The S-Word (21 page)

“I trust you,” I add. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“You can.” He leans in, barely, like he wants to kiss me but he isn’t sure if he should.

I pull back.

“Wait a second!” Yeah, I must be completely insane. But I really need to ask. “Is that why you call me Princess? Because of what people say about me?”

He puts his hand on my lips. Touching softly, but making a barrier between us.

It feels really, really nice.

“Nope,” he says.

“Why then?” I talk through his fingers.

“There’s just something about you. Like you’re different from the rest of us. Not in a bad way. In an amazing way.”

“Oh.” I guide his hand to my cheek. My hand lingers over his, holding him. “Okay.”

And then, because I’m suddenly feeling very comfortable, and very safe,

I

Kiss

Him.

A
WEEK BEFORE LIZZIE
died, a group of senior girls decided to teach her a lesson about taking off her clothes at improper times. Each time they caught her alone in the halls, they attempted to snip off a piece of her outfit. In reality, very few girls managed to snag a decent piece of fabric, but it didn’t matter much. By the end of the week, the mere snapping of scissors made Lizzie seize up in terror.

Sometimes the threat of something can be as scary as the thing itself.

Right now, the threat of entering the den of a child molester is all too real. I stand on the doorstep to Lizzie’s house. I’ve already knocked and now I’m just counting the seconds as they pass. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until Mr. Hart opens the door. It whooshes out in a rush.

He says “Angelina! This is a nice surprise,” but all I can hear is Lizzie’s voice in my head, warning of monsters. Telling me to run.

“Can I come in?” My voice is speaking in direct opposition to my brain, which is screaming,
Go, go, go!

I tell it to shut up.

“Of course.” He steps aside so I can pass over the threshold.

“I won’t take up too much of your time.” I sit in the rocking chair because it’s facing the door. I need to be able to see through those big front windows into the house next door.

“Shouldn’t you be getting to class?” asks Mr. Hart.

I glance at my purse. I’ve got my phone face-up in case I get a text from Jesse. The clock reads 6:38 a.m.

“Not just yet.”

He shuffles into the kitchen. After a minute he returns with a little tray. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says, handing me a teacup. “The drive was a big success.”

“It was nothing.” I watch him as he takes a drink. He looks like a drawing that’s slowly being erased. The lines on his forehead bleed into his hairline. His eyes droop toward his cheeks.

“Tea okay?”

I take a baby sip. “It’s great.”

“Good. What can I do for you today?” he asks, like all he wants to do is help. I wonder how many kids he’s tricked with that bit.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you. Something that’s been bugging me.”

“Ask away.”

“Earlier this year, Lizzie got cast in the school play.”

“I recall that, yes.”

“So she told you about it?”

He raises his cup. I get the feeling he’s hiding behind it. “Can I ask why you’re interested?”

“Lizzie was thrilled when she found out. She didn’t think she’d get cast.”

His frown lines deepen. Something about this is getting to him.

“She went on and on about it for weeks,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy. She seriously seemed like—”

“That play was an abomination!”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes have gone all shifty. He’s splashing tea onto his fingers. “Teaching children about spirits and fornicating—they call themselves educators!”

Wow. He never used to talk like this. Now he’s freaked out on me twice in one week. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the loss of his daughter is to blame for his slipping so easily into psycho mode. But in light of Kennedy’s and Marvin’s testimonies, I have to wonder . . .

How often did he lash out at Lizzie when no one was watching?

“So you made her drop out of the play,” I accuse. “Didn’t you see how happy she was?”

I shouldn’t have said it. But I’m done trying to protect him. He should have been protecting her from real danger. Not hypersexed Shakespearean fairies.

“Elizabeth never told me about the play.”

“Then how did you find out?”

He falls silent. He’s staring into his cup with ferocity. “I don’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He glares like I’m the devil incarnate. Then he sits bolt upright in his chair. “Just a minute.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, my gaze flicking to the window. Up in Marvin’s bedroom, the lights are still off. But he’ll have to be getting up soon.

