“Oh!” I exclaimed as we bumped shoulders. “Sorry!”
Then I realized who I’d bumped into, and immediately regretted my apologetic tone. If I’d known it was David Stark, I would have tried to hit him harder, or maybe stepped on his foot with the spiky heel of my new shoes for good measure.
I did my best to smile at him, though, even as I realized my stomach was jumping all over the place. He must have scared me more than I’d thought.
David scowled at me over the rims of his ridiculous hipster glasses—the kind with the thick black rims. I hate those. I mean, it’s the twenty-first century. There are fashionable options for eyewear.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said. Then his lips twisted in a smirk. “Or could you not see through all that mascara?”
I would’ve loved nothing more than to tell him to kiss my ass, but one of the responsibilities of being a student leader at the Grove is being polite to everyone, even if they are a douchebag who wrote not one, but three incredibly unflattering articles in the school paper about what a terrible job you’re doing as SGA president.
And you especially needed to be polite to said douchebag when he happened to be the nephew of Saylor Stark, president of the Pine Grove Junior League; head of the Pine Grove Betterment Society; chairwoman of the Grove Academy School Board; and, most importantly, organizer of Pine Grove’s Annual Cotillion.
So I forced myself to smile even bigger at David. “Nope, just in a hurry,” I said. “Are you, uh . . . are you here for the dance?”
He snorted. “Um, no. I’d rather slam my testicles in a locker door. I have some work to do for the paper.”
I tried to keep my expression blank, but I have one of those faces that shows every single thing that goes through my mind.
Apparently this time was no exception, because David laughed. “Don’t worry, Pres, nothing about you this time.”
If ever there were a time to confront David about the mean things he’s written about me, this was it. Of course, those articles hadn’t exactly mentioned me by name. I seriously doubt Mrs. Laurent, the newspaper advisor, would let him slam me directly. But they’d basically said that the “current administration” is more concerned with dances and parades than the real issues facing the Grove’s students, and that under the “current administration,” the SGA has gotten all cliquey, leaving out the majority of the student body.
To which I say, um, hello? Not my fault if people don’t attempt to get involved in their own school. And as for the “real issues” facing the Grove’s students? The kids who go here all come from super nice households that can afford to send their kids here. We’re not exactly plagued with social problems, you know? Which you’d think David would get. He’d lived in Pine Grove practically his whole life, and not only that, he lived with his Aunt Saylor in one of the nicest houses in town.
Or maybe David’s issues had nothing to do with “social injustice” at the Grove and everything to do with the fact that he and I had loathed each other since kindergarten. Heck, even before that. Mom says he’s the only baby I ever bit in daycare.
But before I could reply, the music stopped in the gym.
I checked my watch and saw that it was a quarter till ten. Crap.
David gave another one of those mean laughs. “Go ahead, Harper,” he said, sliding his messenger bag from one hip to the other. I know. A messenger bag. And those glasses. And he was wearing a stupid argyle sweater and Converse high-tops. Practically every other boy at the Grove lived in khakis and button-downs. I wasn’t sure David Stark owned any pants other than jeans that were too small.
“Only a few more minutes until your coronation,” he said, running a hand through his sandy blond hair, making it stand up even more than usual. “I’m sure you’d hate to miss everyone’s felicitations.”
David had beaten me in the final round of our sixth-grade spelling bee with that word and now, all these years later, he still tried to drop it into conversation whenever he could. Counting to ten in my head, I reminded myself of what Mom always said whenever I complained about David Stark: “His parents died when he was just a little bitty thing. Saylor’s done her best with him, but still, something like that is bound to make anyone act ugly.”
Since he was a tragic orphan, I made myself say “Have a nice night” through clenched teeth as I turned to head to the nearest bathroom.
He just shrugged and started walking backward down the hall, toward the computer lab. “You might wanna put some lipstick on,” he called after me.
“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, but he was already gone.
God, what a jerk, I thought, pushing the bathroom door open.
If my shoes had sounded loud in the gym lobby, it was nothing compared to how they sounded in the bathroom. Like the dress, they were a little ridiculous, more for their height than their cost. I’m 5'4", but I was tottering around 5'8" on those bad boys.
Looking in the mirror, I saw why Bee had been so horrified by my naked lips. My skin is pale, so without lip gloss, my lips had kind of disappeared into my face. But other than that, I looked good. Great, even. The makeup lady at Dillard’s had done a fabulous job of playing up my big green eyes, easily my best feature, and my dark hair was pulled back from my face, tumbling down my back in soft waves and setting off my high cheekbones.
Yeah, I know it’s vain. But being pretty is currency, not just at the Grove, but in life. Sure, I wasn’t staggeringly beautiful like my sister, Leigh-Anne, had been, but—
No. Not going there.
I unscrewed the tube of Salmon Fantasy, shuddered again at the name, and started applying. It wasn’t as pretty as my Coral Shimmer, but it would do.
I had just slathered on the second coat when the bathroom door flew open, banging against the tile wall so loudly that I jumped.
And scrawled a line of Salmon Fantasy from the corner of my mouth nearly to my ear.
“Oh, dammit!” I cried, stamping my foot. “Brandon, what—”
I don’t know why I thought it must be Brandon. Probably because it seemed like the sort of moron thing he’d do, trying to scare me.
But it wasn’t Brandon. It was Mr. Hall, one of the school janitors.
He stood in the doorway for a second, staring at me like he didn’t know who—or what—I was.
“Oh my God, Mr. Hall,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared me to death!”
He just stared at me with this wild look in his eyes before turning around and slamming the bathroom door shut.
And then I heard a sound that made my stomach drop.
It was the loud click of a dead bolt being thrown.
Mr. Hall, the tubby janitor, had just locked us in the bathroom.
Chapter 2
OKAY. Okay, I can handle this, I thought, even as panic started clawing through my chest.
“Mr. Hall,” I started, my voice high and shaky.
He just waved his hand at me and pressed his ear to the door. I don’t know what he heard, but whatever it was made him turn and sag against the wall.
And that’s when I noticed the blood dripping on his shoes.
“Mr. Hall!” I cried, running toward him. My heels slid on the slick tile floor, so I kicked them off. I got to Mr. Hall just as he slumped to the ground.
His face was pale, and it looked all weird and waxy, like he was a dummy instead of a person. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead and under his nose. His breath was coming out in short gasps, and there was a dark red stain spreading across his expansive belly. There was no doubt in my mind that he was dying.