Spam heads for the refrigerator. “We would’ve been here sooner but they had us in an assembly all morning.”
“Grief squad?” I ask.
Lysa slides her hands down the side of her face, dragging her skin into an exaggerated, sad look.
“They brought us all to the auditorium and just dropped the news on us.” Spam moves things around in the fridge.
“I still don’t believe it,” Lysa says.
Spam settles on a tub of spicy hummus and a bag of baby carrots, bringing them to the table. “Oh.” She stops and digs around in each of her pockets. “Before I forget, I know the timing sucks but we got a Cheater Check this morning.” She pulls two small Ziploc bags out of her back pocket and slides them across the table. “Hair analysis.”
Cheater Checks is a little side business we run. My obsession with forensics started by reading my Uncle Victor’s books. Following his detailed descriptions I taught myself the basics, how to lift fingerprints and analyze hair. Then freshman year I entered a chromatography test in the science fair comparing different shades and brands of lipstick. About that same time, we had a friend who thought her boyfriend was cheating on her. We tried the lipstick chromatography test on his shirt and proved it! Word got around about what we could do and people were willing to pay us to do it for them. So, we combined my forensic skills with Spam’s computer savvy and Lysa’s profiling ability and our little underground business was born.
We take on all kinds of jobs for our friends at school, like outwitting spying parents and neutralizing brothers and sisters who like to snoop. But we get the most requests for Cheater Checks—girlfriends and boyfriends who want proof they’re dating cheaters.
I hold up the bags. Inside each one is a single blond hair about five inches long. One bag is labeled with the letter B, the other reads TRAMP. I shake my head. “Brianna found a random hair in Mark’s car again?”
Spam chuckles. “I think this one came from inside his jacket.”
“How will you do this without Miss P to let you into the lab on Monday?” Lysa says.
I roll my head from side to side, contemplating the changes I know are coming. “It’s okay. I can do it here.”
“How?” Lysa asks. “Don’t you need a—”
“Microscope? Yeah. I have one up…” I catch myself. “Anyway, I can do it.” I set the bags aside and grab another orange out of the bowl.
Spam curls one leg under her on the chair. “What were you doing at Miss Peters’s?”
“Yeah, why didn’t you call us?” Lysa asks.
“Or text us … or IM us … or FaceTime us?” Spam adds.
I freeze. I’m not ready to talk about last night. I need more time to get everything straight in my own head. “How’d you even know I was there?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Spam crunches a carrot. “You being there is all over school.” She pops the last bite into her mouth.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, my internal organs slide into a dark abyss located somewhere around my knees. I press my nose to the orange and inhale deeply. I get it. Discovering a murder has to be the pinnacle of gossip-worthy news. Seriously, what could trump that? I’ve been so crushed over Miss P I haven’t considered what being the one to find her body will do to me. All that attention and pity … again.
I smooth the place mat in front of me with my finger. “What are they saying?”
Lysa pats my hand. “Don’t worry, it’s really not about you.”
Spam gives Lysa a wide-eyed look. “Dude. It’s totally about her.”
“It is?” I squeeze Lysa’s hand. I don’t think I can deal with this.
Lysa frowns. “Go easy, Spam. She’s been through a traumatic experience.”
“You guys, I can’t talk about this right now.” My eyes fill with water but I hold perfectly still to keep it from spilling down my cheeks.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to. We can talk about something else.” Lysa lays her other hand on top of mine, but I notice she passes a pointed look to Spam.
“Right.” Spam glances away from Lysa and settles into a soothing tone. “It’s just you did sort of become an instant legend, but that’s not really important right now.”
“L-l-legend?” I can barely speak.
“God, Spam, stop it! You’re making it sound like she won prom queen or something. Just get to the point,” Lysa says.
“She kinda did,” Spam says with a grin. “Everybody knows who you are now.” Lysa’s glare causes Spam to drop the humor. “But we want you to know we’re really, really worried about you. And we know you must have been investigating something important at Miss P’s. We just don’t understand why you didn’t tell us about it.”
This is so hard. I hate lying to them. “It’s not what you think. And it didn’t have anything to do with you guys.”
“Are you sure?” Lysa asks carefully. “Because you know we think it has something to do with the box … and if that’s the case then we are involved. Big-time.”