“What does that mean?”
“Did you know McCoy talks to Celia all the time?” he asked. “He calls her to his office all the time. I used to be the front desk attendant sophomore year, and a week into September, Celia started showing up every other day. Into McCoy’s office, stayed for half an hour, waltzed back out again. And she’s been doing that ever since. Think that was included in her mom’s ‘plans’?”
“McCoy? No, I don’t think McCoy is included in anyone’s plans.”
“Speaking of McCoy.” Tucker leaned against the counter and clipped his mechanical pencil to the frames of his glasses. “Talking about the scoreboard legend a while back got me curious. I’m going to the library on Saturday to research—wanna come? I’ll pick you up.”
I thrust out my hand. “Deal.”
Though I felt better after telling Tucker what I’d seen, I spent the next days wondering if Celia was going to jump out and stab me. She didn’t, but she did shoot me warning looks that said I’d get shanked if I went near her.
I was still jittery on Friday. I sat on a bench outside school and waited for the parking lot to quiet down—there were still way too many cars around and I didn’t want to take Erwin into that sort of hostile environment. The lights cast wide yellow pools on the asphalt. Most kids had stayed inside for some sort of basketball after-party in the gym, and anyone out here was in their car and gone within minutes.
Except for one person.
I spotted her when she crept out from behind a row of cars. Celia. She had a can of paint in one hand, and she shook it as she peered over her shoulder.
Abandoning my backpack on the bench, I darted down the next row of cars. I kneeled between two cars and watched her lean over the hood of a white convertible and paint the windshield.
I pointed my camera. A minute later, Captain Bitch in neon pink covered the convertible’s windshield.
Oh, great. Celia listened to her mom. Cheerleader retribution.
The camera slipped from my fingers and clattered on the asphalt. Celia whipped around. Saw me kneeling there.
I scooped up the camera and sprinted in the other direction. Celia screamed something and the paint can hit the hood of a car as I passed by. It burst open, spraying fluorescent pink everywhere. I veered left, ducking down so Celia wouldn’t see my head. I glanced through a car window. She raced down the row after me.
I crawled along, doubled back, and passed her before rolling underneath a van.
“RIDGEMONT!” I could see her sneakers. She walked back the other way. I held my breath as she passed the van.
Please, please let me be hallucinating this. Because if I wasn’t, that meant Celia Hendricks really was losing it. Maybe her mom was pushing her there, or maybe she’d always been like this, but I was pretty sure if she found me right now she was going to rip my hair out.
My salvation came a few seconds later.
“Milesie!” Celia squealed.
“What are you doing, Hendricks?” Miles’s feet—shiny shoes and all—came into view. He always walked like that, heel-toe-push, like he’d knock over anyone who got in his way.
“Oh, nothing. Just hanging out. You?”
Now they were both planted right in front of the van.
“Nothing,” he replied. His voice was low and sharp. “Just wondering why you’re running around the parking lot, screaming your head off.”
Celia hesitated. “No reason. I have to get going. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”
She hurried off, and a moment later an engine started up.
Miles was still there. I held my breath—if he’d move, I could go get Erwin and leave. I wanted him to find me under this van about as much as I wanted Celia to. He couldn’t see me like this.
But then he walked to the van’s front bumper, kneeled down, and peered underneath. “Having fun?” he asked.
I let out a gust of breath and set my forehead against the asphalt. What an asshole.
“Running from crazy people is always fun,” I replied.
Miles helped me out from under the van. As I brushed myself off, he asked, “So what was she chasing you for?”
“That depends,” I said, bringing up the picture of Celia spray-painting Britney’s car on my camera. I showed it to him. Please be there. Please be there. “What do you see?”
He pushed his glasses up and stared at it for a moment. “I see Celia getting angry about her cheerleading position and taking it out on Britney Carver’s car with some offensively bright paint.”
I almost hugged him. “Oh, good.”
“Are you going to tell Britney?” he asked.
“Why? Do you think she’d believe me?”
“With this evidence? Sure. But good luck getting to her with Celia around.”
“I’ll probably give these to Mr. Gunthrie or someone on Monday.”
“Give them to Claude.”
“Why?”
“He’ll give them to his dad, and he’ll make sure everyone knows about it.”
“That seems excessively mean.”
“Celia was prepared to beat you to a bloody pulp a few minutes ago,” he pointed out.