Brimstone (4 page)

So I went to class, sans soda.

In English, we turned in our homework assignments, and were given the rest of the time to work on our term papers, due in a week. My theme concerned Jonathan Swift and the use of sarcasm in social commentary, and Lisa was flipping through my notes.

“I could get behind a guy who proposed that eating Irish children would solve both the famine and the population problem. I’m going to remember that when my despotic plans come to fruition.”

“He was being satirical, Lisa.”

“Maybe I am, too. Maybe not.” She wiggled her eyebrows maniacally. Lisa had finished her paper a week ago. Her subject? Machiavelli. Sometimes I thought my friend was one of the drollest people I knew. Other times I thought she was one of the scariest.

“What did Halloran want?” she asked.

“Are there
no
secrets in this school?”

“My spies are everywhere.”

“Girls!” We jumped guiltily as Ms. Vincent called from her desk. Well,
I
jumped. Lisa merely turned complacently. “Are you working on your papers, or are you gossiping?”

My compatriot replied with a composed lie, “I’m helping Maggie, Ms. Vincent. She needs advice on solidifying her argument.”

The teacher accepted this with insulting ease. “Why can’t
I
be helping
you
?” I hissed at Lisa as we pretended to get back to work. “I’m the future Pulitzer Prize winner. You’re just the future Lord High Poobah of the World.”

“You can be helping me next time.” She brushed a glossy lock of hair over her shoulder and asked again, “What did Halloran want?”

“The pictures I took of yesterday’s bully-o-rama.”

Her brows lifted. “You got actual dirt on Brandon Rogers?”

“Yeah. Snapped a really unflattering picture of the prom queen front-runner, too.”

“You didn’t hand them over, did you?”

“No. I deleted them from the camera last night after I downloaded them onto my computer.”

“Smart thinking. The camera is school property, like the lockers, with no expectation of privacy. Well done, my Padawan apprentice.”

I tucked my hair behind my ears and tried to get back to work. I wasn’t very successful, because I was now thinking
about Halloran and bullies instead of Swift and Lilliputians.

“Why do you suppose Halloran wanted the pictures?” I mused aloud. “He likes good ol’ Biff. Why would he want incriminating evidence on him?”

“To take it away from you, of course, and make sure it never sees the light.”

“But I have copies.”

“You ought to put them in an envelope marked ‘Open in the event of my mysterious death or disappearance.’ ”

“Gee thanks, Lisa. I would never have thought of that. How handy to have a criminal mastermind as a friend.”

“I prefer Evil Genius. And you’re welcome.” The class began gathering their books. There was no visible signal, just the action of the collective unconscious. Lisa and I rode the wave.

“See you in civics,” she said as the bell rang.

I had journalism next. The class was supposed to be separate from the lab where we worked on the school’s weekly newspaper, but by this time of year the structure was pretty fluid. I turned in my article on the Spanish Club and gave Mr. Allison the pictures of the basketball game. He whistled when he saw the jump shot. “Great photo, Maggie! You really caught the motion.”

“Thanks.” Sports and action photography took a knack and a bit of luck. I think I’d been more lucky than anything else, but I was still proud. “May I have a pass?”

“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching for his pen.

I didn’t think “To the Coke machine” was going to cut it, so I said, “To the auditorium. Big Spring Musical is this weekend, and I thought I’d interview the cast.”

“Good idea. Phillip was saying we could use something to round out the edition. Think you can have it ready tomorrow?”

“Just a fluff piece? Sure.” Phillip was the student editor and he had a gift for knowing exactly how many inches of story the edition lacked at any given moment. Mr. Allison tore the pass off the pad, I took it with a cheery “Thanks!” then grabbed my backpack and headed to C Hall where lay the Band Hall, Choir Room, auditorium, and, not coincidentally, several vending machines.

Finally! Sweet liquid ambrosia of caramel-colored, high-fructose, caffeinated bliss. With the carbonated burn coursing down my throat and the sugar rushing through my veins, interviewing the Drama Club seemed a small price to pay.

Mr. Thomas, the drama teacher, was a harried-looking guy who didn’t seem long out of high school himself. “All those things need to be organized on the prop tables, stage right and left. How are we coming on costumes? People! We
open
in less than three days!”

He might have been addressing the air for all I knew; there was no discernible change in the chaos in the auditorium, where there seemed to be an awful lot going on, but very little getting done. I coughed to get his attention and he turned his wild-eyed stare on me. “Hi. I’m Maggie Quinn, from the Avalon High paper. I was hoping I might interview a few of the cast members.”

