“Whose names?”
Mr. Ward hesitates. “The names of all the cheerleaders.”
“Like a hit list or something?” My stomach turns over.
“That’s what the administration decided it was, at least.” Mr. Ward glances at the door. “I don’t know, Ethan never struck me as violent. But I don’t blame them for not wanting to take chances.”
He stands. My cue to exit. He starts walking me to the door. “You know, you can stay for the newspaper meeting. We’re short on staff writers this year.”
“I’ve kind of got a full plate. But thanks.”
Mr. Ward doesn’t look at me as he opens his door. The boy leaning against it topples into the room, to laughter from the other kids gathered outside.
“Just a sad year all around,” Mr. Ward says.
* * *
—
I have thirty minutes before practice starts. I head upstairs, dodging Rach’s and Alexa’s texts asking if I want to go to Starbucks. I’ll tell them later that I had to get extra help in chem.
The sign on the library door makes me deflate. CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION. I vaguely recall Mrs. Barnes chirping over the morning announcements that we got funding for a new “smart learning” station.
I peer through the glass pane on the door. The lights are on, and the librarian is inside, arms folded, deep in conversation with a teacher who has her back to me.
The woman’s wiry gray-streaked hair is tied up in a scrunchie. There’s only one person in the school—and probably all of Sunnybrook—who wears scrunchies every day.
I back away, ready to haul ass, but the librarian spots me over Mrs. Coughlin’s shoulder. She frowns and walks toward me, and I’m trapped. Mrs. Coughlin turns around, eyes narrowing when she sees me.
The librarian cracks the door open. “We’re closed, hon.”
“I know,” I say. “I just need one specific book.”
“Which one?”
“An old yearbook.”
“Check with Mrs. Goldberg.” The door clicks shut in my face.
I sigh. Mrs. Goldberg is the graphic design teacher and yearbook advisor. Her room is downstairs, in the same wing as the photography darkroom and painting and sculpting studios.
The lab door is open. I poke my head in—it’s eerily quiet. The handful of kids on the computers work silently, eyes on their screens. I don’t see Mrs. Goldberg.
Someone says my name, softly, from the back of the room. Ginny Cordero is watching me from her computer. She waves me over.
“Hey. Is Mrs. Goldberg here?” I blurt it in a single breath. I don’t want Ginny to think I’m stalking her or anything.
“She went to use the copier a little while ago,” Ginny says. “I didn’t know you took graphic design.”
“I don’t. I need an old yearbook. The librarian told me Mrs. Goldberg has it in her office.”
“Yeah, she has all of them. I can get it for you. I’m on yearbook staff, so she lets me in her office. Which one do you need?”
“The one from five years ago.” I pause. I’m not sure if someone who was expelled before the yearbook went to print would be in the portraits section. “Maybe the one from six years ago too.”
Ginny nods and ducks into the back room. Stuck to Mrs. Goldberg’s office door is a giant poster of a galaxy. I peer more closely at it; a bunch of faces are Photoshopped among the stars. WE LOVE YOU MRS. G!!! —5TH PERIOD SENIOR GRAPHIC DESIGN.
When Ginny returns, she’s holding two yearbooks. “These are her copies, so you just have to stay here with them, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. Thanks.” I take the books from Ginny and slide into the seat at the empty computer next to hers. She turns back to her work on the yearbook layout, but I catch her eyes flicking away from the screen and toward me as I flip through the pages of the first yearbook.
Ethan McCready isn’t in the book from the year my sister died. I set it aside and open the previous year’s yearbook, flipping to the freshman portraits. Trace a finger over the last names on the sidebar. Mackie, Maroney, Maldonado, McCready.
I count over four pictures, landing on a picture of a boy with dirty-blond hair hanging in his eyes. His shoulders are hunched forward under a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. His eyes are so dark they almost look black.
When I look up from the pages, Ginny is watching me, a curious look on her face.
I swallow and point to Ethan. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”
Ginny peers at the picture. “I know him.”
“Really?”
“Well, I know who he is,” Ginny says. “My mom was his mom’s home nurse when she was really sick. I went to her wake with my mom. He looked really lonely, like people were staying away from him. My mom told me he got expelled that fall.”
“He had a hit list,” I say. “The cheerleaders were on it.”
I study Ginny’s expression, seeing the pieces slide into place for her—the car accident, the murders, my sister’s suicide. And a boy who wanted all of the girls dead.
Supposedly. “He says he was friends with Jen.”
“But Jen was a cheerleader,” Ginny says. “Why would he put one of his friends on his hit list?”
“I don’t know.”
Ginny is quiet for a moment. “Does this have anything to do with what you asked me yesterday? About the house?”
My throat goes tight. The note leaver wasn’t some innocent friend of Jen’s who had a crush on her. He’s the guy who was expelled for wanting my sister and her friends dead. And he knows where I live.
“Ethan was there,” I say. “He left something for me—a note my sister wrote him.”
Ginny blinks at me. “Why would he do that? How did you find it?”
I hesitate. “Can you take a break for a couple minutes? Maybe we could go outside.”
“Sure. I was finishing up anyway. One second.” Ginny saves her work on the computer and picks up the gym bag resting at her feet. She adjusts its strap over her shoulder.
The courtyard is brimming with people waiting for sports practices to start. I spot Jimmy Varney throwing around a Frisbee with some of the cross-country guys. He turns his head and waves at me; the Frisbee hits him in the chest and falls to the lawn.
I drop my bag on the grass below one of the trees outside the gazebo and sit. Ginny follows suit. Inside the gazebo, a pack of girls is gathered, lying on their backs on the benches, chattering about some invitational meet coming up. The louder it is out here, the better.
“Sorry I’m being so weird,” I say. “I just don’t want anyone to hear us.”
“It’s okay.” Ginny pulls her knees up to her chest. The moment she does it, a Frisbee flies straight into her shins.
“Sorry!” Jimmy Varney comes trotting over, his face scarlet. In his wake, his friends are laughing; one of them smacks Joe Gabriel on the back. Joe grins and yells, “My bad,” his voice anything but apologetic.
Ginny picks up the Frisbee and hands it to Jimmy. He flushes an even deeper shade of red. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ginny says.
Jimmy gives me a sheepish smile. “Hey, Mon. Sorry.”
“It’s seriously okay.” I don’t mean to snap at him, but I just want Jimmy to go away so I can talk to Ginny.
As Jimmy heads back to his friends, locking eyes with Joe and muttering something under his breath, I say to Ginny, “Joe is such an asshole. He hit you on purpose.”
“I don’t think he meant to hurt me,” she says. “He just did it so his friend could come over and talk to you.”
I feel a tug in my chest. It hits me, why I like Ginny so much—it’s not only because of her connection to my sister. Ginny reminds me of Jen. My kind sister, who always gave people the benefit of the doubt, even if they didn’t deserve it.
Ethan McCready’s yearbook picture comes into focus in my mind and his role in all this starts to come together—that note, his claims that Tom can’t be trusted—it feels much more insidious now. Is he trying to make me doubt Tom to shift the suspicion from himself? Aside from Jack Canning, Ethan’s now the only person who wanted cheerleaders dead.