I finally gather the nerve to call Jade. After one ring it clicks and I hear her voice: Hey, I’m either sleeping or I don’t feel like dealing with you. Leave a message….
There’s that suction-cup feeling in my stomach again. Jade ignored my call, and she doesn’t care that I know she ignored my call.
It’s a huge fuck-you.
So I think of a response that is both equal and pathetic: I block Jade on every social media account I have and flop into bed, not caring that I’ve just declared war.
—
I’m washing my face before school in the morning when I smell smoke.
Something is burning in the kitchen. I run down the hall and round the corner in time to see Lauren poking inside the toaster with a wooden spoon. I shoo her out of the way and fish out the charred remains of an English muffin.
“I was upstairs,” Lauren explains.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
“She had to take Andrew to the sheriff’s station for another interview.”
I use two fingers to dump the burned muffin into the trash, tamping down the urge to puke all over it. They want to question Andrew more. Of course they want to question Andrew more—he’s the last person who called Bailey.
I think of what Lauren told me last night—what people are saying about Andrew and me—and my knees go numb.
“Why didn’t your mom get me up to tell me?” I ask Lauren.
“She wanted to let you sleep.” Lauren is still in her pajamas. “I have to wake Dad up to drive us to school.”
You are thirteen, I want to shout in her face. You should be able to make yourself breakfast and put yourself on the bus.
I steel myself. I’m horrible. Ashley just wants her daughter to get to school safely. It’s not that unreasonable, now that girls are disappearing around here. It’s unreasonable for me to think that every kid is supposed to grow up the way I did, like a roaming dog.
“Is Andrew in trouble?”
I don’t have the heart to lie to her and say everything is fine. “I don’t know, Monkey. I’ll make you another muffin. Go wake Dad up.”
Lauren flees the kitchen without looking back at me. She’s tossed the bread knife into the sink, into a soapy bowl caked with last night’s spaghetti sauce. I don’t have time to wash it.
Ashley has another set of knives—one that only she had been allowed to use, until I proved I could dice onions without chopping my fingers off. It’s a stainless steel professional set and probably cost a thousand bucks. And I’m using one of them to cut an English muffin.
I slide the knife case box out from the overhead cabinet and open it, running my finger across the handles in search of the bread knife. I linger for a beat over the space where the chef’s knife should be.
Should be.
I push aside the mess of dishes in the sink, racking my brain for the last time I saw Ashley use the chef’s knife. She hasn’t cooked all week, except to make that casserole for the Hammonds—and I washed the dishes that morning.
Heart in my throat, I pull out the dishwasher rack, even though everyone knows better than to leave Ashley’s beloved stainless knives in there with the other grime-covered utensils. The chef’s knife would have been washed and put away whenever it was used.
I sink to the floor, the knob of the lower cabinet digging into my back. It doesn’t mean anything.
Six-inch chef’s knives don’t just disappear. Just like people don’t just disappear.
I cover my mouth with my hands. I replay my conversations with Andrew. Pick them apart for any indication he was bullshitting me the entire time.
His night drive. The phone calls. He’d explained them away so easily.
How the hell is he going to explain the knife missing from our house?
I wiggle my phone out of my jeans pocket and call Andrew, even though I know he can’t answer. I let it ring all the way through, just so I can hear his voice-mail message. Say this is all wrong. Say you didn’t take that knife.
Say you didn’t know the rumors about us. Say you would never hurt Bailey even if you knew she started them.
The pounding of footsteps on the stairs. I scramble to my feet, realizing I’ve forgotten to make Lauren another English muffin.
—
I realize why Ashley wanted my dad to drive me to school when I arrive.
Everyone already knows why Andrew isn’t with me.
The sea of bodies in the hall seems to part for me. There are no whispers or pointed stares, but their thoughts are displayed clear on their faces.
Andrew Kang is not a killer. Andrew Kang is the nicest guy in school.
Did she really have sex with her stepbrother?
Did they really kill Bailey together?
Do you think he’s covering for her?
My rage returns tenfold when I show up at Jade’s locker and she’s not there like she is every morning. She must have realized by now that I blocked her, and she doesn’t even have the guts to face me and ask why.
Jade isn’t in first-period art, but it’s not unusual for her to stroll in a few periods late. By Spanish third period, my anxiety is spiking. On the way into Mrs. Callahan’s room, I stop by Val’s desk.
“Hey.” She looks up at me. A weak smile before shifting her gaze to see who’s watching.
She doesn’t want to be seen talking to me.
“Um, have you seen Jade today?”
“Yeah, I think she was in second period.” Val scratches the back of her neck, one eye on Bridget, who is at the desk next to her.
“Did you see her in homeroom?” I ask.
“Nah, she wasn’t there. I think she came in late.”
Just in time for second period, so she wouldn’t have to see me. By the time I get back to my desk, I’m seething. As the bell rings, I slide my phone from my pocket and send Jade a text. One I know will get her attention.
Where is your mom REALLY jade??
Everything is falling apart, and I am desperate to take someone down with me.
I get a response at the end of the period.
your locker
When the bell rings, I spring out of my seat. I’ll be late for algebra if I cross to the senior wing first, but fuck it.
Jade’s waiting at my locker when I get there. Before I can open my mouth, her fist comes flying at me. I duck her punch; the sound of her fist slamming into my locker makes people turn around.
“Fuck you, Kacey,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. She turns on her heels; I grab her arm.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You lied about your mom just like you lied about Andrew and me.”
Jade looks down at my hand on her wrist. “Get off me.”
“Just tell me why. Do you know where she is?”
Jade yanks herself out of my grasp, so violently I lurch forward. I ignore the stinging in my wrist and swing it, backhanding Jade across the face.
Someone starts to shout about a fight. I’m shaking—I slapped Jade—as I turn to head down the hall, in the other direction of the art room. That’s when she grabs me. Slams me into the row of lockers. Pain sears across my forehead and my brain rattles against my skull.
My forehead is raw, prickling from where it connected with the locker door. Blood. I drag my fingers down her face.
I’ll kill her.