To Catch a Killer(14)

This probably came from one of the shrinks I’ve seen along the way, but Rachel says it’s important for me to have constants in my life, meaning things and people I can count on to be there every day. If nothing else, he’s been constant.

“Thanks, Mr. Roberts, but I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?” he asks. “If it gets to be too much, come see me. My door is always open.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“I’m here for you.” His expression is somber but he still mimes a bowling move to send me off to class. It wouldn’t be a Mr. Roberts encounter without a sporty farewell.

I keep my head down as I hurry toward the four-story building at the center of our campus and I steel myself for the whispers. There she goes … that’s her. The murder girl.

Deep breath. Shoulders back. I’m about to step through the doors when a stray football drops out of the sky and makes direct contact with the top of my head. For a second, everything dims and sparks detonate behind my eyes.

Footsteps run past me. A guy’s voice says, “Sorry,” and then he’s gone without a backward glance.

A lump swells under my hair. It feels huge.

Meanwhile, throngs of students stream past me, heading for lockers and classes. I realize they all have one thing in common: They don’t know who I am, and they don’t care, either.

Fine. I didn’t want to be the murder freak anyway.

At the base of the stairs, a group of seniors huddle, talking in hushed tones. I slow up to listen.

“My parents are calling Principal Roberts,” a blonde girl says. “They want to know how he’s going to keep us safe.”

“They’re saying he’ll get bumped from the team,” a guy in a basketball jersey says.

“My dad says he’s going straight to jail, so we can kiss the championship good-bye,” says another.

“Who cares about a stupid championship; we lost Miss P.”

“Not only that, but we’ll always be remembered as the class with the killer!” The girl speaking glances over her shoulder and glares at me. I move off. I’ve heard enough anyway. It’s pretty clear they’re talking about Journey, and it sounds like they hate him now. I’ve just reached the top of the stairs when I hear one of the girls say, “Hey, wasn’t that her?”

*

Lunchtime. I bring my food to the cement steps. The sun is out and the weather is balmy. I shield my eyes and scan the grounds, looking for Journey. I usually have no trouble spotting him from up here. He always comes out of the cafeteria on the ground floor and high-fives about fifty people on the quad before hitting the courts.

But today I don’t see him at all. It’s weird.

There’s a game on at the courts. But Journey’s not playing. And the quad is nearly empty. I trace his normal route back to the cafeteria. No Journey.

My throat tightens. I nibble at my sandwich. It has no taste.

“Really?” There’s an edge to Spam’s voice, like a saw biting into an extra-thick block of wood. “Really?” she repeats.

Spam and Lysa are standing behind me. Lysa looks almost sunny, dressed in various shades of lemon. Meanwhile Spam’s paired a cowboy hat with light-up disco-ball earrings.

“I am truly shocked to find you here,” Spam says.

I look to Lysa, who is usually our voice of reason.

“I’m with her,” she admits. “Finding you up here looking for him is pathological.”

“Not to mention creepy,” Spam adds.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign ignorance.

Spam lifts her chin, indicating something down in the quad. I follow her gaze. I didn’t notice him before but Journey’s sitting on a bench, in the middle of the quad, directly across from my spot on the stairs. He’s completely alone … and staring straight up at me.

“Oh man,” I whisper.

“Stop it! Stop looking at him.” Spam grabs my chin and turns my face.

“But he’s looking at me,” I say.

“He’s trying to intimidate you.” Lysa’s using her calm voice.

“You think so?” I can’t quite accept the notion of Journey as the complete opposite of who I thought he was.

Spam throws her hands in the air. “What is it with you? Are you just blinded by flashy white teeth? He’s clearly trying to scare you so you won’t tell what you saw.” She glares down at him. “He’s a shark in sheep’s clothing.” She pinches a spot on my jacket and twists it between her fingers. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, yeah you are.”

I cram my lunch into my bag and roll my legs back over the ledge. I don’t want to follow them, but they’re not taking no for an answer.

“It’s wolf,” I say. “Wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not shark.”

“Trust me,” Spam says. “That one down there is a shark.” I’m at least a full five inches taller than Spam, but her glare is so intense I’m afraid my hair will burst into flames if I don’t follow her.

“You guys, no one knows everything I saw that night. And I mean no one.”

With a tight grip on my jacket, Spam hauls me down the stairs.