Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,23

with Anne.”

Garrett’s eyes study mine. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I assure him, shaking my head briskly. “She hasn’t said a word to me since the bonfire. I guess she kinda gave me the evil eye yesterday in the cafeteria, but it’s totally—”

“What’s so weird is that I’ve never even given her the time of day,” Blake says. “That girl means nothing to me.”

Garrett eyes his brother warily. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Blake huffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrett shrugs. “Remember how she was always visiting you in the hospital when you were sick? Always bringing you things? She even made that scrapbook for you … ”

Blake tosses his head back and moans. “Who gives a crap?” he asks. “Lots of people did nice things for me when I was sick. Am I supposed to marry all of them?”

Garrett looks at me, and my eyes skitter away. I feel so awkward being pulled into this drama. Sure, I understand Blake’s point—Natalie certainly wouldn’t be my first choice of a friend, no matter how many brownies she baked for me—but my heart feels a slight stab as I imagine how much she must really care about him, and how his indifference must cut like a knife. Yes, she’s a world-class flake, but Blake—Blake of all people—could certainly muster a bit of compassion for someone who’s been so nice to him … couldn’t he? I’m just not sure how I feel. Am I being hopelessly naïve, or is Blake being a bit harsh? All I know is that it’s hard looking Blake or Garrett in the eye right now.

“I’m not saying you should marry her,” Garrett tells his brother. “I’m just trying to sort out why—”

“Sorry, guys, but Anne and I have to go.”

We all look at Melanie, who has just speed-walked to my locker and is now pulling me insistently away, her lips pinched into a taut straight line.

“What in the world … ” I murmur as she leads me down the hall, huddling close to my side as we walk.

She leans into my ear to deliver the news:

“I got another note.”

Melanie shushes me when I gasp.

“What does it say?” I ask as we round the corner toward our first-period class.

“I’ll show it to you when we get to our desks.”

Our shoes click on the tile as we rush inside.

Melanie scans the room as we enter. “Good. We’re the first ones here.”

Even the teacher isn’t here yet; the bell won’t ring for another seven minutes or so. As we take our seats, Melanie reaches into her backpack and pulls out a piece of paper.

She hands it to me somberly. I hesitate for just a beat, then take it from her and begin reading the neat, slanted cursive in dark-blue ink:

Melanie,

I’m sorry I freaked you out by writing you an anonymous note, and I’m sorry it had to be anonymous. If you understood the circumstances, you’d know why I can’t sign this one either. I really do hate that. It’s not my style.

I was hoping a minimum of words would get my message across the first time, but I see you didn’t take my advice. I’m thinking of nothing but your best interests as I beg you to reconsider. Stop dating Jamie. I’ll repeat what I said in the last note, because it’s true: your life may depend on it. He’s bad news. Worse news than you can know. The only reason I’m going out on a limb to tell you this is because I, unlike Jamie, care about people. Even though I don’t know you, I don’t want any harm to come your way. I vowed I would share this warning with anyone Jamie dated, so now I’m sharing it with you. Please listen this time so both of us can get back to our lives and I can stop freaking you out.

I slowly lift my head. Melanie is wide-eyed.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“It was in my locker this morning,” she whispers, then presses a finger against her lips as she nods toward the handful of students filtering into the room.

“Natalie … ?” I whisper.

Melanie nods. “It has to be.”

“But whoever wrote this says she doesn’t know you.”

“So you think Natalie’s above lying?”

“I don’t know what to think … ”

“Lauren has second period with her,” Melanie says. “She’s going to pass her a question in a note so she can get a sample of her handwriting.”

I’m tempted to protest—isn’t there enough game-playing going on?—but I learned my lesson the day before. I