Scarlett Fever

THE DEATH OF SPENCER MARTIN

They posted it exactly as Scarlett wrote it:

A SPIES OF NEW YORK EXCLUSIVE:

This morning, something very interesting appeared in our in-box, startling us out of a prenoon coma. We don’t exactly know what it means or who it came from, but we are sufficiently intrigued to post it here. The message, in its entirety, reads as follows: Directly following the broadcast of this week’s Crime and Punishment, the public will be given satisfaction on the very spot where Sonny fell.

What does it mean? Will Saint Sonny rise from the dead? And where is Spencer Martin, as he does not appear to be on the set? The mind reels. As we get so little satisfaction and have such sad offline existences, we are considering showing up. Would you like to join us?

It had taken her a while to get that wording exactly right, and she was proud of the result. Spies of New York got a lot of e-mails, so she had to make sure to get their attention and make it seem legitimate. They had posted it at eight o’clock, just an hour before the episode aired.

Scarlett and Mrs. Amberson stood at the base of the steps of the courthouse, waiting. Forty or so other people were milling around, and more people were dribbling in in groups of two or three. The courthouse wasn’t a big attraction, so Scarlett assumed that they were there for the event. She hoped that none of these people were crazy, but there was no way of telling.

“You don’t think that anyone’s going to…kill him, right?” Scarlett asked. “I know this was my idea but…”

“It will be fine, O’Hara,” Mrs. Amberson said confidently. “The police are on top of the situation.”

The three police officers nearby were leaning against a collection of the stray crowd-control barriers that litter the New York streets, and a cruiser was parked nearby with no one inside. They probably just happened to patrol this area. They had one half-interested eye on the group, but their main concern looked to be their conversation.

“Where did you tell your parents we were going?” Mrs. Amberson asked.

“To see A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I told them I was reading it for school and it counted as doing homework.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t approve of lying to your parents, but this case might be an exception. They’ve had a very hard week, with too many surprises.”

“If they knew about this,” Scarlett said, nervously wrapping her arms around herself, “they’d start chaining us to the radiators.”

Murray was along for the ride, watching the action from the safety of Mrs. Amberson’s purse. Every once in a while, his little head would appear just under her arm and the terrified, marble-like eyes would take in the scene. Then he would sink back down into the depths of tea-tree sticks and notepaper, convinced once again of the horrors of the world.

“And Spencer didn’t tell you exactly what was going on?” Mrs. Amberson asked.

“Just that they figured out a way in and out, that it will start at 10:02, and we should meet them afterward at the meeting place two blocks from here.”

More people came from the direction of the subway. Among them was a familiar figure, half hidden by a hoodie. But by now, Scarlett knew every inch of Max’s outline.

“It’s Max,” Mrs. Amberson said, as he came closer. “Really, O’Hara, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty with that one. I remember when you were reluctant to spy on him…”

“I don’t spy,” Scarlett said.

“Yes, of course. You know what I mean.”

They quieted as Max approached. Mrs. Amberson pulled out her phone and stepped off to the side to talk. Scarlett got the feeling she was just doing that to give them some room, which was disconcerting.

“You always post where you’re going to be,” he said. “Stop flirting with me.”

Before the kiss, that would have had a totally different meaning. It would have just been snide. Now, it had some real weight. Max seemed to catch on to this a moment too late, and his voice trailed off. Scarlett tried to come up with some kind of witty rebuttal, but finding nothing in her mind, decided to act like it had never been said.

“We just have to wait a few minutes,” she said. “Then it starts.”

“What’s it?” he asked.

Before Scarlett could explain, a black Mercedes pulled up to the curb next to them. It was a car Scarlett knew well.

“Oh crap,” she said.

Marlene got out first, followed quickly by Lola and her parents. Marlene’s finger was pointing at Scarlett even before she left the car. She walked right up to Scarlett and jabbed it in the direction of her face.

“Told you!” she said. “I told you!”

“Aren’t you at a show?” Scarlett’s mom asked.

