Page 1 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

Chapter 1

Avery

October 16

11:10 p.m.

The Death Van is never quiet. Tonight, however, it might as well be screaming as it rumbles down the empty highway. Every rattle of the old vehicle jolts through my limbs, cramped and smashed against its cold, unyielding side as I am. I close my eyes and squash myself further against my balled-up debate team hoodie, trying to ignore the pouring rain outside and the thuds and clatters of metal and machinery. Not that I’m really trying to fall asleep with nine other people an arm’s length away, especially with the van’s ever-present stench of sulfur and sweat invading my lungs.

The Death Van—so named both because it looks like a van used by murderers and because it’s essentially held together by hopes and we-don’t-have-the-budget-for-that dreams—has been used to ferry our school’s junior varsity teams around from one losing game to another for at least the last fifteen or forty years. There’s room for ten passengers, plus an open space near the front for bags, and no seat belts.

My suitcase is on the bottom of the luggage pile, buried under everyone else’s duffel bags. Most of the bags are plain colors like black or gray—except, of course, for Emerson Butler’s leather Louis Vuitton—while mine is turquoise, with a badge that bears my name if you open it: Avery Winslow. I chose turquoise so it wouldn’t get lost, because I read that bags often get mixed up at the airport if they’re the same color, and I didn’t want that to happen. Obviously, I’m not on a plane right now, but when I bought that suitcase, I knew I couldn’t think of just this trip. I had to think ahead for the future. I always do.

Of course, when I bought the suitcase, I envisioned several flights to championship debate competitions held in cities like Boston and New York. Now I doubt we’ll even make it out of California…a fact that’s entirely my fault.

I could blame the Death Van. Maybe after so many seasons spent hauling losing teams around, the van’s been cursed. Maybe this debate team never had a chance. Maybe I never had a chance.

“If you play that song one more fucking time, I swear to god I’ll kill you.” Kaitlyn Bendix’s threat forces my eyes open. I had blocked out the thump-thump-thump of the song Lucas was playing, but now it’s inescapable. Something vaguely familiar, with drums and synths, that I’m pretty sure I’ve heard on Mom’s “Back When” playlist.

I sit up and turn around to see Kaitlyn swat Lucas over his seat. In response, he turns up the volume.

“I’m warning you,” Kaitlyn growls, sitting forward to point her perfectly manicured fingertip in his face.

There’s a grunt from Mr. McCullough, who remains passed out in his seat, noise-canceling headphones clamped over his head. Technically, he should be watching to make sure things don’t escalate on this van ride, but from the moment we left San Francisco, he’s been doing everything in his power to keep to himself. He certainly doesn’t stir now, which emboldens Lucas. He pops up onto his knees, twists his body around to face Kaitlyn directly, and holds up his phone, which continues blasting the song.

“It’s trending, Kait,” he says. “I have to listen to it over and over to get the transition right. And don’t disrespect an absolute classic.”

Kaitlyn lurches at him, her golden-blond ponytail swishing behind her, and snatches the phone from him. He attempts to swipe it back from her, but she leans away so she’s out of reach.

“Headphones now or I’ll break this with my bare hands,” Kaitlyn warns in a slippery, saccharine tone.

“That’s pretty hot,” Lucas says, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m sort of tempted to see you try.”

“Ugh,” Kaitlyn groans, dropping the faux sweetness. “You’re disgusting. I hope your video flops.”

She tosses the phone back like it’s a dead frog, narrowly missing Lucas’s seat partner’s head as he manages to catch it only at the last second.

“Sorry, Caulder,” Lucas says, holding up the phone and sliding back into his seat. “Apparently we don’t all appreciate taste.”

I turn around before Caulder can reply to Lucas. The last thing I need right now is for Caulder Grant to see me watching him. To think I’m paying attention to him at all.

“Is everything okay?”

Even though she’s sitting next to me, Marlene Carlos’s voice is so soft that I barely hear her. Outside, the rain’s kicked up, pelting the Death Van and adding to the general cacophony surrounding us. I worry my lip, teeth latching on to a bit of dry skin that I bite and pull back. I’d thought it would come off easily, but instead, I feel the sting of it ripping from my lip and taste blood on my tongue.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just Kaitlyn and Lucas arguing a little.”

I don’t bother to add that if it were me telling anyone in this van to turn down their music, it wouldn’t have gone the way it just went for Kaitlyn. Because Kaitlyn’s the kind of girl people say they hate, but really, what they’re feeling is a cocktail of jealousy and admiration, a wish that they could be her, even just for a day. She could insult someone to their face and half the people in our school would be glad she talked to them. But me? I’m the killjoy, the try-hard, the girl who cares too much, the girl who never knows when to stop.

I wish I could say Marlene doesn’t know all that, seeing as she’s new to the team and to our school, but I know she knows. The way this weekend went, she saw this team and all its flaws—especially mine—on full display. And even though I don’t know much about Marlene, I know she’s perceptive. Quiet girls always are.

Even now, it’s like she’s x-raying me with her large brown eyes. Marlene’s the only sophomore on the team, but she still looks like a freshman. She’s small and has a round baby face framed by long black hair that falls in shiny curtains around her cheeks. She pushes it behind her ear, then moves to fidgeting with the edge of her hoodie sleeve.

“You okay?” I ask.

I don’t know why exactly Marlene left her last school and transferred to Coastal Canyon High at the start of this year. During one of our first debate team meetings back in September, she simply appeared, and Ms. Dorman told me to take her through the basics to get her ready as an alternate for our competition. I took the lack of information given—and the fact that Marlene didn’t offer any reason—as a sign that I shouldn’t pry into the transfer. Maybe it was just a move. Or maybe, like me, she’d had to change schools for reasons she’d rather forget.

Regardless of why she’s here, she’s a quick learner, even if she doesn’t say much, and she’s never missed a meeting or even been late. One thing I didn’t pick up on until this weekend, though, is how fidgety she is. Dr. Millet tells me not to try to diagnose other people, but if I had to guess, anxiety is something Marlene and I have in common.