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As George squeezes his hand and surges forward in her non-regulation neon-green Docs, I can’t help but think falling in love looks damn good on her. I swear she’s gained a couple of inches in height overnight, and her skin has a glow to it that can’t be credited to makeup or exposure to nuclear fallout.
I feel I’ve got a little glow on of my own. That’s the power of the right guys at your side.
I wear my homecoming crown askew, and a pink bomber jacket with the word Queen stitched across the back. It’s my boldest uniform violation to date, but no one will dare write me up.
It’s official now – I’m the queen of this school. Soon, I’ll be the queen of this whole damn city.
My confidence trembles as we hit the throng of students crowding the entrance. Something seems off. I expect things to be different after the homecoming announcement, but I’m not prepared for the wave of weird vibes that hit us as we pass under the Corinthian columns into the main courtyard.
Eyes flicker across me and then look away. Bodies shuffle aside as we move toward the lockers, clearing a wide berth around us as if accidentally touching me might see me sentence them to death. It reminded me a little of the way Daddy’s lower-level soldiers sometimes behaved around him, always glancing over their shoulder as if planning their escape. Sad, because it wasn’t his cruelty but their lack of trust in his fair judgment that landed them in an alley with their throat slit.
Something is spreading through Stonehurst Prep – a virus so deadly that no vaccine will kill that fucker.
We reach my locker before I figure it out. I note the turn of heads, the mobile phones hidden in shirt sleeves and behind makeup compacts, the sidelong glances that don’t quite brush my skin.
They’re not looking at me.
They’re looking at Gabriel.
This can’t be good.
I glance at him, but he’s staring forward, his long eyelashes tangled together, his hair flopping over his face. He’d been back to the same old Gabriel ever since our talk on Sunday, no trace of the melancholia that drove him to drink. But now his wide eyes have that manic look in them. He calls out to some of his friends, but they scurry off without a word. I squeeze his hand, but he’s somewhere far away again.
“Any idea what’s going on?” I whisper to George as we drop her at her locker. For the school freak, she always seems to know the gossip. Probably it’s her years of listening through bathroom stalls. But she shakes her head. Of course, she’s been too distracted with Isaac. I could have an iceberg sticking out of my head and she wouldn’t notice.
I’m stacking my books when someone stops behind me and coughs unsubtly.
“You should have that cough looked at,” I quip without turning around. “I’d hate for it to turn into the bubonic plague. I hear enlarged buboes and bleeding from the mouth are all the rage on Instagram these days.”
“Oh, Melrose, hiiiiiiii.” Cleo waves. “I just wanted to say congratulations on being voted homecoming queen. I was so glad to see you at the after-party. It’s nice that you’re trying to cast off the tarnish of being abandoned by your parents by pretending to have a social life.”
I roll my eyes. “I loved your bedroom decor. The Ancient Egyptians were such a fascinating people. Did you know they had this special spoon they used in mummification to stick up the nose of their queen and wiggle around until her brain turned into mush? Something about seeing you reminds me of that.”
Gabriel snorts a laugh, but that only averts Cleo’s attention to him. “Gabriel, I’m surprised to see you at school today,” she smirks, leaning against the lockers. “I thought you’d be in prison by now.”
“What are you talking about?” I growl.
“Oh, you don’t know?” Cleo holds up her phone and clicks a button. A video plays, titled ‘Gabriel Fallen’s Shocking Confession.’ It’s me and Gabe, our heads leaned together against Cleo’s hieroglyphic wallpaper, talking in low voices. Gabriel’s hands ball into fists and he yells, “I killed him.”
Shit. Shit.
The video doesn’t continue with the rest of our conversation, where it’s clear Gabriel is talking about his guilt over the way he acted to Dylan, and not actual homicide. Instead, it’s sliced together with such skillful editing it twists Gabe’s words into something more sinister.
It’s a confession.
My heart plummets, and blood pounds in my ears. This is the absolute last thing we need – more attention on us, the media picking at Gabriel, the police snooping around.
“How did you get this?” My hand shakes as I play the video again, watching in horror as the string of comments grows longer and the number of views shoots up. Cleo’s bedroom had been completely empty. I made sure of it.
“I can control my webcam from my phone app,” Cleo smirks. “As soon as I saw you and Gabriel head upstairs, I followed you. How fortuitous for you to choose my bedroom for your clandestine chat. As soon as I saw you go in, I turned on the camera. I thought I’d capture something R-rated, but this is even better. An actual murder confession.” She glares at George. “Not even your little podcast can beat that.”
I look at George in surprise. What’s she talking about? But George is frowning at the film playing on her own phone and doesn’t seem to register Cleo speaking to her.
Cleo smirks. “Have fun rotting in jail, Gabe. And Mackenzie, you’d better watch your back, bitch. Because I’m coming for you next.”
She whirls on her heel and stalks off.
I punch my locker. The metal warps, leaving a fist-sized dent in the door. Pain blooms across my fingers, but it’s nothing on the rage boiling behind my eyes.