“I…”

“You!” Marlene noticed Max standing there. “Are you guys, like, dating now?”

There was obvious disgust, and maybe a little bit of jealousy in her voice. Mrs. Amberson had turned around and seen what was going on. She quickly concluded her conversation and hurried over.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed. “We just this moment walked out of the show, and someone sent me a message saying that we had to get down here right away.”

Scarlett’s parents didn’t appear to think much of this story.

“So,” her mom said, “what is going on here?”

“Beats me,” Scarlett said. “We just saw the…you know…thing…and we…”

“Let’s try that again,” Scarlett’s dad said. “What is going on? If it involves Spencer, you know. In fact, this sort of looks like your handiwork. You’re the one who brought Hamlet home, right?”

“Me? I…”

“Scarlett can’t be blamed,” Mrs. Amberson lied. “She genuinely had no idea. Spencer told me privately, client to agent. It’s just a little show for the fans.”

“Ten-oh-two,” Scarlett said.

There was a murmur, and Spencer appeared out of nowhere, breaking through the crowd and running up the steps. The faithful were ready with the doughnuts, and they came in a steady volley. But Spencer was moving fast and missed them all. They fell against the courthouse steps and exploded into chunks and blotches of jam. A few people looked like they were going to run after him, but no one moved.

“People of New York!” he called, once he made it halfway up the steps. “Did you all come out to see me tonight?”

A chorus of hisses and boos and weird cheers.

“I know what you people want,” he went on. “I know you’re all upset about that cop. So, tonight, I’m going to…”

Eric must have been hiding behind one of the large Grecian pillars at the top of the steps. He came barreling from behind Spencer and jumped on his back. The crowd roared in approval. The fight began in earnest. The beat-down was spectacularly choreographed—they used everything they had. Body slams, punches, flips. But unlike normal, Spencer just took most of the blows, getting up again and again to suffer.

Scarlett’s mom was wincing and shielding her eyes partially with her hand.

“I know he knows what he’s doing,” she said to herself. “I know he does.”

The police moved closer and talked among themselves and into walkie-talkies, but they were smiling and seemed willing to let this go on a little bit longer, as long as everyone stayed where they were. One man started to step forward, wanting to join Eric, but he was cautioned back. Eric took Spencer by the collar, pinned him face-first up against one of the grand Grecian columns, and started repeatedly slamming his head. Spencer broke away, acting woozy. At the top of the steps, he wavered for a moment, looked out over the crowd…and tumbled, taking at least a half dozen of the big stone steps or more, in the exact move that Scarlett had seen him do in the basement. The one he said was so very idiotic and dangerous.

“Oh my God!” Lola yelped. “I hate it when he does that! He had better not be dead.”

Eric threw up his arms in triumph. He did a victory lap up and down. Scarlett was surprised to see Laertes and Hamlet hurry out of the crowd. They must have been called in to help as well. They rushed to where Spencer was sprawled and threw a sheet over him and picked him up, his body drooping in their grasp. The crowd parted as they brought him down the stairs, a few people cheerfully pitching the last of the doughnuts at the sheet. One person right next to the Martins had his arm cocked back and was ready to let fly, when Scarlett’s mom stepped in front of him.

“That’s my son under there,” she said calmly. “You weren’t planning on throwing that at my son, right?”

Eric ran down the steps and started high-fiving the crowd. When he ran past the Martins, he slowed just a bit to acknowledge them, then quickly sprinted away. Lola and her dad were speculating on Spencer’s possible injuries. From the way her dad was imitating some of the body blows, Scarlett got the feeling that he had thoroughly enjoyed what he’d just seen.

“You know you’re grounded,” Scarlett’s mom said quietly. “Right? Because I know that you did this.”

“Yeah,” Scarlett said. “I know. How long?”

“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m going to let any of you out of the house ever again.”

There was no particular anger in her voice. She almost sounded like she was congratulating Scarlett on a job well done.

