Alice in Wonderland High (32 page)

I reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”

“I need a little time to process that info, but I'm glad to know. Thanks.” He interlocked his fingers with mine, then squinted at me. “Are
you
okay? You look kind of . . . frazzled.”

“I liked it better when you said I looked beautiful,” I said.

He stroked the back of my wrist with his thumb. “Always.”

He pressed his lips down onto mine, gentle. I sank into his kiss, aggressively, taking it from grandmother-level to not-safe-for-TV.

Whitney groaned. “I'm not usually a rule-follower. But something tells me we shouldn't blatantly ignore Lorina's demand. I'm not really in the mood to deal with a bounty hunter.”

I broke away from Chess, and the three of us trudged for the door.

“I can't believe this whole time Kingston has been trying to save us,” Whitney said.

“I feel bad for Quinn,” Chess added. “Though I think she was pretty naïve not to see he was using her.”

Quinn.
Kingston may have confessed, but Quinn was the one person outside our circle who knew about my involvement. Who possibly had evidence. She'd promised to keep it a secret if I stayed away from her boyfriend. Now that he'd dumped her . . . would she stay tight-lipped?

A quarry of lead settled into my stomach.

“Quinn knows,” I said. “She saw some of Kingston's pictures of us.”

We all exchanged glances, then burst into a run that would have made the gym teachers proud.

By the time we got to the lounge, she'd left her mark and disappeared. The walls dripped with red paint blotches, as if she'd taken a bucket and splashed it at the concrete. Still, it had hid the evidence—and vandalized the school even more.

“It's kind of beautiful, in a strange way.” Whitney dipped her finger into a glob of paint. “My mom would love it.”

“It looks like someone spilled tomato soup.” Chess rubbed his stomach. “Now I'm hungry.”

“Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!” Whitney sang as she exited. “Soo—oop of the e—e—evening.”

In the gym, the music sounded upbeat, while a singer crooned languidly. Some of the couples tried to grind while others pressed together in a romantic waltz.

Quinn stood with her back to us by the refreshment table, red hair flying about and tangling with her waving arms. Principal Dodgson leaned on one hip in front of her, wearing an expression that could kill on contact. A crowd started to gather around them. A knot unwound in my stomach. I rushed toward them, and my friends followed.

“I'm not an environmental freak like Alice,” Quinn shouted. “I was framed, I swear. Alice set me up! I have proof she's been out to get me. You have to believe me.”

My stomach settled into the floor. Lorina might go out of her way to protect me, but I doubted Principal Dodgson had allegiance to anything besides the flag.

Principal Dodgson glanced up and saw me. “Alice.” Her lips stretched into a thin line. “It can't be a coincidence that you're always involved in school vandalism. What is this, strike number three?”

Quinn spun around and glared at me. “Not just school vandalism! She destroyed my house, too.”

“I didn't frame Quinn.” It wasn't a lie, but it felt false on my lips. I blinked rapidly to keep from giving myself away with a nervous impression. It took me a moment to realize that didn't exactly send the message of nonchalance.
Please let them think I have a bug in my eye.

“She's the one who flooded the school.” Quinn emphasized her words with a finger jabbed at my sternum. “And decoupaged the desks. Dru and Di witnessed the latter.”

Oh crap. If there was a time for an Oscar-worthy performance, this was it. “I didn't!” It came out all strangled, at a higher pitch than even Mariah Carey could hit.

Principal Dodgson studied my face, and whatever she saw must have betrayed me because she said, “Alice, I'm afraid I have no choice but to . . . ” Her eyes circled to the ceiling as she considered a punishment. “Expel you.”

“You can't expel her.” Whitney's knees parted in a fighting stance but the delivery of her words was calm and collected, like it was just another sentence and not a life sentence.

Principal Dodgson tapped her fingers to her coral lips. “Actually, you're right. The school board thinks this is a democracy and I'm not sole leader.”

My dress clung to me, fabric sticking to my sweaty skin. My armpits chose that moment to broadcast their scent.

