eye and squeezed. A glob formed at the end of the spout.

  Or she would not be nice to Josh.

  The medicine kerplunked onto her eye and frothed on contact.

  Her eye sizzled.

  A wisp of vapor, like dry ice, curled off its surface.

  Her eye began to melt, and Andrea screamed.

  Your miserable little dead-end existence …

  Winnie Hoffman @WinWin100

  @hendersdaughter Andrea we love you

  10 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers

  12 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  And the next couple of days will be very important

  13 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  She is in serious condition

  13 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  They had to take it out

  15 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  She had to have emergency surgery on her eye last night

  15 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter

  I know many of you are concerned about Andrea

  16 minutes ago Favorite Retweet Reply

  Andrea Henderson @hendersdaughter