One of Us Is Next(35)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phoebe
Tuesday, March 3
Emma, the queen of punctuality, is late.
I’ve been standing at her locker for five minutes after last bell, and there’s no sign of her. We’re supposed to go to Owen’s spelling bee together—presenting a united front so Mom can stay clueless about the fact that we’re not speaking—but I’m starting to get the uneasy feeling that my sister has ditched me.
Two more minutes, I decide. Then I’ll call it, and walk.
I shift a few feet to my right to scan the hallway bulletin board while I wait. BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO MAKES EVERYBODY FEEL LIKE SOMEBODY, a rainbow-lettered poster tells me, except someone’s crossed out SOMEBODY and written SHIT under it.
Oh, Bayview High. You are nothing if not consistent.
A shoulder bumps mine, and I half turn. “Sorry!” Monica Hill says breezily. She’s in her basketball cheerleading uniform, her platinum hair pulled back with a purple-and-white ribbon. “Checking out your ad? It’s so nice that you and Emma are going into business together.”
“We’re not,” I say curtly. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Monica is tight with Sean and Brandon, so her fake-friendly act doesn’t fool me. Besides, she’s been trying to steal my best friend for weeks. And succeeding, I guess, considering Jules told her about the Dare instead of me.
Monica’s lips curl into a small smile. “Your flyer says different.” She reaches across me and taps a familiar pale-blue sheet of paper that says Emma Lawton Tutoring across the top. My sister puts them up all over school, with her phone number and a list of subjects: mathematics, chemistry/biology, Spanish. But this particular ad says more than that, in a Sharpie scrawl beneath Emma’s neat printing:
Threesomes (special offer with Phoebe Lawton)
Contact us on Instagram!
I swallow against the lump in my throat as I stare silently at my Instagram handle written across the bottom of the page. Payback from Brandon, I guess, for me throwing him out of the apartment last week. That asshole.
There’s no way I’m giving Monica the satisfaction of a reaction, though. Whatever I do or say right now is going straight back to Brandon. “Don’t you have a game to go to?” I ask. Then a hand reaches over my shoulder, catching the blue sheet by one corner and yanking it off the bulletin board.
I turn to see Emma in her usual headband and oxford shirt, her face a smooth mask as she crumples the ad in one palm. “Excuse me,” she says to a smirking Monica. “You’re trash. I mean, you’re blocking the trash.” Emma reaches around Monica to toss the paper ball into a recycling bin, then tilts her head toward me, still perfectly calm. “Sorry I was late. I had a few questions for Mr. Bose after history. Ready to leave?”
“Ready.”
I follow her long strides down the hallway, almost running to keep up. My mind is churning as we go. Does this mean Emma forgives me? Or at least doesn’t hate me anymore? “Thanks for that,” I say, my voice low as we push through the doors leading to the parking lot.
Emma slides me a sideways glance that’s not friendly, exactly, but it’s not angry, either. “Some people take things too far,” she says. “There are limits. There have to be limits.”
* * *
—
The auditorium at Granger Middle School is exactly like I remember: stuffy, overly bright, and smelling like musty fabric and pencil shavings. The front half of the room is filled with folding chairs, and I spot Mom waving energetically from the third row as soon as Emma and I enter. A heavy curtain is pulled across the stage, and a middle-aged woman in a baggy cardigan and knee-length skirt steps through it. “We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” she calls, but nobody pays attention. Mom keeps waving until we’re practically on top of her, then pulls her bag and her coat from the two seats beside her, shifting her knees to one side so we can get past her and take our seats.
“Perfect timing,” she says. My mother looks pretty today, her dark hair spilling around an autumn-toned scarf that makes her olive skin glow. The sight of it cheers me up, because it reminds me of what my mother was like when I went to Granger Middle School—always the best-dressed parent at every school event. Mom has a lot of natural style, but she hasn’t made much of an effort since Dad died. Working on Ashton and Eli’s wedding has definitely been good for her state of mind. She plucks lightly at Emma’s sleeve and adds, “I could use your help with a couple of wedding tasks.”
Emma and Mom put their heads together, and I surreptitiously take out my phone. Emma actually talked to me on the ride over, and I didn’t want to spoil our fragile truce by checking Instagram. But I need to know how much shit I’m getting.
Notifications flood my screen as soon as I pull up my account. So, a lot.
My last post was a work selfie that got twenty comments. Now it has more than a hundred. I read the first one—yes hi sign me up for threesomes 101 please—and immediately click away.
“Welcome, families, to Granger Middle School’s annual spelling bee!” My heart is already thudding against my rib cage, and the loud voice booming through a microphone ratchets it up another notch. It’s the same woman who spoke before, standing behind a lectern on one corner of the auditorium stage. Ten kids, Owen included, are arranged in a line beside her. “Let me introduce the scholars who will be dazzling you with their spelling prowess today. First up is our only sixth-grader in the contest, Owen Lawton!”