Lizzie’s dad moves past me to the desk beneath the mantel and starts rifling through a drawer. “Here,” he says. “Here it is.”

He tosses a purple envelope in my lap. I pull out the decorated card. It’s an invitation to
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
All the cast members send them to their friends and families. But inside the card is a hastily scribbled note:

Depraved witchcraft and lurid sex. Your daughter: The Queen.

“Ho-ly shit,” I murmur.

“Excuse me?”

“Who gave this to you?”

I can tell he doesn’t want to answer. He’s scowling at my language. Unfortunately for him, I don’t give a shit. Swearing is the least of his worries.

“I need to know,” I tell him. “The person who sent this wanted to hurt Lizzie.”

His eyes go wide. I wonder if he’s thinking about how he treated her after reading the invitation. Did he scream at her behind the safety of closed doors? Did he threaten to teach her a lesson?

“The card wasn’t signed,” he says, and he’s stuttering. “It came in the mail.”

“Can I take this?”

“I have no use for it.” He lowers his head.

I stand. “Hey, have you seen my jacket? I thought maybe I left it last time I was here.”

He shakes his head, still avoiding my eyes.

“Can I check?” I gesture to the stairs. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“Of course.” He looks up, and his eyes are red. He looks like a harmless old man. He
doesn’t
look like a child molester. But God, does anybody? “Listen, Angie, I apologize—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I wave my hand. “I’ll just be a sec.”

I’m up the stairs before he can stop me. Lizzie’s room smells like it always has, like lavender shampoo and a cake batter candle. I don’t bother turning on the lights. I can see Marvin’s window and his lights are still off.

Damn, boy. Get up already.

Time to improvise. I open the window and crouch down beneath it. This way I can see out but he can’t see me. I take my
phone out of my purse and call his landline. I can hear it ringing from here, which is a good sign.

Just when an adult voice answers, heavy with fatigue, I hang up.

Ha-ha, just kidding! I didn’t really want to talk to you.

I crouch a little lower, waiting for several things to happen:

First, Marvin will roll over in bed, thinking:
What the hell?

Next, he’ll glance at his clock, ready to say:
Does the caller have any idea what time it is?

Then, when he realizes it’s time to get up for school, he’ll . . .

The light turns on. Even from a distance, my eyes feel assaulted. But my heart is all aflutter, because Marvin’s playing right into my hands. Now all that’s left to do is hope he’s not a modest sleeper.

Jackpot!

Marvin climbs out of bed in his underwear. That’s when I activate the camera function on my phone. I lean out the window, capture his skinny body in the camera frame, and click.

Two minutes later, I’m jogging down the stairs.

Mr. Hart is nowhere to be seen. I should feel relieved, but it’s more like a horror movie, where the killer can sneak up on you at any time. I don’t want to look behind me, but I don’t want to turn my back on him. After several seconds of quiet deliberation, I creak open the front door.

That’s when he touches me.

A single finger grazes my arm and my entire body convulses.

I want to scream. I want to scrape the skin from my arm.

“What!?” I demand, spinning to face him.

He looks alarmed. I don’t think anyone’s ever spoken to him this way. “I’m sorry,” he says, and suddenly he’s meek Mr. Hart again. The guy I remember from my childhood. The guy who never hurt me. “I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

“It’s fine.” I open the door further, that much closer to escaping. “I have to get to class . . .”

“The other day,” he says, and he looks so pathetic I almost feel bad for him. “I shouldn’t have blamed you for that boy. I lost my temper.”

“Who? Drake?”

“Yes.
Drake.
” He spits the name. “That boy is not to be trusted. If I catch him here a third time, I’m calling the police.”

“I don’t blame you.” I force a laugh. “It might do him good to— Wait. A
third
time?” My blood runs cold, and I was already cold to begin with.

He nods, teeth clenched. “I caught him rummaging through her things. In the middle of the night! I told him never to come back.”

“Rummaging through her things? Are you sure he wasn’t . . . they weren’t . . .” I lean into the doorway. I’m falling. Always, I’m falling in this place.

