Tina, Aaron’s girlfriend, was sitting on his other side with a plate of French fries. “He had some trashy girlfriend,” she piped in. “They’d probably been . . . you know.”
“Just before he jumped?” JD shook his head. It didn’t make sense. Would Chase have gotten it on with his girlfriend right before he planned to off himself? “Who was the girl?” ?This was the type of gossip that a year ago Em would have chided him for not knowing. You can’t ignore their existence and hope they’ll go away, she used to say about her popular group of friends.
“You sound like Tina,” Aaron said, fake-sneering as he finished a bite of his sandwich. “Are you starting a gossip blog or some shit like that?”
“Shut up, babe,” Tina shot back. Then, to JD: “He was with Lindsey for a while. Lindsey Cutler? From Trinity? But he blew her off for some mystery college chick.”
“No one ever hung out with her, as far as I know,” Aaron pointed out. “So they just assume she was trashy.”
“She had a laugh like a ninety-year-old smoker,” Tina said. “That’s what I heard. And she dressed like a Real Housewife. And she was a bitch. She stood Chase up when he tried to take her to Lumiere de la Mer. Becky and Jamie saw him waiting there for, like, an hour once. It was totally depressing and weird, they said.”
“Becky and Jamie’s little dates at that French place are what’s depressing, if you ask me,” Aaron said, ripping open a bag of potato chips.
“It’s their tradition! Anyway the food is supposed to be really good,” Tina said. “Not that I would know, since someone never takes me out for dinner.” She playfully punched Aaron’s arm.
JD felt himself drifting from the conversation, and began to pack up his stuff. The bell was going to ring soon anyway, and he was perturbed without knowing why. Something Tina had said had caused alarm bells to go off on his head, very faintly . . . but when he tried to focus, to figure out what was upsetting him, he lost it. He was relieved when the bell rang and it was time for rehearsal. “Just curious,” he said. “Freaky shit. See you later, guys. I’m off to class.”
? ? ?
The staircase that led into the rafters above Ascension’s theater was narrow and dark. After school, JD ascended the steep ladder and pulled himself up on the catwalk. It was second nature to be up there now, balancing on the creaky boards in the dark. He ducked under the heavy metal lights and was careful to avoid the snaking wires zigzagging at his feet. Heights never scared JD, and despite the fact that only a few inches of wood stood between him and the giant open space of the auditorium, he loved being up there.
He was there now investigating what he had to work with in terms of lights for Ned’s show; meanwhile, Ned held rehearsal on the stage. As JD wove his way along the platform, making notes and checking various cables, he could see and hear perfectly what was going on below him. He’d always liked the perspective from up above—the bird’s-eye view.
Skylar was front and center, delivering one of Cassandra’s monologues.
“Oh, misery, misery!” Skylar’s voice punched the air around her, powerful and confident, a complete contrast to her physical presence. “Again comes on me the terrible labor of true prophecy, dizzying prelude.” Her tone was frenzied and she waved her hands in front of her as if to ward off the looming prophecy.
JD found himself rooted to the spot, poised over a hanging light, waiting for her to continue. Wow, he thought. Ned was right. This girl is good.
“For this I declare,” she was saying. “Someone is plotting vengeance.”
JD’s wrench slid from the nut he was tightening. There was the clang of metal on metal.
“Hey, keep it down up there,” Ned yelled up from his seat in the audience. “I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m getting paid big bucks,” JD shot back, and gave a few over-the-top, obnoxious clangs for good measure.
“I meant to tell you, Fount—I think I’m going to have to pay you in pizza. . . . ”
JD smirked and turned his headlight toward the next fixture. This one had frayed wires; it needed to be taken downstairs and looked at in the workshop. He got to work, cranking his arm to loosen the bolts and unclamp the light from the pipe it hung from. When it came free, he hoisted it down, his muscles flexing to control the movement. Stage lights were funny beasts: heavy enough to warrant strength, but fragile enough to require delicacy.
Just as he set the light on the board next to him, he felt his phone buzz in his back pocket. He reached around and pulled it out to see a text from Anonymous. It had to be Ty.