“He’s meeting us around the corner,” Scarlett said. “Can I just have five minutes? That’s, um, you know. Max. From school. He just came down to ask me something about Bio and…”

She looked toward Max, who was still being grilled by Marlene.

“I’m Powerkid of the Year,” she heard Marlene say.

“I have no idea what that is,” he replied.

“Five,” her mother said. “Not six. Five. I’m timing you. I need that much time to kill your brother anyway.”

Mrs. Amberson guided the Martins off, throwing Scarlett a knowing glance over her shoulder as she left. This act of being left behind so publicly made Scarlett instantly self-conscious. Max must have felt the same way. He started playing with the strings of his hood, tightening it around his face until he could hardly be seen, then grabbing it and loosening it again. She let him do this a few times before she spoke.

“Marlene likes you,” Scarlett said.

“Yeah. I’m thinking about asking her out. You cool with that?”

“Be my guest,” Scarlett said. “She’ll eat you alive.”

Another silence. Another minute ticked away. Scarlett struggled to find some other remark, and had just about gotten one together, when she heard a familiar voice calling her.

“Hey!”

Chelsea Biggs was jogging down the sidewalk toward them. Scarlett had anticipated that some people would read Spies of New York—but not everyone. Another miscalculation.

“Just made it!” she said. “I heard about it during intermission and…”

Her eyes fell on the hooded figure that had turned away from them. There was a moment of confusion when she realized it was her brother, then she shrugged, as if Max’s appearance could be just chalked up to his constant attempts to annoy her. It was amazing how good Scarlett had gotten at reading the Biggs family signals.

“Anyway,” Chelsea said excitedly, “Eric messaged me and told me what was going on. I can’t believe I missed it! Did you guys talk?”

Chelsea really had no idea how any kind of normal human friendship worked. No one had told her that you weren’t supposed to run up to heartbroken ex-girlfriends and ask if they’d heard the glad tidings that you had taken over their role.

“No,” Scarlett said coldly. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Why not?” Chelsea asked. “Let him explain.”

“I’m fine with it, okay?” Scarlett said. This was supposed to be a lie, but she managed to say it with such surprising conviction that she wondered if she meant it. She even managed to add, “I hope you guys are happy,” without making it sound like she was placing a pox on the House of Biggs. These words, far from soothing Chelsea, only seemed to confuse her. She immediately looked at Max.

“What did you say to her?” Chelsea snapped. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “You said you went out. That’s what I told her. Because it was true. I don’t even know who this guy is…”

“Don’t listen to him, Scarlett,” Chelsea said. “We did go out, but not that way. Eric came to the show. I found out he was there, because they tell me who uses my comps. We talked after the show. He told me all about you two, and he was all upset because you didn’t show up. He said he’s been trying to talk to you for days, but you don’t answer. You’re my friend. You helped me when the show closed. I wanted to help you, too. I’ve been talking to him, trying to get you two back together. He really misses you. He was so excited to see you tonight…”

Dusty and dormant gears in Scarlett’s brain clicked into action, attempting to make sense of all of this. Eric and Chelsea were not dating. Eric missed her. And Max…

Max had stalked off in the direction of the subway without another word. Chelsea shook her head.

“He’s such a jerk,” she said. “I am so sorry he did this to you. He…”

Scarlett didn’t hear the rest, because she hurried off after him. He was taking huge, quick strides, and had gotten about halfway down the block.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Where do you think I’m going?”

“You just walked away! We were still talking!”

“I wasn’t talking. I’m done.”

“Why are you so angry?” she said. “What did I even do?”

Max stopped and faced her. He was doing strange things with his mouth—sucking his lips in, shifting it to the left and right. There was something so intense coming off of him that it caused Scarlett’s pulse to jump and quicken.

“Fine,” she said, holding up her hands. “Don’t tell me.”

“You should go,” he replied. “Sounds like your actor boyfriend is waiting for you. Go on. Run.”

He made a brushing motion with his hand, as if scooting her along. It was so absurd and childish that Scarlett accidentally laughed. He turned and continued toward the subway.