“You know, Principal Dodgson,” Whitney directed her words at our fearless leader but pointed her face at Quinn “be what you seem to be.”

Quinn stomped her foot. “What the hell does that mean?”

Principal Dodgson's head volleyed back and forth between the two girls.

“If you'd like it more simply.” Whitney smirked. “Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”

Several weeks of being Whitney's friend and I still couldn't speak her language fluently.

“Translation.” Chess stepped between Whitney and Quinn. “You don't have proof that Alice did anything, whereas the pictures of you and the roses have already gone viral.”

Quinn looked like she wanted to murder Whitney and Chess. “That's where you're wrong.” She turned to Principal Dodgson, skirt swishing as she rotated. “I can get proof.”

“Fine.” Principal Dodgson swiped her hands in the air in a
cease
gesture. “We have a mock-trial program at this school for a reason. We'll let them handle the he said/she said.”

I swallowed hard. My peers would be the jury. There were only three people in the whole school who would have my back, and one of them was in jail while another didn't even go here anymore.

Expulsion wouldn't exactly patch things up with Lorina.

I sat downstairs in the dark, curled up in a chair, eyelids drifting downward and threatening to connect. My hand caught stray yawns. The TV turned my face an eerie blue, blasting but still failing to keep me awake.

The sound of keys jingling startled me. Glowing green numbers showed 3:13
A.M.
, a time I was not normally acquainted with. I hopped off the couch and cut Lorina off by the door. Her hand flew to her chest.

“You scared me.” She set her keys down on the table in the foyer. Her hand stayed pressed on top of them for a few seconds. She kept her back to me.

Fear bottled up the words I wanted to ask in my throat, but I dislodged them anyway. “What happened?”

Her breathing grew rapid and more pronounced. I must have fallen asleep at some point because I felt disoriented and it sounded like she was . . . crying.

She turned to me, knocking her keys to the ground with a harsh sound. Tears dripped from her eyes and she struggled to suck in a gasping breath. I wrapped my arms around her. She had to bend at the knees to rest her head on my shoulder. I tried to meet her halfway, balancing unwieldily on tiptoes like an ungraceful ballerina.

“Your friend . . . he's . . . ” A sniffle separated each word.

“Is he okay?”

“Dying,” she finished. “And . . . Chess. Homeless.”

I squeezed her tight, if only to comfort myself. She was crying for my friends? Or because she felt guilty for turning them in?

“You . . . should have . . . told me.”

She pulled away from me, shielding her face with her tilted body.

“Um, I have something you should see. I was hoping you could maybe give it to Kingston?” I bit my lip at my absurd request. Asking her to give stolen files back to the same fugitive who'd turned himself in for stealing them. She followed me into the living room where I peeled the folder off the couch. “In the hallway at school, he mentioned he was looking for a file with soil samples and had picked up the wrong one?” I held the folder out to her. “I think this is the one he was looking for.”

Her gaze was so intense, I had to look away. She snatched the files from my hands and just as abruptly as she'd started crying, she whirled around and headed upstairs, her gait strong and determined.

I stood there in the hallway, feeling worse than before. I'd stayed up to get peace of mind about Kingston taking the fall. Instead, I ended up with more guilt, more questions. What had happened to make Lorina so upset? And had I just made everything worse?

On Monday morning, purple crescent moons hung below my eyes after two sleepless nights. By the time I'd gotten out of bed Sunday, Lorina was already gone. I'd spent the day dialing and redialing Whitney and Chess with no answer. Their punishments were probably a lot stricter than mine, abandonment. A faint hint of coffee wafted from the kitchen, and fresh water lined the bottom of Lorina's shower—my only clues she'd come home at all Saturday night.

In English, I glanced up to see Whitney hovering over my desk. Her face was porcelain-doll perfect, and I guessed she hadn't lost any sleep over Kingston's decision.

“Heard anything?” The end of my question rose with hope.

“Only the sounds of silence from Kingston's empty room. They haven't formally charged him yet, and they have until today to decide.”

