Social Suicide

SUICIDE

GEMMA HALLIDAY

FOR ALL THE TEACHERS I’VE HAD.

I HOPE I DIDN’T TURN TOO MANY HAIRS GRAY.

Contents

YOU HAD TO BE INCREDIBLY STUPID TO GET CAUGHT
cheating in Mr. Tipkins’s class, but then again, Sydney Sanders was known for being the only brunette
blonder
than Paris Hilton.

HOMECOMING QUEEN HOPEFUL SUSPENDED
FOR CHEATING ON TEST

I looked down at my headline for the
Herbert Hoover High Homepage
, our school’s online newspaper. Usually our news ran the exciting gambit from the custodian retiring to a hair being found in the Tuesday Tacos in the cafeteria. So a cheating scandal was way huge. And I’d been surprised when our paper’s editor, Chase Erikson, had assigned me the biggest story since the principal’s car was tagged in the back parking lot. After all, I’d only been working on the
Homepage
for a short time, making me the resident newbie.

I had a bad feeling that this story was some sort of a test. Do well and I’d earn the respect of my fellow reporters as well as a certain editor with whom I had a complicated personal history. Fail and it was the cafeteria beat for me.

Clearly I was shooting for outcome number one.

I turned up the volume on my iPod in an effort to drown out the noise of the school paper’s tiny workroom and put my fingers to the keyboard.

Herbert Hoover High Homecoming Queen nominee Sydney Sanders was discovered cheating on Tuesday’s midterm in her precalculus class. Mr. Tipkins caught Sydney red-handed when he noticed the answers to the test painted on her fingernails. Apparently Sydney had incorporated the letters A, B, C, or D into the design painted on her fake nails in the exact order that the answers appeared on the test. After Sydney was caught, it quickly came to light that her best friend, Quinn Leslie, had used the answers to cheat on her test as well. Both girls are suspended from HHH while administrators investigate how the answers to the midterm got out. Sydney, previously considered a front-runner in the upcoming elections, will no longer be eligible to be Herbert Hoover High’s Homecoming Queen at next Saturday’s dance.

“That the cheating story?” Chase asked, suddenly behind me.

Very close behind me.

I cleared my throat as the scent of fresh soap and fabric softener filled my personal space. I pulled out one earbud and answered, “Yeah. It is.”

He was quiet for a moment reading my laptop screen over my shoulder. I felt nerves gathering in my belly as I waited for his reaction.

Chase Erikson was the reason I’d joined the school paper in the first place. He and I had both been investigating a murder at our school, each for different reasons. Chase because he was all about a hot story. And me because the murdered girl had been the president of the Chastity Club and had just happened to be sleeping with my boyfriend. Needless to say, he was now totally an ex-boyfriend. Anyway, Chase and I had sort of teamed up to find the Chastity Club killer, and once we did, Chase told me that I showed promising investigative skills and offered me a position on staff. Considering my college résumé was in need of some padding, I agreed.

So far working on the paper was a lot more fun than I had anticipated. When I’d first heard the term
school paper
I’d envisioned a bunch of extra-credit-hungry geeks with newsprint-stained fingers. But in reality, the entire paper operated online—no newsprint—and several students I knew contributed—none of them geeks. Ashley Stannic did a gossip column once a week that was total LOLs, even if only half the rumors she printed were true. Chris Fret contributed sports commentary and kept a running poll on this semester’s favorite player. In fact, the only thing that hadn’t been all smiley faces about working at the paper so far was Chase himself.

Chase was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like an athlete. His hair was black, short, and spiky on top, gelled into the perfect tousled style. His eyes were dark and usually twinkling with a look that said he knew a really good secret no one else was in on. He almost always wore black, menacing boots and lots of leather.

One time Mom picked me up from the paper for a dentist appointment and, when she met Chase, described him as “a little rough around the edges.” When Ashley Stannic played truth or dare at Jessica Hanson’s sweet sixteen and had been pressed to tell the truth, she’d described Chase as “sex in a pair of jeans.” Me? I wasn’t quite sure what I thought of Chase. All I knew was that things had been uncomfortable and a little awkward between us since The Kiss.

Yes. I, Hartley Grace Featherstone, had swapped spit with HHH’s resident Bad Boy.