When he says “She wasn’t here,” the bottom drops out beneath me. I can barely form the words: “When did this happen?”

“The night she . . . passed. I should have called the authorities, but I was too distraught to think properly. And the boy seemed distraught, and forgiveness is—”

“I have to go.” I scramble to pull myself upright. But the doorframe is slippery. The whole world is slippery and I’m sinking into darkness. I try to tell myself Drake came back for something nostalgic. But to sneak into her room the night she died . . . it had to be something incriminating.

What was it, Angie,
I wonder as I stumble to my car.
Was it a condom? A steamy letter? A picture of them wrapped up together in bed?

Or was it Lizzie Hart’s diary?

AFTER SCHOOL, I
track Shelby down in Busybody Corner. It’s this cluster of rooms in the west wing where students hold their club meetings. She’s the president of, like, eight of them. She’s got so many extracurriculars, her transcript must look like a fake. It won’t kill her to be late just this once.

I open with that as she reaches for the door to the journalism room.

“Sorry, doll,” she says, smoothing a hair into place. She’s got on these rolled-up jeans and a red halter top. Platform heels. “I’ve got to proof the final issue of
La Verité.
”

Ah, Verity’s little attempt at Breaking News. Presenting the illusion of a free press since 1968. If only we had a student club that actually prepared us for the real world. Something like Burger Flip 101, or Follow the Janitor Around for a Day.

“I’m glad I caught you, then,” I tell Shelby. “I’ve got a story for the front page.”

Several students are hurrying past us. She waves them into the room like she’s directing traffic. “I’m serious, Angie, I just don’t have time for this. We go to the printer at three o’clock
and
I’ve got to organize the graduation gowns by tomorrow night.”

“They came in?”

“This morning. And no, you can’t pick yours up early,” she says. “You’ll get yours, like everybody else, after I’ve put them in order. There’s plenty of time between now and Saturday—”

“You agreed to alphabetize them?”

“Why not? I’m nice.”

“You’re ambitious.”

Keep talking, Shelby. I just might be able to use this information.

“Fine,” she says stubbornly. “I did it as a favor to Madame Swarsky. As you might imagine, considering our previous meeting, I don’t want to do anything to invite suspicion on myself so close
to graduation. Her recommendation helped get me into Juilliard. I’d hate for her to rescind it.”

“Then you might not like this.” I pull the purple envelope out of my bag. Shelby’s face drains of blood when I show her the card.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” she says.

I snort. “Sounds like you just confessed.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“You know what I think?” I fan myself with the envelope, all nonchalance. “I think if I got a sample of your writing from Madame Swarsky, it’d match the writing in this invitation. I’m sure she has one of your character sketches lying around. Of course, to get that information, I’d have to tell her what her star pupil’s been up to—”

“All right!” Shelby’s eyes dart this way and that. For once in her life, she doesn’t want to be seen. “I knew it was the wrong thing to do, okay? I knew it then and I know it more now. And I’m
sorry.
”

“Not good enough.”

“Hey, boss?” A voice breaks into our bubble. Marvin’s head pokes out of the journalism room. He’s got his sketchpad in hand. “You coming?”

“In a minute.” Shelby waves him back inside.

“Marvin’s on newspaper staff?” I ask.

“He does cartooning,” she says, and shrugs. “He’s a pretty good artist.”

“I’ve heard.” An idea is blossoming in my head, surrounded by spindly thorns. “So Shelby.” I flash my prettiest smile. “How would you like help sorting those graduation gowns?”

She narrows her eyes. “Why would you help me?”

“You already guessed it. I want to take mine early.”

Mine and a few others.

“Is it really that important?” she asks, curling her lips.

“Yes, it’s really that important.” I sigh, like I can’t believe I’m
about to tell her this. “It’s not easy being bounced back and forth between my mom and dad. I spend a lot of time traveling.” You know, because I’m
white-trash royalty
? I lower my eyes. “If I can pick up the gown after class, it’s one less thing to worry about.”

She raises her brows. Clearly, she’s taken aback by my show of human emotion. Or maybe she just wants me out of her face. “All right, fine.”