If they didn't charge him, did that mean they would charge us? Maybe that was Kingston's plan all along. Name names and receive immunity. Like the witch trials.

That was the problem with trusting an enemy: you could never fully trust his motives.

When I arrived at the mock trial—held in the music room—Quinn Hart was relaxing at the music teacher's desk, leaning all the way back. She shot me a triumphant smile. Nausea swirled in the pit of my stomach. She was probably the star witness, with her photographic evidence against me. Evidence I futilely hoped was peacock bravado and not, you know, real.

Rows of chairs covered each level of three platforms carpeted in gray. Music stands in the back fenced off all of the instruments from the visiting students. Not very courtroom-like.

I tried my best to keep my posture straight and my face blank, like this was just another school assembly. Students stood between the filled seats while some occupied others' laps, all watching me with curious expressions. Do something shocking enough and everyone wants to pay attention to you. But then again, D-list celebrities had already figured out that particular key to popularity long ago. Everyone wanted to watch a fuck-up; it made them feel better about their own mistakes.

“Looks like the queen is on her throne.” Whitney rolled her eyes at Quinn.

“What if . . . what if she gets me expelled?” I twisted my hands together.

“An eye for an eye.” Whitney grinned.

Principal Dodgson stood by the grand piano next to the teacher's desk tapping her pen impatiently against a notebook. I approached her. “Where should I go?”

“Nowhere yet. We don't have a verdict.” She uncapped her pen and scribbled on the page. No ink came out. She lifted the pen and shook it against her ear. Her eyes met Whitney's. “Are you acting as her lawyer? Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask you to take a seat in the—”

“I'm a witness.”

I loved the way Whitney spoke with such confidence; it was almost impossible to question her, even when she was making up her own rules.

“Witness?” Principal Dodgson clucked her tongue. “Fine.” She dug the pen into the page and etched the name like a bas-relief. “Why don't you sit behind Quinn Hart on the floor and wait for her to call you to the stand?”

“Wait, is she the . . . judge?” The blood drained from my face. I'd always thought school would benefit my future, but I was starting to wonder if maybe they didn't have my best interests at heart.

“I certainly can't be the judge. Mock trial is a student-run organization,” Principal Dodgson said, like that made any sense.

“Quinn can't be impartial. She's the one accusing me.”

“Well, she's the leader of mock trial.” Principal Dodgson smiled and then strode—or perhaps fled—over to Quinn.

If only I were naked; then I could have written this off as a nightmare.

“This is ridiculous!” My voice was so loud most of the students turned to me. I paced a two-foot tread in the carpet. “It's nonsense! I should—”

“Calm down.” Whitney lowered herself to the floor behind Quinn's desk and tugged me down with her.

I pressed my back stiff against the wall, using it like a stretcher, anything to keep me supported and steady and not jittery. Tears made a grand attempt to break through my eyes. Awesome. Crybabies only got sympathy when they were still young enough to actually deserve the term.

“This is good,” Whitney said. “We can use this to our advantage.”

I took a deep breath and decided to trust Whitney. After all, I had no other option right now. At least Quinn's desk kept me hidden from the swelling audience. My future of gliding-through-high-school-undetected was fading under the cold gaze of my classmates.

The last few stragglers came in, struggling to find seats in the crowd. I wished I had brought a paper bag to help control my breathing, or at least some anesthesia to help me get through this with sedation and memory loss. And only a minimal scar. Everything about me felt squeezed into limbo: between freedom and captivity, being with Chess but not being able to be
with
him, staying calm and throwing up.

Principal Dodgson called the room to order by blowing three blasts on a whistle. She unrolled a sheet of crumpled paper and read, “We are gathered here today in the presence of—”

The door to the room swung open and banged against the concrete wall. My already-rattled nerves almost splintered completely.

“Sorry. We're. Late.”

The code. I snapped my head up to see Chess striding into the room, craning his neck to locate me. Kingston hung back behind him, hands shoved in pockets and a bowler hat on his head, looking almost meek compared to his usual show of bravado. Either they were both free of their respective jails . . . or they'd mastered the art of escape.