To Catch a Killer(31)

She shrugs. “Most people are pretty lame about passwords. I’m guessing I can hack her account. Cell phone, right?”

“Yes. I’ll text you her number,” I say.

Spam gives me a mock salute. “I’m on it.”

“What about me?” Lysa asks.

“Your dad told me not to worry,” Journey says. “But he said that to my father, too. And I know how that turned out. If you think there’s something I should worry about, will you tell me? I don’t want to get blindsided.”

Lysa flutters her hands nervously. “I can’t mess with my father’s files. There are all kinds of laws about that, and if I got caught it would make things a lot worse for you.”

“You don’t need to touch his files or take anything,” Journey says. “Just listen, snoop around, and report back.”

Lysa smiles. “I’m an awesome snoop.”

“Anything else?” Spam asks.

I catch a glimpse of Principal Roberts. He’s standing in his usual post by the parking lot, but instead of watching students leave, he’s staring at us.

“Yeah. We need to keep all of this away from Mr. Roberts.… I know he cares and he’s trying to look out for me, but he’s a direct narc line to Rachel. So this has to stay between us.”

“Got it,” Spam says.

“I’ll send everyone an e-mail tonight to let you know what we find in the van.”

“Okay.”

Spam and Lysa gather their stuff while I clean up the trash from the table. Journey is waiting for me to finish. “Text me your address and I’ll meet you at your place,” I say.

He hedges, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’ll be better if I drive you.”

We pretend not to notice the look Spam and Lysa share.





17

This won’t sound very scientific, but you should never overlook the importance of being yourself in high school.





—MISS P


“I don’t mind riding with you,” I say while nervously torturing the strap on my bag. “But I have my scooter.” I’m also freaked out about being alone in a car with you because my hands will sweat like a kitchen sponge and my throat will close like a clogged drain—but of course I’m not going to tell you that.

“I can fit your scooter in the back of the van,” Journey says. “I’ll pick you up in front at the Green Area.” He lopes off toward the parking lot.

“Okay.” I hope he doesn’t live too far away. And it’s not like this is a date or anything, but I fail at keeping one-on-one conversations going with boys, and my best friends know this. Spam and Lysa walk me to the Green Area.

“So, you and Journey, huh…” Lysa says slyly.

“I know. Crazy, right? I mean, we’re just trying to figure all of this out.” A tingling sweeps up the back of my neck and spreads across my cheeks. I flip my hair from behind my ear. I can’t say any more but Spam and Lysa know. The look they exchange this time is a little warmer.

“Just be careful,” Lysa says.

“Keep your head on straight, chica,” Spam adds.

I nod. Their advice is good. I feel comfortable with Journey but I get it, there’s still a lot we don’t know.

At the Green Area we hug, then Spam and Lysa continue on toward the parking lot. I barely have my bag stashed in the seat compartment of my scooter before I spot Mr. Roberts ambling my way.

“Erin, do you have a minute?” He parks his reading glasses on his giant, bald forehead and mimes a batting warm-up move.

I try to look busy, but he doesn’t take the hint. “How is your schoolwork?” he asks. “Are you managing to keep up? I can speak to your teachers if you need extra time for any of your assignments.”

“Thanks, Mr. Roberts. But everything’s fine.” My panic meter starts to rise; Journey will be pulling up in his van any second. Mr. Roberts will immediately alert Rachel if he sees me leaving with him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Lysa and Spam hurrying back from the parking lot.

“Hey, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa shoots me a tiny smile over his shoulder. When he turns, I give her a grateful look and mime begging.

Mr. Roberts scowls. “Excuse me, Alyssa. I’m with another student.” He turns back to me. “Erin, I’m worried about you. Why don’t you come to my office and we can talk about it?”

“I can’t right now, Mr. Roberts,” I say, tugging on my helmet. “I have to get home. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“I need something, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa taps him on the shoulder. “Can we go to your office?” When he continues to ignore her, Lysa regards him with wide, frustrated eyes.

For some reason Mr. Roberts is laser-focused on me and I’m getting desperate. Off to the side, Spam is typing furiously into her phone. Suddenly, nearly every cell phone in the vicinity pings, including my own.

I check my phone. It’s an SOS blast text, something Spam devised to promote pop-up school functions. It reads: “HEY CS’ERS, ANYONE STILL ON CAMPUS REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE GREEN AREA FOR FREE STUFF.”

I gape at Spam.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Mr. Roberts says, still trying to get my attention.