When we’d worked together on that first story, I’d ended up getting kidnapped and almost killed. Almost, because Chase had been there to save me at the last minute. And as soon as Chase had rescued me, he’d kissed me.

Briefly. In the heat of the moment. When emotions were running high.

It was a night neither of us had spoken of since, and I was 99 percent sure that it had meant nothing at all beyond relief on both our parts that I was still alive.

But that other 1 percent still persisted just enough that in situations like this—where the scent of his fabric softener was making me lean in so close that I could feel the heat from his body on my cheek—I still wasn’t sure whether I thought of Chase as sex in a pair of jeans or a guy who was a little rough around the edges.

“This is good,” Chase said, bringing me back to the present.

“Thanks.” I felt myself grinning at his praise.

“But you can do better.”

And just like that, my grin dropped like a football player’s GPA. “I can?”

Chase nodded. “Sydney got caught cheating yesterday. You really think there’s any info in this article that every person on campus doesn’t already know by now?”

I bit my lip. He was right. Within minutes of Sydney being busted, I’d personally received no less than twenty-five texts about it.

“So I should scrap the article?”

“No. Like I said, this is good. But you need more. You need to tell our readers something they don’t know.”

“Such as?”

“How did Sydney and Quinn get the answers to the test?”

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

Chase straightened up, crossed his arms over his broad chest (covered today in a black T-shirt with a band logo featuring a bloody zombie corpse), and furrowed his eyebrows as he stared down at me. “‘I dunno’ is not in a good reporter’s vocabulary.”

“No one knows,” I countered. “Quinn’s not talking, and no one’s seen Sydney since she was suspended.”

“Someone must know something. Who else have you talked to?” he asked.

I picked up the purple notebook where I kept all my important notes. “I texted Sydney’s boyfriend, Connor Crane, but he said all he knows is that Sydney is grounded for the rest of her life. And I saw the vice principal yesterday after school, and she said both Sydney and Quinn are suspended for the rest of the week.”

“And?”

“And the administration is considering a dress code that applies to fake nails.”

“And?”

“And I’m interviewing Mr. Tipkins tomorrow at lunch.”

“And what do you plan to ask him?” Chase asked, arms still crossed as he towered over me.

I pursed my lips together. This was part of the test. I could feel it. “He caught Sydney. I thought his perspective might be interesting.”

“Ahnt. Wrong.”

I opened my mouth to defend my answer, but Chase was faster.

“His perspective isn’t news. The facts are. Ask him how the answers to his test got out. Ask him where he keeps them, did Sydney or Quinn have access, how often does he reuse the same tests? Ask him how—”

“Okay, I get the point! Geez.”

The right corner of Chase’s lip curled up. “Good. I have faith you may make it as an actual reporter some day,” he said. “Now go, young grasshopper. Make me proud.”

And then he patted me on the head and walked away.

Actually patted me. Like one might pat his cocker spaniel.

Clearly this story was one test I seriously needed to pass if I was going to command any respect at the
Homepage
.

As soon as Chase left me to go proof Chris Fret’s account of last Friday’s football game, I made a list of questions to ask Mr. Tipkins. Then I packed up my stuff and headed out to the west field to catch a ride home with my best friend, Samantha Kramer, after her lacrosse practice.

Sam was on the field holding a long wooden stick with a basket-looking thing at one end to catch the ball. Which, unfortunately, was nowhere near Sam. She jogged down the field, looking winded, a good three yards behind the pack of other girls in black and orange HHH jerseys.

I felt for her. Sam was smart, sweet, and pretty much the friendliest person I knew. When I’d moved here from Southern California in fifth grade, I’d been terrified of going to a new school. That first day, Sam had accosted me at recess, insisted I join her and her friends on the monkey bars, and generally stuck to me like glue the entire week. I had never been more grateful for anyone in my entire life, and we’d been chained at the hip ever since. Sam was like the sister I never had.

But as much as I loved my pseudo-sister, I was the first to admit that Sam wasn’t what you’d call naturally athletic. Or coordinated. In seventh grade she and I had joined the track team together, thinking the extra exercise might help shed a couple after-Christmas pounds. Sam had ended up taking out three wooden barriers in the hurdles race, two other racers in the 50-meter sprint, and the other team’s coach in the discus throw. I’d ended up consoling her over her thwarted track career with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Which is why I had to think that lacrosse was a bit of a disaster in the making. It was only a matter of time before Sam either (A) broke a bone or (B) broke someone else’s bone.