“Excellent! I’ll introduce you to our star.” He called toward the stage at a volume that made me jump. “Jessica! Have you got a minute?”

Boy, this day just kept getting better and better.

The model thin blonde who turned at her name was not, thankfully, the Queen Jessica—the Jessica Prime—though I did recognize her from the Jessica chorus in the Incident with Stanley on the Breezeway.

She joined me at the edge of the stage with a distinct air of noblesse oblige but no sign she knew who I was, other than paparazzi, and therefore a necessary inconvenience. That suited me fine. I flipped open my notebook and donned the armor of professionalism.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what made you interested in Drama Club.”

“First of all”—she tossed her blond hair—“it’s not the Drama Club. It’s the
Thespian Society
.” She mistook my blank expression for a sign that said
Yes, thank you, I would love a generous helping of condescension
. “Named for the Greek god Thespis?”

I hated when people did that, went up at the end of a statement when the only question they were asking was “Don’t you realize I’m smarter than you?” Especially when they didn’t even know that Thespis was not a god, but just some ancient Greek whose life must have sucked so bad that he had to write a bunch of plays about it and call it “tragedy.” Sort of like a preteen with a blog, only with less Avril Lavigne lyrics.

“O-kay.” Professionalism, Maggie. “Why don’t you tell me what made you interested in the
Thespian Society
?”

“Actually, I’ve been performing for a long time. Ever
since I won the Little Miss Princess Pageant when I was six years old. And maybe you’ve seen my television work? The commercial for Calaway’s Quality Used Cars?”

“Oh really?” My response wasn’t strictly necessary. Thespica was used to an audience that didn’t talk back.

“Honestly, I really didn’t have time for the musical this year. After all, there’s cheerleading tryouts—I’m an officer, so it’s a
big
responsibility, choosing the next squad—and the Prom Queen Nominating Committee. But when Mr. Thomas
begged
me to audition, I knew I had an obligation.”

“Your dedication is truly awe-inspiring.” Maybe I would invent a society named after the Greek goddess Sarcastica. “Talent can be such a burden.”

She sighed, completely without irony. “I know. You’d be surprised how many people never realize that.”

I had to leave then, or bust a gut laughing.

Back in C Hall, I breathed deep of the unpretentious air outside the auditorium. I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to class for the five remaining minutes, so I ducked into the nearest restroom. It wasn’t entirely unjustified. I had, after all, gulped down that soda.

I took care of business and was straightening myself back out when a whiff of something half-remembered made me pause. Obviously, there are plenty of odors in the school bathrooms, none of which I wanted to investigate too closely. But the sickly sweet smell tickled the back of my throat, and brought back a not-quite-clear memory of smoke, flame, and …

Pot. Someone had lit up a joint in the boys’ room, and the smoke was seeping through the vent.

The door to the bathroom opened, and I heard familiar voices. It was the unholy triad of the ruling class, Jessica Prime and her two most senior handmaidens—Jess Minor, and my new friend Thespica, who was briefing the others on our meeting.

“I cannot believe that Quinn actually
asked
for an interview with you.” Jess Minor was the queen’s permanent shadow, copying everything she did, but not quite as well. The result was a tweaked stunt-double resemblance and a slightly desperate air of tries-too-hard. “What a loser.”

“It’s pathetic.” Jessica Prime’s voice, when not shrieking like a banshee, was sugar sweet and slightly husky from years of yell practice. “Does she really think that sucking up to you is going to do anything for her social credibility?”

“Maybe she thinks I’ll be her friend. You should have heard her fawning all over me.”

From my hiding place, I rolled my eyes. It was wishful thinking that they would conveniently go into the other stalls and allow me to escape. I guess girls as perfect as the Jessicas never had to pee.

Instead, they planted themselves in front of the sinks, applying powder, lip gloss, and venom. They went on about me for a while, talking about what a loser I was, then numbering me among all the other people they considered geeky, poor, fat, unfashionable, or otherwise beneath contempt, and how they’d rather die than be any of the above.

As fascinating as this insight into the bitch psyche was,
the smoke was getting stronger and making me slightly nauseated. Granted, I didn’t have a lot of basis for comparison, but this had to be the worst smelling weed ever.

“What is
that
?” Prime’s voice held such horror, I figured she smelled it, too. “Jess, is that …” She seemed to be having trouble even saying it. Not the smell, then. I edged forward, peering through the gap in the stall to see Jessica Prime staring at Minor’s purse as if something slimy were crawling out of it. “Is that a … knockoff!”