Social Suicide (16 page)

I LEFT IT TO KYLE TO GET THE RUMOR MILL CHURNING
, watching as he sent out texts to members of the soccer team, the water polo team, and, of course, all of our prime suspects, saying:

hart knows who killed Sydney! printin it in mon’s homepage!

All we had to do now was wait for our killer to strike.

At me.

At Herbert Hoover High, homecoming was one of those things usually reserved for a certain type of girl—a girl with a date. Since I hadn’t been one of those girls until this morning, there was one gaping hole in my plan to smoke out the killer there.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I moaned to Sam as soon as Kyle and Chase left to go get their rented tuxes.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I have something.”

“That’s even more worrisome.”

She punched me in the arm. “I have excellent taste.”

She was right. She did. She also had a track record of overdressing me. But, considering this was homecoming, I guess that wouldn’t really be an issue, right?

Famous last words.

That afternoon, while fielding a tidal wave of incoming tweets and texts—including ones from Quinn, Connor, Drea, and Jenni—all asking if it was really true that I knew who killed Sydney, I let Sam put my homecoming outfit together. She’d grabbed from her closet the dress that she’d worn to the Valentine’s formal last year, a full-length red satin with one shoulder strap and a slit up the side that reminded me of a Jessica Rabbit look. Since we were approximately the same size, it almost fit, just clinging a little tighter on me than it had her. But still, it worked.

We paired it with silver heels, a pair of faux-crystal drop earrings, and a simple silver necklace with little crystal beads in the center. While I’d insisted that Sam go light on the eye makeup, she had won the battle of the lipstick, painting my lips in the same shade of va-va-voom red as the dress. At first I’d felt like a clown, but as I looked in the mirror now, the overall effect with the dress was actually kind of nice. A little over the top, maybe, but if you couldn’t go over the top for homecoming, when could you?

Sam, on the other hand, had gone a little shorter, wearing a dress with a tight-fitting purple bodice that ended in a flared, tulle skirt that came to just above her knee. It was cute and flirty and went perfectly with the purple shoes she’d dyed to match. And while I’d gone with simple understated jewelry, she’d gone big, chunky, and bling-ified. Fake diamonds hung in a teardrop shape from her ears, and an ornate necklace that looked like latticework of silver and cubic zirconia decorated her neck. Her hair was swept into an updo that was studded with a dozen tiny, clip-on faux diamonds, making her sparkle from every angle.

“Now, close your eyes,” she told me, reaching into the ginormous duffel bag she’d brought over with her to dress at my house.

“Do I have to?” I protested. “I don’t really like wardrobe surprises.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Play along, okay? Just shut ’em.”

“Fine.” I felt Sam putting something on my head with little plastic teeth that dug into my scalp.

“Ow!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” she said, arranging my hair loosely around my shoulders. “Okay, now . . . open!”

I did. And blinked at my reflection. Or, more accurately, the reflection of the mass of sparkles on my head.

“Is that a tiara?”

Sam nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s kinda . . . sparkly, don’t you think?”

She beamed, a grin taking up her whole face. “I know, right?”

“I didn’t mean that in a good way.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Sam, I’m not sure I need a tiara—”

But I didn’t get to finish as Mom called up from the bottom of the stairs, “Hartley? Your date’s here!”

I cringed at the term, quickly shouting back, “He’s just a friend!”

Mom had done a squeal frighteningly like Sam’s when I’d told her that I had changed my mind and decided to go to the homecoming dance after all. In high school, Mom had been the social butterfly, involved in everything under the sun, or so she told it, including being crowned princess of the winter ball one year. Secretly, I had a feeling she was a little disappointed that I hadn’t followed in her footsteps, though she never said so. But when I had told her I was going to homecoming, her face had lit up, her voice had gone high and giggly, and she’d even lifted the lockdown despite my nearly becoming roadkill last night. Never mind that I had spent the next twenty minutes trying to tell her that, no, I did not need her to run to the florist for an emergency boutonniere (which she ignored and did anyway); no, we did not need to go get nails done and eyebrows waxed (ouch!); and no, we did not need a limo to pick us up (though this last one was tempting).