The coach blew a whistle, signaling a break, and I waved at Sam. She jogged over, looking immensely grateful for the rest.

“Whoever invented this game is insane,” she panted. “Seriously, it’s like hockey and basketball’s painful love child.” She reached down, rubbing at a bruise on her shin.

“At least you’re looking better out there,” I said. A stretch, but I was trying to be encouraging.

“You’re such a liar,” she said, leaning heavily on her stick. “But thanks.”

“At least it’s good exercise?” I said, trying again at the encouraging thing.

“Pft,” she said, blowing air up at her forehead. “I’d rather run a billion miles on a treadmill.”

“Why don’t you just quit?”

“Because my dad says I need a sport on my résumé or Stanford won’t let me in.”

Sam’s dad had been a Stanford man, as had his dad, and
his
dad. All hopes of carrying on the family tradition had previously been pinned on Sam’s older brother, Kevin, until he’d dropped out of prelaw to join Greenpeace. Kevin now spent his days outside Whole Foods petitioning shoppers to save endangered animals, which meant that Sam was her father’s only hope of having a Kramer of this generation graduate from Stanford.

“Can I bum a ride home with you?”

“Sure,” she said. “My dad’s picking me up after practice. Were you working late on the paper?”

I nodded. “I’m writing an article about Sydney Sanders. She got suspended yesterday.”

“I heard. She and Quinn were both on the team. We’re totally short without them.”

“Do you know Sydney well?”

Sam shrugged. “Not really. Did you hear she got kicked off the homecoming court when she got caught?”

“Yeah. You don’t have her number, do you?” I asked, thinking an interview with Sydney would be just the angle I needed to rock Chase’s journalist world.

“Sure, but it won’t do you any good. Her parents freaked when she got suspended and grounded her for pretty much her natural life. They took her phone, too.”

Damn. There went that idea.

“But,” Sam said.

“Yeah?”

“She still has her laptop, and she’s been on Twitter. Jessica Hanson said that Sydney tweeted during third period that she was bored out of her mind.”

Perfect. I made a mental note to look her up as soon as I got home.

“Kramer!” a dark-haired girl across the field called to Sam. “Let’s go!”

Sam sighed deeply. “I gotta go get beat up again.”

“Knock ’em dead, killer,” I said, taking a seat on the bleachers to wait while Sam jogged away, waving her lacrosse stick in a way that made me totally glad I was not on the opposing team. Or our team, for that matter.

An hour later, Sam’s dad dropped me off in front of my house, and I walked up the front pathway to find the door unlocked, a sure sign Mom had beat me there.

I was ten when my mom and dad had finally decided to call it quits and get divorced. Dad had stayed behind in Los Angeles, and Mom had decided to move north to Silicon Valley, where she could put her programming degree to use, meaning she could work part-time from the house. Most of the time, I had to admit it was actually kinda nice to come home to someone.

Most of the time.

“Hartley,” Mom called from the kitchen. “That you?”

“Yep,” I responded, shutting the door behind me

“Come here for a sec.”

I wandered toward the sound of her voice and found Mom on her laptop at the kitchen table. She was wearing her usual uniform of yoga pants, T-shirt, and Nikes, her hair twisted up into a messy sort of bun at the base of her neck, and peering at the screen through a pair of hot pink computer glasses. On the table next to her was a glass of green juice. Mom was a gluten-free, sugar-free vegan who didn’t believe in preservatives of any kind. Which left two options for what she was drinking—celery or lawn trimmings.

“What’s up?” I asked, standing next to her. I sniffed at her glass. If I had to guess? Lawn trimmings.

“I’m trying to upload a picture, but it’s not working. I keep getting some kind of error. Help?”

Mom was a whiz with computer programming code. How she could come up with a string of letters and numbers that told a computer what to do, I had no idea. But she was hopeless when it came to user interface. She almost drove me insane when I was trying to get her set up on FarmVille.

I peeked over her shoulder at the screen. “What’s the photo?”