A slimy smile appeared on Klaudia’s face. “Suit yourself,” she said evenly, instantly losing the ditzy accent. She tapped her own art history textbook with a hot pink pen. “Since we’re being honest, I was wondering if you could do my half of the project. My ankle still really hurts.”
Aria stared at Klaudia’s ankle, propped up on a spare chair. It didn’t even have a cast on it anymore. “You can’t milk that forever,” she said. “I’m doing my half of the project, and that’s it. We can work together, but I’m not doing the work for you.”
Klaudia sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes. “Then maybe I’ll tell Noel what you did to me.”
Aria shut her eyes, suddenly so sick of being pushed around. “You know what? Tell him. It’s not like we’re together anymore.” Just saying it made her feel light and free. Soon enough, she would be out of Rosewood for good. What did it matter?
Klaudia sat back, her mouth making a small O. “I’ll tell your new boyfriend, too. Mr. Novelist. Wasn’t it so nice that he let me read his book? Isn’t it so sad how the male character dies in the end?”
Aria flinched at the mention of Ezra’s novel—she so wasn’t playing Book Club with Klaudia right now. “Well if you tell them what I did, I’ll tell them what you told me on the chair lift and that your whole blond bimbo thing is an act. Remember how you said you wanted to sleep with Noel? Remember how you threatened me?”
Klaudia’s brow crinkled. She jammed her book into her purse and stood. “I strongly suggest you think about doing my half of the report. I’d hate to be the one to ruin things between you and your new poet boy.”
“I’ve already thought about it,” Aria said firmly. “And I’m not doing your half.”
Klaudia slung her bag over her shoulder and wove angrily around the tables, nearly knocking into a college-age guy carrying a coffee and a muffin on a plate. “See ya!” Aria called after her triumphantly.
A folk singer in the front window launched into a Ray LaMontagne cover as Klaudia flounced out. Aria opened her textbook, enormously satisfied. Working alone was a much better idea, anyway. Consulting the index, she found the section on Caravaggio and flipped to the page about his life.
She began to read. In 1606, Caravaggio killed a young man in a brawl. But he got away with it, fleeing Rome with a price on his head.
Yikes. Aria flipped to the next page. Three more paragraphs described how violent and murderous Caravaggio was. Then, Aria noticed that someone had affixed a yellow Post-it note to the lower right-hand corner of the page. A hand-drawn arrow pointed to the word killer in the text. There was also a note.
Looks like you and Caravaggio have something in common, Aria! Don’t think you’ll be spared from my wrath, murderess. You’re the guiltiest of all. —A
Chapter 27
BREAK A LEG, LADY MACBETH
On Saturday night, Rosewood students, parents, and townspeople crowded into the Rosewood Day auditorium for the one and only performance of Macbeth. The air had an electrified, anticipatory quality about it, and within minutes, the lights dimmed, the crowd quieted, the three witches took their places for the first scene, and the curtain opened. Dry ice swirled around the stage. The witches cackled and prophesized. To the audience, everything seemed composed and flawless, but backstage it was chaos.
“Pierre, I still need makeup!” Kirsten Cullen hissed to Pierre, running up to him in a servant’s uniform.
“Pierre, where do they keep the armored vests?” Ryan Schiffer asked quietly.
Seconds later, Scott Chin approached, too. “Pierre, this sword looks really lame.” He held up the blunt, foil-decorated ninth-grade art project and made a face.
Pierre glared at all of them, his cheeks turning a darker shade of pink. His hair stood up in peaks on his head, his shirttail was untucked, and he had a single women’s high-heeled shoe in his hand for reasons Spencer couldn’t even begin to surmise. Maybe it was another Macbeth superstition.
“Why didn’t you people figure these things out a little earlier than five minutes before your scene?” Pierre groaned.
Spencer sat on a props box, smoothing down the hem of the velvet Lady Macbeth dress. Usually, backstage on opening night was one of her favorite times, but today, as she listened to the witches on stage, she felt nervous for her entrance, which was in a matter of minutes. Thy met me in the day of success, she kept repeating to herself, her first line. But what came after that?
She rose from the box and peeked around the curtain. Younger brothers and sisters squirmed in seats, already bored. Kids snacked on popcorn from Steam, the school’s coffee bar that had been transformed into a refreshment stand for the night. She could just make out the school videographer, staring into the lens of a camera on a tripod. If all went well tonight, Spencer’s performance tape would sway Princeton to choose Spencer J. over Spencer F.