But the thing I had tried to make the most clear was that, no, Chase was not my date, just a friend who happened to be going, too. With me. At the same time. Totally different than going together.

“Hurry up, Hart. You don’t want to keep your date waiting!”

“Friend!” I yelled, again.

But I was pretty sure she didn’t hear me.

Sam and I grabbed our purses—hers a rhinestone-studded clutch and mine a silver, satin one—and slowly (so we didn’t trip in our ridonkulously high heels) made our way down the stairs.

The first thing I saw when I rounded the corner was Chase.

And then I almost did trip.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected from him for homecoming, but I’d guessed his outfit would probably involve leather, denim, or black. I was right on only one count: the black. Amazingly, Chase was dressed in a traditional tux, black on white, with a simple black tie. The effect was . . . nice. Surprising. But nice. Bordering on a hot sort of nice, even. Huh. What do you know? He cleaned up pretty good.

“Dude,” Kyle said, getting an eyeful of Sam. “You look hot!”

She did a little twirl for him. “Thanks. So do you.”

Sam had, as I might have guessed, coordinated matching homecoming outfits for both her and Kyle. Kyle’s shirt was the exact shade of purple as Sam’s dress.

“Hey,” Chase said when he saw me. “You look . . . nice,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

I cleared my throat, a compliment coming from Chase that was not laced in sarcasm throwing me. “Thanks.” I paused. “You, too.”

He gave me a slow up and down, landing on the mass of sparkles on my head. He grinned.

“One crack about the tiara and you’re a dead man,” I warned him.

He put up his hands in a surrender motion. “I wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

I shot him a death look, but before I could spit out a scathing reply, Mom shouted, “Boutonnieres!” and emerged from the kitchen with two little plastic boxes.

I took the non-purple one and leaned in to grab Chase’s lapel.

Honestly—I’d never done this before and the huge pin that came with the flower was kinda intimidating. I had a horrible vision of stabbing Chase and getting blood all over the first white shirt I’d ever seen him wear.

My hands shook a little as I slowly stabbed the front of his tux, navigating around the thick rose stem.

“Easy, Featherstone,” I heard Chase whisper.

I looked up. He was grinning at me. He thought this was funny?

“Ouch!”

“Oops. My finger slipped.”

He shot me a look. “I’ll bet.”

“Pictures!” Mom said, appearing beside me with a camera.

“Oh, Mom, we don’t really need pictures,” I pleaded.

“Okay, line up,” she said, totally ignoring me. “Hart, move closer to Chase.”

“Mom, please. I told you I don’t need—”

“Chase, put your arm around your date’s shoulders.”

I rolled my eyes. And Mom accused me of tuning
her
out.

“That’s it. Move in just a little closer so I can get you all in frame.”

Chase pulled me tight against him, completely invading my personal space. His arm around my shoulders was warm, and I felt myself start to sweat in places that would stain my satin dress.

“Mom—” I pleaded again.

“Smile, Hart,” Chase whispered in my ear, hamming it up as Mom popped off shots.

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he was enjoying this.

After Mom had taken at least a dozen pix of us in every position possible, we all escaped out the front door . . . where Chase’s Camaro sat at the curb.

“Oh, no fluffin’ way.” I shook my head as Sam and Kyle climbed into the tiny backseat. “You guys are kidding me, right?”

Chase looked from me to the car. “What?”

“We’re going in that?” Why had I not taken Mom up on that limo thing?

“Yep.” Chase beamed.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d like to arrive at homecoming in one piece.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “You have two choices here, Hart—my car or walking.”

I bit my lip, tasting lipstick. I looked down at my heels. Up at his car. Back at the heels.

“Well?”

“I’m thinking!”

Chase rolled his eyes again, then walked around to the driver’s side.

Without much choice, I hopped in.

On the upside, if I died on the way, at least I’d make a sparkly corpse.

The HHH cafeteria was totally transformed. Gone were the rows of Formica-topped tables, and in their place was a dance floor complete with a shimmering disco ball.

The dance’s theme was Tropical Oasis, meaning potted palms were stuck in every corner, paper fish adorned the walls, and the tables lining the sides of the room were piled high with fruit and nuts, with one serving as a bar, where Pineapple Pleasure and Mango Madness were being served in small glasses complete with little umbrellas.