“See you tomorrow,” she said as he walked away. There was no acknowledgment that she had spoken. Max’s back was a wall.

She walked back to Chelsea, who was standing there, waiting patiently.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “I’ll make him miserable at home for you. I can’t believe he did that. Well, actually, I can believe it.”

Scarlett started walking numbly in the direction of the meet up. Chelsea was still talking, telling her all the things Eric had said about her. The account seemed a little embellished, but the underlying message was clear: Eric wanted to get together with her. For real. Dating with a capital D. That’s all she had wanted for so long, and there it was. And yet, some part of her just wanted to run back and grab Max and shake him until all his teeth fell out. All her impulses toward Max were so—violent.

When she turned the corner, she saw them a block or so ahead. Her parents were talking to the actors, whom they hadn’t seen in a few weeks. They had gotten to know everyone during the show, and wanted to know how they were doing. Mrs. Amberson was talking excitedly on the phone. Spencer was rubbing one of his arms, but he was laughing. Eric held up a shy hand of greeting.

“See!” Chelsea said. “Please. Just talk to him.”

Even from across the street, Scarlett could hear every word Mrs. Amberson was saying on the phone: “…I think if you check the coverage tomorrow…Oh! Have we tinkled? Yes, it’s a standpipe, darling, I know. They can be very scary…No, not you, Carmine. But I think we should talk again in the morning, because this is a window of opportunity…Get away from that disgusting pizza! No, no. No dairy for you!…No, not you, Carmine. Let’s just meet for coffee at ten and discuss the future…”

The merry-go-round was still circling.

Scarlett looked behind her one last time, but Max was definitely gone. So Scarlett and Chelsea crossed the street to join the group.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For someone who spends most of her work time alone at a desk mumbling to herself, I seem to have many, many people to thank now that this book is finished. Even in making this list, I worry that I am leaving off dozens of people who do me everyday kindnesses that allow me to go on living.

My first thanks must always go to my agent, Kate Schafer Testerman (often known to the world as Daphne Unfeasible of Unfeasible Enterprises). Also, to my editor, Abby McAden, and everyone at Scholastic. These are the people who made this book happen.

More thanks to:

Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld, who not only read the book and provided critical notes, they also provide total life-support services in general.1

John and Hank Green, for being awesome, and always being such big supporters of me and my books. Best wishes.

The daily writing gang: Libba Bray, Cassandra Clare, Robin Wasserman, Scott Westerfeld (again), and Lauren McLaughlin.

Everyone at Springfield Castle who put up with me while I was working on the revision and running from the peacocks: Sarah Cross, Ally Carter, Carrie Ryan, Sarah Rees Brennan, Jennifer Lynn Barnes, Diana Peterfreund, Robin Wasserman, Cassandra Clare, and Holly Black. (And a special thanks to Holly for reading the book between midnight and three in the morning, and then talking with me until dawn about it.)

My consultant on getting hit and falling down: Steve Copeland, formerly of Ringling Brothers Circus. My Gang of Four: Rebecca Leach, Tobias Huisman, Jordan Cwierz, and Chelsea Hunt. Alan Lastufka, for all of his technical help and support of Scarlett. Jason Keeley and Paula Gross, for feeding me. And to Hamish Young, who is an English person.

To everyone who participated in the BEDA project. There are about 500 of you, and it took all of you to make it work. A special thanks to Alex Day and Charlie McDonnell. Once you guys started doing it, then I had no choice but to continue or else I would be shamed on the Internet.

And to Dick Wolf. He knows why. Call me, Dick.2

1 When they are in NYC, that is. Sometimes they retreat to their sky-palace in Sydney, and then I survive entirely by eating clumps of dust and burning my prize collection of antique telephone books for warmth.

2 I mean, “You, Dick, call me on the phone or some other telephonic device.” Not, “Please now refer to me as Dick.” There are a lot of reasons for this, not the least of which is that I am female. Also, that would make my name Dick Johnson. I would never stoop so low as to make a joke like that. I have standards, you know.