Puddin'(18)

I gasp.

“What is it, Millie?” my dad asks.

I look up at him. Dread swells in my chest. “I know that necklace. I know who that is.”

Sheriff Bell coughs into his fist. “Let’s get you on the record.”

My mouth feels like a desert. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. But someone—a lot of someones—really wrecked this place. And this isn’t just some gym. It’s Vernon and Inga’s dream and livelihood all wrapped up into one.

Over the next hour or two, I answer endless questions. It’s dizzying. I listen as officers go back and forth with Vernon and Inga about pressing charges and how it would be best to go after the one person that they can identify instead of the whole group.

“Well, if Millie is correct,” says Sheriff Bell, “I’d say the girls in the video are all on the school dance team.” He clears his throat. “Especially after the, uh, financial difficulties you detailed, Vernon.”

It appears that not only did Inga and Vernon skimp on their security system fees this month, but they also had to drop their sponsorship of the Shamrocks, making for a convincing motive.

When the police finally leave, I sit down behind the counter to make sure that nothing was taken from the front desk. I feel like I’ve been awake for days. All the adrenaline that’s kept me going for the past few hours is starting to dwindle.

My phone buzzes from inside my backpack, and I find eighteen missed calls and forty-two text messages from Amanda. I can see she’s allowed her imagination to escalate quickly as the texts move from calm to panic within thirty minutes’ time.

AMANDA: Did you oversleep?

AMANDA: Am I getting ditched right now?

AMANDA: Should I get my mom to take me to school?

AMANDA: OMG ARE YOU DEAD YOU NEVER MISS SCHOOL WHERE ARE YOU

“Darn! I totally forgot it was a school day. I was supposed to pick up Amanda. And there goes my perfect attendance record! Great. Just great.” I groan. “And I missed getting to school in time to do morning announcements. Mrs. Bradley probably thinks I’m a total flake.”

Unfortunately, my flakiness probably won’t be the worst news Mrs. Bradley gets today.





Callie


Six


I woke up today with what can only be described as a hangover. I was late to practice—as was most of the team. So that was a wash.

My stomach is all knots and my heart stammers against my chest. I’m good at doing bad things. I’ve gotten away with my share of unspeakable acts. But that’s because I’m careful. I’m a planner. Last night? Last night did not go as planned, and this town is way too small for what happened to stay secret for long.

Honestly, I feel like my life is a Lifetime movie and I just got away with murder, but justice is lurking at every corner. (Okay, I might have a thing for Lifetime movies. Thanks to my mama.) But seriously. Nothing turned out the way it was supposed to last night. It was only going to be some toilet paper on the gym sign out front and maybe a few eggs on the windows. Until Jill threw a freaking rock through the window. Jill’s that person who takes every joke too far, so I would like to say I’m surprised, but I’m not.

I’d also like to say that when I saw those windows shatter, my first instinct was to put a stop to everything or, at the very least, to run like Melissa, but adrenaline masked as rage took over. Call it mob mentality or whatever you want, but we trashed the place. I even took the rock used by Jill and went to town on the mirror stretching across one of the walls. It was sort of pretty the way it shattered slowly at first, like a crack in an icy lake, and then came crashing down all at once. We destroyed the equipment, the bathrooms, and even the boxing ring. I think the only thing left untouched was the cash register.

So, yeah, last night got way out of hand. No one wants to get in trouble, obviously, but some of those bitches would gladly rat out the rest of us if it meant saving their own asses. I trust Sam, but seeing as Melissa was nowhere to be found last night after shit got real, I’m just waiting for her to rat me out. If she really wants to secure her title as captain next year, this is probably her best shot of getting me out of the way.

I spend my office-aide hour staring into the bottomless abyss that is the attendance filing cabinet as I think through several different scenarios and how they might play out.

The phone shrieks, sending me nearly two feet in the air.

“Sweetie, can you get that?” my mom calls from the other side of the office.

I nod and pick up the phone. “Clover City High front office.”

“Uh, yes, this is Todd Michalchuk. I need to speak with someone about my daughter, Millie, being out sick today.”

“One moment please.” I press the hold button. “Mom, it’s a parent with an excused absence.”

“Oh, I better take that,” she says, pushing her red-glitter reading glasses, which perfectly match her nails and lips, into her curls.

I hand off the phone and find something to alphabetize.

“Oh, I knew something must have been really wrong when she didn’t show up for announcements this morning,” says Mama. “Well, I’m so sorry to hear that, but I hope they find whoever did it so they can pay the consequences.”

Oh God. That doesn’t sound good. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck. But there’s no way Millie has anything to do with that gym. I doubt that girl’s ever even seen workout equipment outside of a late-night infomercial.