She could practically see the taunting looks on her classmates’ faces; they’d surely read Ashley Ferguson’s email by now. She already knew the catchy nicknames they’d scrawl on her locker: JULIE ROTTING, DROOLY JULIE, and the one she dreaded most, PUSSY GALORE. It was what the kids at her old school had called her, after all.
So there was no way she was going back, ever. Julie hated to admit it, but Ashley had even outdone Nolan Hotchkiss in the I’m-going-to-make-your-life-hell department. And, oh yeah, there was also all that bullshit about Granger’s murder. The story had broken on the news yesterday afternoon; no doubt Beacon would be buzzing with it. What if kids also knew that Julie and the others were suspects? In Beacon, things had a way of getting around even when they were supposed to be private. She could just hear the whispers. Not only does Julie Redding live in a trash pit, she also killed Nolan Hotchkiss and her teacher! Didn’t you hear she was arrested?
The Granger thing was really messing with her mind. Just when she and the others thought they’d found Nolan’s killer, he turned up dead. Did the same person who killed Nolan—the same person, in other words, who set them up the first time—kill Granger, too? But who could that be? Individually, Julie and the other film studies girls had made a few enemies—like Ashley Ferguson. But who hated them collectively?
She sighed, realizing she hadn’t answered her mom’s question about skipping school. “Because I’m not welcome at school any longer,” she said emptily. “Because everything is ruined.”
Her mother shrugged, seeming to accept this as an answer. “Well, I still need some cat litter and Diet Sprite,” she said simply. “Surely you can go out for that.”
God forbid she’d ever ask Julie what could possibly be wrong. One, two, three . . . Julie counted, using her fallback technique to calm herself. Then she felt something soft and slinky brush her legs and almost screamed. One of her mother’s mangy beasts was trying to get into her room. “Get away,” Julie muttered, half kicking it back into the hallway. The cat yowled and disappeared into a stack of boxes that another cat, a black one her mother always called Twinkles, was standing on top of. A third cat, a matted thing with one eye, stood in a random litter box halfway down the hall, staring at them.
Then Julie turned back to her mother. She’d had it. “Sorry,” she said. “No Diet Sprite. No litter. Get it yourself.”
Mrs. Redding’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
Julie twitched slightly. It had been a long, long time since she’d told her mom no. Ever since her mom’s hoarding had started in full force, she’d always found it easier to just comply. But look where that had gotten her: She’d spent years scurrying around, trying her damnedest to make sure no one ever saw where she lived. She’d tried to make herself absolutely, unimpeachably perfect, so that no one would ever know the truth. But now the brunt of her resentment poked through, making her seethe.
“I said get it yourself,” Julie repeated firmly. “In case you’re interested, Mom, I can’t show my face to the world. Everyone knows now.” She waved her hand in the air wildly. “About this . . . this place.”
She narrowed her eyes, a newfound power flooding through her. Suddenly, she was ready to say all the things she’d kept pent up. And anyway, what was the point of holding back now that she was probably going to jail?
She looked at her mom again. “They know about you. And now they’ll hate me again, just like they did in California.” It felt good to say it out loud. Julie felt a thousand pounds lighter, like she was floating. “Oh, and one more thing,” Julie continued. “I also feel a little uncomfortable going out because I’m wanted for a murder I didn’t commit. Is that a good enough excuse for you?”
Mrs. Redding looked at Julie blankly. After a long moment, her eyes narrowed. “How dare you not help me!” she screeched. She stepped toward her daughter, her eyes bulging out of her reddening face.
Julie took one step back. With a jolt of panic, she realized that her mother had crossed over the threshold . . . and was in her room. Mrs. Redding had never set foot in there. Even through her illness, she seemed to understand that this was a sacred space. Julie’s heart thudded against her ribs, and she choked back a sob. With her stringy hair and frayed housecoat, her mother looked even more unkempt against the backdrop of spare furnishings and a spotless rug.
“What the hell good are you?” Mrs. Redding sputtered, thrashing her arms around like a maniac. “You were a useless child, and now you’re a useless teenager. You just take and take and take, and you never do anything for me.” Her eyes spun around. “Your father knew how useless you were.”
Julie froze. “Stop.” She didn’t want her mom to go down this road.