Tease(38)

So I’m the only Emma Killer left at Elmwood High.

Carmichael walks with me to my homeroom. I don’t know whether he can’t tell he’s with a total outcast, or if he doesn’t care. All I can hear are the whispers as we walk by, the weird looks at us. I’m not alone, I think. Carmichael’s height, his black T-shirt, and black jeans, and dark hair feel like a protective wall beside me.

But I am alone. I am completely alone.

I have Mr. Bastow for homeroom. I make a beeline for the back row of desks and end up sitting next to Cherrie. I think she might acknowledge me, at least, as a fellow summer school survivor, but she turns away as soon as I sit down.

Then Mr. Bastow gets up at the front of the room, calmly holding up a hand. “Welcome back, everybody,” he says evenly, and the room gets quieter as everyone stops squealing in delight at seeing each other again.

“We had a tough end to the last year. I know we all want to make this year better, and if anyone can do that, Elmwood High can.”

The one cheerleader in the room, Estrella Santos, lets out a little “Woo-hoo!” and everyone laughs nervously. Except me, of course.

Mr. Bastow picks up a piece of paper, and I think it’s finally time for him to go through roll call, or tell us about senior clubs, or whatever.

Instead, he starts reading what sounds like an official statement. “Elmwood is founded on a long tradition of inclusiveness and acceptance,” he recites. “We strive to provide a safe space for education and self-discovery for all students. We have a zero-tolerance policy on bullying or intimidation of any kind.”

The class goes absolutely silent. Mr. Bastow glances up at us and looks a little bit uncomfortable, but he keeps reading.

“The events of last March were heartbreaking and tragic. We are each responsible for restoring Elmwood High School’s stellar reputation to its rightful place. This year will be a time for healing, and we will be instituting new initiatives to promote awareness and a mutual respect among the student body.

“We mourn the loss of one of our own, Emma Putnam, and we move forward with the goal of being a better community in the wake of this terrible tragedy. With education comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes understanding.

“We also have a new school policy: any student caught in an act of bullying or intimidation, online or otherwise, will be immediately suspended. Please report any incidents to Principal Schoen or any of your wonderful teachers.” Mr. Bastow says this slightly sarcastically, but he waves his hand a little, as if to volunteer himself as one of those wonderful teachers. “Let’s have a great year.”

He reads the last line fast, then slaps the paper onto his desk, picking up another one. “Yael Abramowitz?” he calls.

Yael pauses a second before replying uncertainly, “Here?”

“Christopher Black?” Mr. Bastow goes on. The class slowly comes out of the trance the speech cast on us, and roll call goes on.

I’m staring at my desk, but on my left I can feel Cherrie looking over at me—not full-on, but just enough that I can feel the burn of her stare. And in front of me, Adam Levitt and Jamie Huang turn to each other, then glance over their shoulders at me.

Those murmurs in the hallway were nothing. Now I’m trapped, and everyone’s just waiting for me to say something, to get kicked out of school for good.

I thought my trial started in four weeks, but obviously it’s starting right now.





February


“DUDE, ARE YOU kidding?” Brielle walks straight into the suite and does a spin in the middle of the floor, her arms flung out and her purse whipping around. “This is so much better than the stupid gym!”

I follow her inside, my heels sinking into the soft hotel carpet. It is nice in here. Dylan got a whole suite at one of the fanciest downtown hotels, and outside the big windows I can see there’s a balcony overlooking the glittering city lights. It’s not Times Square or anything, but it feels very grown-up, and I get a little dizzy from the sight. I feel the way I did at Dylan’s practice the other day: like I’m in college, like I have a real life. Or I’m starting to, anyway. It’s all out there, out in that glittery night.

Behind me, Dylan and Marcus are lugging in the half-keg of beer. Grunting, they set it down next to the suite’s little bar area, where Tyler is breaking open bags of plastic cups.

I wobble on my heels a little walking over to the windows to get a better look. Brielle joins me, breathing heavily from her one-woman dance routine.

“This town is freaking lame,” she announces. I had just been thinking that it looks really pretty like this—at night, from up high, with the winter air making everything extra sharp and sparkly—but I don’t argue with her. Brielle’s mood has been especially brittle since our talk with Schoen. I know I’m freaked out by the thought of our parents being hauled in to discuss our “behavior,” and I think Brielle is too. Even if she’d rather die than admit it.

“I can’t wait for college,” I say, figuring that’s a safe topic. We’ve both been planning to go out of state if we can, hopefully to the same place. Brielle likes Marquette, but I think that’s just because this hot guy from last year’s senior class went there. I want to go to Chicago, maybe. Except I’m not sure how I feel about being that close to my dad and his other family.