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“You know who I am?”
“Of course. You broke Alec’s nose.” Her eyes widen. “It was awesome.”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “You’re the only one in this school who thinks so.”
“That’s because Alec’s…” she snaps her mouth shut, as though she was going to say something but changed her mind. “He’s the son of Mark LeMarque, big-shot producer. Everyone who goes here wants to be in showbiz, so they’ll suck up to him or Gabriel Fallen or Cleo St. James to claw their way to their big break. I heard Cleo flew to Paris over summer to tape a modeling reality TV show, but she got eliminated in the first round and she won’t tell anyone what—” The bathroom door creaks, and the girl grabs me by the collar and yanks me into her stall, slamming the door behind her. Our food flies everywhere, splattering both our uniforms in red wine jus. The girl backs into the far corner, biting her lips as she balances her tray on top of the cistern, trying to appear as small as possible.
Outside, I hear voices. I recognize one as a girl I saw with Cleo when she accosted me in the corridor and another, unfamiliar voice.
“It’s so annoying Mr. Ross made me do my make-up test over lunch,” says Cleo’s friend. “I’m starving, and the fascists who run this school closed the salad bar four minutes ago. It’s practically child neglect.”
Wow, I’m sure the actual horrors of fascism are equivalent to not getting your daily dose of kale. I bite back a retort that whips across my tongue.
“Don’t worry, Daphne, you just missed the usual. Alec’s planning the first party of the year, Eli wants us all to volunteer to plant trees in the Emerald Beach nature reserve, Noah grunted into his coffee. Oh,” the second girl’s voice drops. “You won’t believe what I overheard at the lockers. Cleo asked Gabriel over to her place this weekend. and he told her he’s hanging out with Mackenzie Malloy instead. I hope that girl knows what she’s doing, because Cleo’s ready to go nuclear on her ass.”
What? Gabriel hadn’t said to me about this supposed hangout. I assume he’s just using me as an excuse to get out of Cleo’s date, but I can’t stop my chest constricting so tight I worry I’m having a heart attack. But it’s just an attack of what-the-fuck-is-Gabriel-Fallen-playing-at, which is definitely more exciting.
“Personally, I think Cleo should stay away from Gabe,” Daphne sounds worried. “You heard about what happened on his tour.”
“No. I was in Nantucket all summer. Oh, that reminds me, I have to tell you what Chip and I got up to at the boathouse, but you were saying about Gabriel—”
“The drummer of Octavia’s Ruin killed himself. Or, at least, that’s the official story.” Daphne lowers her voice. “I have a cousin who works in management for their opening band. He said Gabriel and Dylan had a massive screaming argument the day he died, and that Gabriel threatened to hurt him. Apparently, the police have their eye on him. They think he might’ve been responsible for his death.”
“But he killed himself,” the other girl points out, which is exactly my question. “That’s not Gabe’s fault.”
“Suicides can be faked,” says Daphne in a know-it-all voice.
What the actual fuck? That can’t be true. Gabriel and Dylan were close. It takes a cold fucking person to murder their best friend and cover it up, and that’s not Gabriel. It can’t be.
But I think of the darkness in Gabriel’s eyes, and I wonder.
I know better than anyone the depths of evil human beings are capable of.
I hear the water running, and the hand dryer blares, drowning out their voices. I lean against the door, trying to catch what they say about Gabriel. The door swings open, and their voices disappear down the hall. Dammit.
Behind me, the girl visibly relaxes. I’d almost forgotten she was there. I yank open the stall door and get my ass out of her space. “So, now we’re both wearing each other’s lunch, I should probably know your name.”
“I’m Georgina, but everyone calls me George.” She shoves the contents of her lunch tray – ceramic plate and cutlery and all – into the trash, and balls up a wad of toilet paper to dab at the stain on her collar. “When they bother to use my name. Usually, it’s ‘freak’ or ‘dyke’… Cleo has some imaginative names if you can’t think of any.”
“I think I’ll stick with George. Why’d you hide when those two girls came in?”
George dips her head. “You probably don’t want to be seen talking to me. Especially not by Daphne and Brandy. It’ll get back to Cleo.”
“Why would I care what Cleo thinks?”
She rolls her eyes as if she’s explaining something to a child. “Because you’re Mackenzie Malloy, duh. You belong with the popular kids. You should be sitting at their table in the dining hall, braiding Cleo’s hair or arm-wrestling Noah or whatever.”
I stuck out my tongue and made a gagging noise. “No thanks. Those guys are dicks.”
“Not Elias Hart,” George says, her cheeks flushing with color. She gulps. “I just mean… I don’t talk to him, obviously, but he seems nicer than the others.”
“Mmmhmmm.” I may be completely messed up and out-of-touch with the world, but I know a crush when I see it. I stare down at the stains on my shirt and for a moment, I’m not looking at jus but blood – my mother’s blood splattered across my reflection. I shake my head and start dabbing. “So, George. Is this your usual lunch spot?”
She peels off her sweater and holds it under the tap. “I swear, when I offered you that fork, I had no idea you were, well, you.”
“And if you did, you wouldn’t have given me a fork?”
George bites her lip so hard I’m worried she’ll draw blood. “I don’t know. We went to lower prep together before, well… before you disappeared. You probably don’t remember me. I looked quite different back then.”
