right there.” He returns at normal volume. “I have to go. I’m at work.”
“You are?” I ask, surprised. “Don’t you have play rehearsal tonight?”
“Yeah, but there’s a ton going on at Until Proven and my understudy could use the practice, so I skipped.” Knox says it like it’s no big deal, but I can’t remember him ever missing a rehearsal before. “Listen, Maeve, it’s almost six, so—if you’re gonna text back Dare, now would be the time.”
“No way. I told you, I’m not playing their game.” Even as I say it, though, I swallow hard and look at the clock on my laptop. Five fifty-nine.
I can’t tell if Knox’s answering sigh is frustrated or resigned. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phoebe
Tuesday, March 3
Emma, the queen of punctuality, is late.
I’ve been standing at her locker for five minutes after last bell, and there’s no sign of her. We’re supposed to go to Owen’s spelling bee together—presenting a united front so Mom can stay clueless about the fact that we’re not speaking—but I’m starting to get the uneasy feeling that my sister has ditched me.
Two more minutes, I decide. Then I’ll call it, and walk.
I shift a few feet to my right to scan the hallway bulletin board while I wait. BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO MAKES EVERYBODY FEEL LIKE SOMEBODY, a rainbow-lettered poster tells me, except someone’s crossed out SOMEBODY and written SHIT under it.
Oh, Bayview High. You are nothing if not consistent.
A shoulder bumps mine, and I half turn. “Sorry!” Monica Hill says breezily. She’s in her basketball cheerleading uniform, her platinum hair pulled back with a purple-and-white ribbon. “Checking out your ad? It’s so nice that you and Emma are going into business together.”
“We’re not,” I say curtly. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Monica is tight with Sean and Brandon, so her fake-friendly act doesn’t fool me. Besides, she’s been trying to steal my best friend for weeks. And succeeding, I guess, considering Jules told her about the Dare instead of me.
Monica’s lips curl into a small smile. “Your flyer says different.” She reaches across me and taps a familiar pale-blue sheet of paper that says Emma Lawton Tutoring across the top. My sister puts them up all over school, with her phone number and a list of subjects: mathematics, chemistry/biology, Spanish. But this particular ad says more than that, in a Sharpie scrawl beneath Emma’s neat printing:
Threesomes (special offer with Phoebe Lawton)
Contact us on Instagram!
I swallow against the lump in my throat as I stare silently at my Instagram handle written across the bottom of the page. Payback from Brandon, I guess, for me throwing him out of the apartment last week. That asshole.
There’s no way I’m giving Monica the satisfaction of a reaction, though. Whatever I do or say right now is going straight back to Brandon. “Don’t you have a game to go to?” I ask. Then a hand reaches over my shoulder, catching the blue sheet by one corner and yanking it off the bulletin board.
I turn to see Emma in her usual headband and oxford shirt, her face a smooth mask as she crumples the ad in one palm. “Excuse me,” she says to a smirking Monica. “You’re trash. I mean, you’re blocking the trash.” Emma reaches around Monica to toss the paper ball into a recycling bin, then tilts her head toward me, still perfectly calm. “Sorry I was late. I had a few questions for Mr. Bose after history. Ready to leave?”
“Ready.”
I follow her long strides down the hallway, almost running to keep up. My mind is churning as we go. Does this mean Emma forgives me? Or at least doesn’t hate me anymore? “Thanks for that,” I say, my voice low as we push through the doors leading to the parking lot.
Emma slides me a sideways glance that’s not friendly, exactly, but it’s not angry, either. “Some people take things too far,” she says. “There are limits. There have to be limits.”
* * *
—
The auditorium at Granger Middle School is exactly like I remember: stuffy, overly bright, and smelling like musty fabric and pencil shavings. The front half of the room is filled with folding chairs, and I spot Mom waving energetically from the third row as soon as Emma and I enter. A heavy curtain is pulled across the stage, and a middle-aged woman in a baggy cardigan and knee-length skirt steps through it. “We’ll be starting