… I …” She looks around from one to the other. “I don’t like who you’ve become.”
“Good.” Candace gives her a little shove. “ ’Cause we don’t like you. Adiós, amiga.”
Molly gives me one more pleading look, and in the space of two seconds that look turns to ice. “Bye, Kenzie.” She pivots and heads back to her car. I feel a physical pull to follow her, to explain everything, to assure her that she is and always will be my best friend.
I take one step, but Candace grips my elbow. “Don’t even think about it, Fifth.”
I let Molly go.
CHAPTER XXIII
We left the trailer, ditched the coin about a mile away, and went to Amanda’s house, where I told them the story of what had happened that day with Josh and Levi. I got a mixed reaction; not all the girls were ready to let go of the curse theory, and some of them rose to Josh’s defense. They all wanted to blame Levi for everything bad that had happened in town.
The next day, Molly doesn’t show to pick me up, so Mom has to drive me to school. The first place I go when I get there is the media center. I am certain that I once saw a whole section containing all the old Vienna High yearbooks. I have to find out more about Jarvis Collier and his weird collection of ancient Roman artifacts … which could include coins left as a killer’s calling card.
There are very few kids in the media center this early, and Mrs. Huffnegger, the librarian, is reading her computer screen intently enough that she doesn’t notice me. The reference area is abandoned, and I walk between the stacks to find the yearbooks.
They date back to 1943, when it was simply Vienna School, a brick building that housed twelve grades for the kids of the farmers who lived in rural western Pennsylvania, long before my town became a populated, popular suburb of Pittsburgh. But I’m not interested in history that ancient. I go straight to the middle and pull out yearbooks from the early eighties, guessing that’s where I’ll find Jarvis Collier.
I do, as a junior in 1984. Immediately I’m struck by how much he looks like Josh. I can’t help scanning the black-and-white photos of this junior class, studying the girls with big, big hair, lots of winged bangs, and plenty of shoulder pads.
The fashions don’t interest me, though. Somewhere on these pages are pictures of the first hotties, women who are now in their forties. Are they all still alive? Were any of them friends with Jarvis?
In the 1985 yearbook, I find Jarvis again, this time as a senior, so I learn more about him, including the fact that he was president of the Latin club, among other academic and athletic pursuits.
While I read, I slide down the side of the stacks until I’m sitting on the floor, my gaze landing on his senior quote.
QUALIS PATER TALIS FILIUS.
LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.
He does look like his father, I muse, and his son looks—
“Hey.”
I jump a foot at the sound of a voice, flipping the book closed over my hand as I look up guiltily. His son is standing directly in front of me.
“Josh.”
“What are you doing back here?”
Digging up dirt on your father. “Studying.” I press the top of the yearbook but that just smushes my hand between the pages and the hard cover. “How’d you find me?”
“Huffnegger told me you were here.”
The heat in my cheeks slides lower and settles in my chest, where it starts to burn. He’s lying. Mrs. Huffnegger never even saw me. A fleeting thought crosses my mind: do I have a coin on me somewhere I’m not aware of? Has one been slipped into the lining of my backpack?
I make a mental note to check as he crouches down to the floor where I’m sitting. “So, you got home okay?”
I just nod.
He reaches to my face, caressing a hair off my cheek, and I instinctively inch back, looking down, noticing that the other yearbook is open next to me, his father’s face staring right up.
“Kenz,” he says softly. “I’m really sorry.”
“ ’Sokay,” I say, looking away from the book because I don’t want him to follow my gaze.
“It’s not okay.” He relaxes and lets his backside hit the floor next to mine. “I acted like a shit.”
“No, no.” I finally look up at him. I have to hold his attention—talk, flirt, whatever, but I can’t let him