I HAVE TO find a way to lure Caleb to Yarrow House tonight. When we came up with the plan, I offered to bring the truth-spell potion to school since he has to drink it for it to take effect. But the girls reminded me that I shook them out of their graves and promised them revenge, so I can’t rob them of it now. Besides, we’re not sure how long the truth spell will last, so it’ll be best to have Caleb close to the ingredients in case we need to whip up a second batch.
At lunch, I go behind the cafeteria to avoid the watchful eyes of teachers and campus security. My legs ache from dancing at the farmers’ market last night, so I stretch them out across from the dumpsters where June emotionally scarred the Nouns. The wind is graciously pushing the trash stink into the parking lot rather than at my face.
There are texts from Xander waiting when I turn on my phone.
XANDER: We’ve never had the same lunch period. Is this a Fairmont Academy conspiracy? Do you think Ms. Pine would flip my schedule if I asked?
I’m glad that there’s no one around to see me smiling like a dork. Xander and I have never had a text conversation that wasn’t about Riley except for when he asked about my health after the Celebration of Life. He only has my phone number so that he could get ahold of his sister when her phone was dead. But maybe last night means that we’re going to be real friends without Riley acting as a buffer.
ME: I don’t know if Ms. Pine would, but I bet you could talk Dr. Miller into it. Just bat all your pretty lashes at her.
I almost jump when I see Xander’s three dots pop up on the screen.
XANDER: Flirting with the school psych is probably a one-way ticket to more counseling.
ME: How are you even texting me right now? They won’t let you be valedictorian if you get caught with your phone on during class.
XANDER: I was never going to be valedictorian. Top ten, maybe. Peer counseling meets during homeroom hours. If you signed up for peer counseling, we could get your lunch hour switched. How well are you doing in math?
Phone’s out because I “forgot my calculator.”
ME: Oh, you’re LYING to people to talk to me?
XANDER: Yep. Points for dedication to friendship?
ME: Are we keeping score?
XANDER: 10 points for hanging out in public. Negative 100 points to me for crying on you.
ME: Obviously crying in front of each other is bonus 100 points. Only real-people friends grieve together, X.
Shit. I’m supposed to be on a mission of revenge and righteousness, not blushing and texting. I open Facebook and log in, using June’s phone number and password. The girl might not have many memories of her life in the weeks leading up to her death, but her Facebook password was locked and loaded. Priorities.
Hundreds of notifications blow up the screen. I forgot that her account has become an ongoing vigil for friends and family.
I open a chat window and type in Caleb’s name. I also have to open the text draft that June made of what she wanted the message to Caleb to say.
Caleb,
I’m not gone. Come to the abandoned green farmhouse on Knapp Road at nine P.M. tonight or prepare to have the shit haunted out of you for the rest of your miserable life.
<3 June
PS: Bring my necklace. I know you’ve been wearing it.
I attach a video I shot of June standing outside of Yarrow House after we cast the rot spell. In it, she’s waving and unsmiling, the wind slipping eerily through her hair. Our goal isn’t to make Caleb totally believe that June is back from the dead. It just has to make him interested enough to show up. Presumably, no one else knows about the necklace, and the footage of June has never been online before—which pre-murdered June would never stand for—so hopefully this will kindle his interest. If not, then we have to kidnap him.
I really don’t want to kidnap him. I’m almost positive that Ms. Chu would have me expelled if she caught me home-invading her.
A door closes around the front of the building, and I have only enough time to stash my phone in the pocket of my jacket before Aniyah Dorsey comes around the corner. Her hair is in big, fist-sized ringlets today, and she’s wearing an EFF YOUR BEAUTY STANDARDS T-shirt. It’s really cute. I hate how intense my clothes envy is.
“Mila, hi,” she says breathlessly.
I wonder if she knows how often she uses people’s names when she’s talking to them. I feel like every time I see her, she’s saying my name like I don’t already know who I am. Or to prove that she does? Maybe it’s a journalist tactic.
“Were you looking for me?” I ask. “Or did you need to look in the dumpsters for something?”
I pull my phone back out, closing out all my tabs to save on battery life and also to look busy.
“I just wanted to say hi,” she says. She rocks back and forth, her ankles slightly bowed.
“Oh. Hi?”
A new text from Xander pops up on my screen, and I forget about Aniyah altogether.
XANDER: Real-people friends? Is that a thing?
ME: It’s the step between acquaintances and besties. Obviously.
XANDER: You know, I think we already had a word for that. It’s FRIENDS.
ME: Anyone can be “friends.” Real-people friends are people you can cry in front of or call in the middle of the night.
XANDER: Gotcha. Real-people friends. I look forward to your middle-of-the-night calls.
Oh, fuck. Is this flirting? Am I swooning?
“So, you and Xander Greenway, huh?” Aniyah’s voice cuts through my private moment of textual flirting. Blood rushes to my cheeks, even though she’s the one who should be embarrassed for being such an unabashed snoop.
I flip my phone upside down so that she can’t continue her spying.
“I’m not going to answer any questions about my personal life for the Fairmont . . .” I empty every drawer in my brain, but the information just isn’t there. “What’s your ‘newspaper’ called?”
I struggle to make air quotes. I don’t want to drop my phone.
She frowns so hard that her glasses slip down her nose. “It’s the Fairmont Informant.”
“That is the worst name I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t they call it the Fairmont Snitch or the Fairmont Narc? It’s like they want people to avoid you.”
“People don’t avoid me because of the name of the newspaper,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes at me. “I’m fat and black in the middle of the whitest place on earth. And what makes you think that I even want people to talk to me?”
It’s kind of cool to talk to someone who gets how absolutely tragically white this town is. And someone else who self-identifies as fat who isn’t using fat as code for ugly or ew-I-ate-a-big-meal. Even Riley has only ever called me curvy, no matter how many times I correct her. But I have spells and texting to get back to, so I turn on some of the scary that everyone’s always talking about.
“You are nonstop interviewing people,” I say, keeping my voice and my face expressionless. “You pry into conversations, take notes on gossip you hear in bathrooms, and then you print it, praying that this will be the story that people actually read even though no one ever does.”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I don’t write the newspaper for anyone in Cross Creek. There are hella journalism scholarships that no one wants because journalism is a dying industry, and they are going to be my way out of this town. Any other questions?”
“Why did you want to say hi to me? Are you writing an article about people hanging out with people above their social class?”
“No. I saw you and Xander out at the farmers’ market yesterday—”
“Aw, and you didn’t get a chance to say hi? Sorry we missed you. ’Kay, thanks, bye.”
Her nostrils flare as she takes a steadying breath. She adjusts her glasses and tips her chin up regally.
“Look, you’ve lived in Cross Creek for only a couple of years. You moved here in middle school?” She doesn’t wait for me to agree with her. She pushes ahead, waving her hands like the flow of conversation is motion-activated. “I know you were friends with Riley, and I’m really sorry that she killed herself—”
I get to my feet, sticking my phone safely in my pocket as I start to walk away from her. “Nope. We’re done here.”