PRINCIPAL TURNER GREETS THE SCHOOL ON MONDAY morning with a lighthearted little announcement: “Students and faculty, we have determined that the next step in our investigation process will be to conduct brief interviews of the student body. All interviews will be strictly confidential and conducted in a safe, closed environment.”
I glance around, but nobody else in first period seems appalled by this. Apparently, they don’t mind that this teacher-student-romance thing has turned into the Spanish Inquisition.
I sit stiffly at my desk, staring down at a list of differential equations. This weekend I batted around the idea of speaking with Juniper Kipling, but the fact that phone conversations are the bane of my existence provided something of a deterrent. Also, calling her up out of nowhere to accuse her of this seemed a bit uncomfortable, to say the least.
Still, though, I have to talk to her as soon as possible. If she’s being coerced into something, I can’t keep my mouth shut. In fact, these interrogation sessions provide the perfect opportunity to tell the authorities what I know, if it seems appropriate.
At the beginning of lunch, I wait outside the cafeteria, hoping to intercept Juniper. Clumps of people edge around me, their eyes passing over me so smoothly, I might as well be painted to match the wall.
I spot Juniper halfway down the hall. She’s flanked by a pair of girls: a tall brunette with the rectangular shoulders of an Amazon, and a short redhead with thick silver eyeliner. The brunette says something, and the trio bursts into laughter, their smiles matching in a way that suggests they learned how to smile together. As they approach, I clear my throat, balling up my fists. I step into their path.
“Excuse me,” I declare.
The three stop, looking at me with identical bemusement.
“Uh, hey,” says the brunette. “You’re Valentine, right?”
“Yes.” I address Juniper, my nerves buzzing. “May I speak with you for a minute?”
“Me? Sure.” Juniper glances at the tall girl. “I’ll catch up with you guys in there.”
The brunette and the redhead vanish into the crowd, and as Juniper and I back away toward the wall, a familiar droning voice says, “Freeeak.”
I turn, heat prickling my cheeks, as a pair of guys a head taller than I brushes by. “Could you at least find something entertaining to say?” I snap after their matching backpacks. They don’t flinch at my voice.
“Dean,” Juniper calls. At once, both boys glance over their shoulders. One is lean and wiry, his hair buzz-cut short. I recognize the other: the same long-nosed, curly-haired swimmer from last week, who didn’t apologize then, either.
Juniper narrows her eyes at the guy with the buzz cut. “Was that you? Did you say that?”
“Um,” Dean says, glancing at his curly-haired friend, whose gaze darts around the hall, not sticking anywhere in particular.
“Apologize to Valentine,” Juniper says, approaching them.
“Oh God,” I mumble. “Please, you’re under no obligation to white-knight me.”
“It’s a public service,” she says, looking back up at the guys. They’ve stayed still too long—the crowd spits them out, and they hover by the cafeteria doors. As Juniper’s eyes harden, I thank God that I’m not in her vicious sight line. “Apologize,” she insists.
Dean shrugs. “Whatever, sorry,” he says with hardly a look in my direction. He nudges his friend. “Come on, let’s get our table.”
But as Dean heads into the cafeteria, Juniper turns her accusatory stare on the curly-haired boy, and he lingers behind. “Lucas, seriously?” Juniper says, sounding disappointed. “You’re going to stand there and watch that happen?”
Lucas wilts, his shoulders slumping. Abysmal posture notwithstanding, he has nearly a foot on me, his shoulders so wide that I feel as if I’m facing down a bear. His guilty eyes are the dark brown of wet bark. Looking at his glum expression, I somehow feel bad for him, although he’s hardly a victim here.
He opens his mouth, presumably to apologize, but I interrupt: “It’s fine.”
Even as my words come out, I wonder why I’m saying them. It isn’t fine. From the rough end of things, silence looks an awful lot like complicity.
Before I can speak further, Juniper’s brunette friend bounces back out the door to the cafeteria, wheeling to an ungainly halt. “Hey, Juni,” she says. “Can I steal you back? Claire says we ‘need to talk’ about Saturday night, which is, like, the most terrifying thing in many moons. I think she thinks I funneled the wine down your throat or something.”
The sound of a cleared throat makes all of us turn. Mr. García, striding by, has slowed his pace, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but gives Juniper and Olivia a look.
“I mean, uh,” Olivia says as he passes, “nobody here consumes alcohol, because we are all under the age of twenty-one.”
García’s frown deepens. He disappears down the hall, and Olivia makes a face after him. “How is he a hard-ass about drinking? He finished college, like, two hours ago.” She glances at me. “Also, hey, sorry for interrupting. Also, also, I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you.”