accidents, they’re gone. And the halls are on fire with speculation.
There’s a curse.
There’s a killer.
There’s a very bizarre coincidence.
While the prevailing winds blew toward the last guess, there were enough curse and killer conspiracy theories that I felt the stares of all my classmates. The strongest connection between Olivia and Chloe—the Hottie List and their order on it—became the focus.
In Latin class, I’m barely listening to Mr. Irving telling us that grief counselors are available at the office for anyone who is having trouble coping. I feel a few eyes on me and know what people are thinking, so I look out the window to the parking lot.
Even Irving gives me a glance, his usually crisp, cold features turning soft as he adjusts his horn-rims. I hate that teachers know, that everyone knows. I look at my desk, avoiding the pity or worry or whatever it is.
I turn back to the window just in time to see a Vienna police cruiser pull into the front lot, followed almost immediately by another. My imagination goes right to a place I don’t want to go: another accident, another death.
But these guys are moving slowly, gathering in a small group and talking, one on the phone. No one’s hustling like there’s been another incident. Another car pulls up and parks illegally, and two men and a woman get out and join the others.
Grief counselors?
No, they’re too familiar with the officers. Detectives, I guess. Or whatever you call plainclothes police. My stomach knots up and so do my fists as I watch them slowly make their way to the front of the school, out of my line of vision.
Police are good. If there’s a crime, the police will solve it.
They must be here to talk about Olivia and Chloe. I’m not a big fan of those procedural shows on TV and haven’t a clue how these things work, but they can’t just dismiss two kids dying in freak accidents in one weekend, can they? They have to talk to people … which means it’s only a matter of time until they hear about the list. And then they’ll want to talk to everyone on it.
The other girls can tell them about their strange near-miss accidents, like Kylie being stuck in the garage with her car ignition on, and I can tell them about the truck I saw in front of the house where Chloe died. They can’t ignore that.
Will my mother have to be there? If not, I’ll tell them about the accident on Route 1, with my brake-fluid line broken, like my dad said. And the gas leak and—
“Do you, Kenzie?” Mr. Irving’s question pulls me out of my thought spiral. I stare at him, waiting for a hint on how to answer.
But there’s no clue, just that soft sympathy on his face, and I remember that we’re talking grief, not Latin. “Do you want to go to the office, Kenzie?” He holds out a hall pass. “Probably not a bad idea for you to at least meet the grief counselors.”
Probably not a bad idea for me to get the heck out of this classroom. I scoop up my bag—we hadn’t even bothered to take out books—and snag the pass. “I’m going to be a while,” I tell him.
Irving nods. “Take your time, Kenzie.”
“I wasn’t close friends with them,” I say under my breath, as though I need to offer him some relief. Or maybe that’s not what he’s worried about. Maybe he knows about the list and thinks I’ll be dead, too, and won’t get to State and pull Vienna High a first place.
“Everyone’s affected,” he says gently.
Everyone on that list is what he means. I slip out into the hall with absolutely no intention of going to the office to have my grief counseled or to talk to the police—not until I know they won’t alert my mother. She’d die.
I’m just about to hide in the bathroom when I see the posse of police leave the office and step into the hall, with Principal Beckmeyer right in their midst. He looks a little redder than usual—and he’s always pink and sweaty—talking to one of the officers and pointing in the other direction. From the office door, the dean steps toward them. I hang back, watching them, wondering what their plan is.
After a moment, they break into two groups, the dean taking two of the cops and two of the plainclothes guys one way, and Beckmeyer heading toward me with the rest.