Page 78 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

“And you, as his supposed best friend, should’ve done something about that,” she says, another bitter laugh falling out. “You should’ve taken the blame because your ego could handle that. Golden boy, yes. But golden white boy. You and I have a privilege that Javi doesn’t get. Only instead of using it, you let them keep assuming the worst of Javi.”

Kaitlyn’s words hit like a slap in the face. I want to deny the accusations, but seeing them in front of me, I know she’s right. I let Javi down. I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve made sure they didn’t punish him. I should’ve stood my ground. Javi deserved better. Of course he did.

“Instead, you let yourself feel better because you beat up Warren. You thought you really did something, didn’t you?”

“You’re right about Javi,” I say. “I was wrong for not making sure they knew I did it. But I just wanted…to do something for him, the way he’d stuck up for me. And I know you don’t believe me, Kait, but I was pissed Warren did that and sent those threats to you. You might not be my girlfriend, but I wouldn’t ever want someone to hurt you. I thought you understood that.”

She freezes, all of her muscles tightening in one split second. Her face darkens, and her eyes get glassy.

“You’re right that I should’ve stuck up for Javi,” I say. “But we both wanted to make sure Warren would never send threats like that again. I thought—”

“Warren didn’t send me threats,” Kaitlyn says.

My head whips to her. “What?”

“Warren never sent those,” she says. “I did. I made a burner and sent them because this school never does anything to punish you assholes.”

I stare at her, trying to make sense of her words. She sent those messages?

“Javi wouldn’t have gone after Warren if he thought Warren had just made some mistake,” she says. “But if he thought I was still in danger?” She lifts her chin, staring me down. “We both know he would’ve killed for me. Or, I guess, allowed his best friend to kill for me.”

“You manipulated him?” I say, unable to keep the hatred out of my voice. “Are you serious, Kait?”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “You don’t get to call me that again. Not ever. And I’m not sorry that some guy paid the price that he should’ve paid all along. I’m not sorry at all.”

It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. Cold. Angry. No. Beyond those.

“I bust my ass every single day to be perfect,” she says. “My parents live in constant fear that what happened to Hadley will happen to me. That one moment will ruin the house of cards they’ve built for me. Volleyball isn’t enough. I have to be on debate, too. They’ll never let me or my sisters focus on just one thing. So I drive myself to the brink every day. And it doesn’t matter. I still might not get into college.”

“You’ve been scouted,” I say. “You literally have been noticed.”

She shakes her head, laughing high and cold as tears roll down her cheeks.

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? All of it’s so fragile that one asshole could’ve ended it all. One asshole could’ve brought it all crashing down. If I don’t protect myself, that’s literally all it takes.”

I meet her eyes then. She’s as still as a statue, arms crossed over her chest. I can feel her steady anger like a fire behind a door, just waiting for you to open it and let it burn free.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to douse that fire as I turn away. “I didn’t know.”

I’m as much of a mess as you are, if not more, I add in my mind. The only difference is I still don’t know what to do.

When she doesn’t answer, I look behind me to see if she’s still standing there. What I find are her cold blue eyes pinned on me.

“Oh, Caulder,” she says. “You need to be careful. For once, you’re right. There’s so much you don’t know.”

Chapter 43

Avery

October 17

3:27 a.m.

I join Marlene sitting on one of the barstools in the kitchen. She’s staring at the untouched Pop-Tart I found for her while Kaitlyn and Caulder marched Ms. Dorman and Mr. McCullough into the seven-minutes room. It sits there, rejected, on the paper towel I folded underneath it, a bright pink rectangle that seems out of place in this old house. Honestly, it seems like the kind of house that doesn’t allow Pop-Tarts. They don’t match the aesthetic. But after I lit all the candles I could find to give us a tiny bit of light, Pop-Tarts were the only thing in the snack bag that seemed vaguely nutritious.

“Not hungry?” I ask Marlene, trying to keep my voice as light as I can given the fact that we just discovered that our teachers might be murderers.

Marlene shakes her head. She pulls the blanket she has wrapped around her tighter and continues to stare at the Pop-Tart. Maybe she’s going through the same existential crisis I was about the Pop-Tart not belonging here.