Several teachers were in attendance as chaperones, as well as some parents. I spotted both Sam’s mom and dad taking spots near the dance floor, keeping a keen eye on Kyle. Luckily, I’d been able to “lose” the email calling for parent volunteers before my mom had read it.

The DJ fired up a Pink song, and we all jumped onto the dance floor. (Kyle made sure he kept at least an arm’s length away from Sam.) I had to admit, it was kinda fun. Okay, a lot of fun. The energy was high, the music was loud, and laughter echoed off the beige walls as we all made fun of one another’s dance moves.

Five songs into it, I could feel my mascara starting to sweat away, and I needed a breather.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” I said.

“What?” Chase yelled.

“I’m gonna go get a drink!”

“Huh?”

“DRINK!”

Chase nodded. “Right. Cool.”

I threaded my way through the crowd, Chase a step behind me, taking his role as bodyguard seriously as we pushed through the people to the Mango Madness station. I downed my cup in almost a single gulp before getting back in line for seconds.

“Chase?”

I turned to see Chris Fret and the new guy, Michael, hailing him from across the room. “Come check this out.”

Chase shook his head. “Gotta stay with my date.”

“Go. I’m fine,” I said, shooing him.

“No way. I’m sticking to you like glue tonight. That was the deal.”

“Look around, Chase. We’re surrounded by teachers. Nothing’s going to happen to me at the Mango Madness table. I’ll stay right here. I’m fine. Go.”

Chase paused, letting the logic of that sink in. He glanced to our right. Mr. Tipkins was chatting with Ashley Stannic under a plastic palm. To our left, the Kramers were still eyeing the dance floor. Behind us, three more parents mingled with the vice principal. If the killer was going to strike, this was so the wrong moment.

“Okay,” Chase finally said. “But stay here. I’ll be right back. Five minutes.”

I nodded. “Scout’s honor.”

I watched Chase jog toward Chris and Michael, then do some sort of complicated handshake thing, all three of them making fun of one another’s tuxes.

I grabbed another drink, then sat in one of the chairs along the wall. I slipped a heel off, my foot immediately sighing in relief. They were hot shoes, but they were not made for dancing. Or walking. Or standing. Or anything that required my feet to be smashed into them.

I took a moment to look around as I rubbed the bottom of my foot. If I had had to guess, I’d have said at least 70 percent of the school was in attendance. I spotted Connor hanging out under a school of paper fish near the stage. Val Michaels was at his side, though I noticed his eyes were on Jenni, who was dancing with one of the football players. Apparently she’d made good on her promise to ditch Connor and had moved on already.

Just to my right were Drea and her cheerleader friends. They had a Flip cam and were shooting a video of the dance floor. I could hear her narrating the vids for Nicky.

Surprisingly, even Quinn was there, seemingly having gotten a reprieve from her grounding. She was with some guy from the water polo team, dancing near Sam and Kyle.

All our suspects were in one place. Sydney’s killer had to be in this room. The thought gave me chills despite the heat still coursing through me from the aerobic dance workout.

“Hartley,” Mr. Tipkins said, coming up beside me. He’d thrown a sports jacket over his usual dumpy uniform, the elbows accented with plaid patches.

I cleared my throat. “Hi.”

“How is your story coming along for the paper?”

I nodded. “Fine. Good.”

“Ashley tells me she got a text saying that you know who killed Sydney.”

“We’re getting very close,” I hedged. Which, if tonight was successful, was the truth.

He frowned. “So does that mean you also know how my test answers got out?”

I bit my lip. “Not yet, but we’re almost there.” Another stretch, but if the two went hand in hand like we thought they did, it was possible I might have an answer by the end of the night.

“I have a bad feeling someone may have tried to get to my tests a couple nights ago,” he said.

I froze. “Uh, you do?” I asked, my voice going an octave higher than usual.

He nodded, a grave look on his face. “The door to my classroom was unlocked. As was my file cabinet.”

“Really?” Minnie Mouse squeaked out.

“Really. You don’t happen to have an idea who might have done that, do you?”

“Me?”

“Your voice okay?”