“You’re way off. He’s 433785GB.”
“Wow, we had it completely wrong.” Head buzzing, I write the password above Thompson’s information.
“You better make sure you check the others before the database goes live.”
It isn’t already? I want to ask and can’t. A real employee would know that information. “Oh, yeah, definitely. We’re staggering the launches though. County stuff will be up before the city’s probably.”
“Are we still up next week?”
I grin. “Barring any problems, you should be. I’m going to put these correct passwords in now and I’ll verify the others later. Thanks so much, Molly. You have totally saved me.”
I click off just as someone knocks at my door. Bren sticks her head inside. “Hey, you’re up already.” Worry tints her expression. “Insomnia again?”
“No, just . . . eager to get the day started.”
“Well, let’s get going then. I don’t want you to be late for your appointment with Dr. Norcut.” She nudges the door wide so I can follow her and I do. One more week. I touch the passwords and feel something inside me settle and go still.
Maybe I should’ve pretended to be sick. As if discussing Chelsea Martin’s death with Dr. Norcut wasn’t fun enough, I get to hear about it all over again at school. It’s a different girl, different circumstances, but as I walk through the hallway, I feel like I’m in the days after Tessa Waye’s suicide . . . which then brings me to my mom and her suicide . . . and then to how terrified she sounded on the recording.
I spend a couple minutes at my locker, swapping my books around. I didn’t do my history homework, and if there’s a pop quiz, I am so hosed. I flip open my notes, checking to see if I can fake my way through any of it, and hear a disgusting, guttural hocking noise to my left.
I jerk right. Hard. Fast.
Not fast enough.
A wad of spit rolls down the side of my neck, disappearing into my collar. Gagging, I scrub my sleeve against my skin. It comes away sodden, a sticky mass glued to the fabric, and my stomach heaves into my mouth.
“Whore.” Someone laughs and I look up in time to see Sutton Davis and Matthew Bradford blow past me, slapping each other on the back. Used to be I was just Freak. Thanks to Todd’s attentions, I’m now labeled Whore and Slut.
“Ass—” I start to yell, and stop. Two teachers have arrived on the scene and they’re giving me the stink eye. Amazing how they missed the star lacrosse players being total douche canoes, but they’re ready and waiting for me to mess up. I slam my locker door extra hard just as Lauren appears at my side.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I mutter. I don’t want to explain. Unlike me, Lauren is popular. She brushes the description off. It’s true though. If you call her on it, she’ll just say our classmates want to be around her because she doesn’t want to be around them. She’ll also say that when I avoid them I look scared.
I say when I avoid them I stay out of Dumpsters and don’t get spit on.
Well. Usually don’t.
Anyway, it’s one of the few things we disagree on and I can’t really argue with Lauren’s results; the tactic obviously works for her. We’ve been best friends ever since she moved here almost a year ago. She knows about my hacking, my mom, Carson, pretty much everything. It still amazes me she sticks around.
Lauren leans one shoulder against the locker bank. “Can you believe this? You’d think Chelsea was all they had to talk about.”
“It probably is.” I turn my sleeve over and paw at my neck again. There’s something about Lauren’s tone that makes me curious. “Did you know her?”
“Sort of. My parents supported Bay’s last run for office. His team was at our house a few times for parties—fund-raising things. She was going to write my recommendation letter to Duke. . . . Are you itchy or something?”
I drop my hand. I’m going to have to bleach myself before I feel clean. “Or something. What was Chelsea like?”
“Uptight. Driven.”
Interesting. Coming from Lauren this is pretty excellent praise. Above us, the first bell rings. We need to get going, but when I glance up and down the hallway, Griff’s nowhere in sight and my stomach squeezes tight all over again.
“You coming?” Lauren asks, turning to head toward her first class. I hesitate and then follow her, telling myself it’s fine. Really. Griff must have had something come up.
But it feels off.
“Chelsea was close to finishing law school,” Lauren continues. “Working for Bay was just a stop along the way to something bigger.”
We turn down the science hall and Lauren slows, dragging out our time together before she has to turn in to her English class. “I know the newspaper is speculating that it was personal. I agree. A few days before she died, I saw Chelsea talking to that detective who was always sniffing around you. She looked upset.”