All signs point to me being in the principal’s office, yet I have no clue why I’m here. Or how I got here. Or why Paige is sitting next to me.
My heart races. Suddenly the hours of Internet research I conducted six years ago after the backyard hole-digging incident when Mom’s Bible went missing come crashing back into my mind. From what I remember, most crazy diseases run in families. And what is happening now most definitely qualifies as crazy.
“Indie?” Paige says, leaning across to look at me, her forehead creased with concern.
A swoosh of air announces Mrs. Malone’s entrance.
“Hello, girls. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mrs. Malone strides behind her desk, eyes peeled back in the permanently surprised expression she wears from too much Botox. She adjusts her pencil skirt before sitting in the big leather chair. She flips through a file. Pushes back the perfectly curled, dyed-red hair that frames her face. Taps the eraser end of a pencil on her desk.
“Did we do something wrong?” Paige prompts nervously.
“Wrong?” Mrs. Malone repeats, flipping through the file again.
My cell phone buzzes loudly in my purse. Dammit, I forgot to put it on silent. Mrs. Malone cuts me a disapproving glare and launches into an agonizingly boring fifteen-minute lecture on cell-phone use in school. When she finally excuses us just in time for the end-of-lunch bell to ring, I’m so relieved to get out of there that I don’t piece together that she never did tell us why we were called to her office in the first place until I’m halfway down the hall. Like I would question her anyway, no matter how strange the whole affair. When you escape from the principal’s office, you don’t question your luck.
I decide I’m being paranoid, and wipe the entire unpleasant incident from my memory. It didn’t happen. There.
Between my mental instability, getting my books from my locker, and a quick make-out sesh with Devon by the water fountain, I forget all about the missed call in Mrs. Malone’s office until I’m deep in another agonizingly boring lecture in history class. I sneak a peek at the caller ID under my desk. Mom. I stow my phone away. She didn’t call back, so it must not have been important.
5
The sun has edged behind the sycamores surrounding Fairfield High’s football field, and floodlights pour artificial white light across the stadium. Despite the suffocating heat, the bleachers are already crammed with students showing their Renegade pride with painted faces, foam fingers, and clothing in blue and silver, our team colors. I can’t fathom why anyone would willingly hang outside when there are air-conditioned entertainment options available, but hey, I might not mind the heat either if I didn’t have to exercise vigorously in it.
Thankfully, my uniform allows for maximum air: just a scrap of blue pleats (I think they call it a skirt in some communities) over a pair of silver spankies, and a fitted black shell.
Coach Jenkins (or Carmen, as she insists we call her) has finally decided to put in some face time with the squad. I’d like to think it’s because of her deep commitment to Fairfield High, cheerleading, and the betterment of the community, but the way she struts and preens in front of the football coach, combined with the fake knockers that hang out of her see-through white tank, is enough to put doubt into even the dumbest cheerleader's mind.
While Bianca bores everyone with the minutiae of Sebastian’s life, I scan the bleachers for Mom—no matter how much I protest, she comes to all the games that take place outside the shop’s business hours—but I don’t find her. It registers that I still haven’t called her back. Not the first time in the history of ever that I forgot to call Mom, but probably the first time it didn’t prompt her to call me six more times until I finally answered.
“Blackwood!”
I snap back to the present. Shit, what were we supposed to be doing? Lunges? Basket tosses? Bianca cocks her head, wearing an expression almost as severe as her ponytail.
I look to the girls for a hint. Julia stands just a few steps behind Bianca, mirroring her pom-pommed-hands-on-hips pose. Thea’s checking out something terribly interesting on her shoes, and the Amy/Ashley twins are retying their matching brunette ponytails. Thanks, guys!
“Sorry, got a little distracted,” I say.
“Distracted?” Bianca spits. “Please tell me I misheard you.”
I’m contemplating whether now’s a good time to tell her where to shove her pom-poms when Carmen appears.
“Biancaaa,” Carmen singsongs.
Bianca jumps like she’s been seared with a cattle prod. Carmen might be the most easygoing teacher at Fairfield High, but get on her bad side and prepare to have a strip torn off you.
“I leave you in charge for five minutes and everyone’s standing around doing nothing?” She cocks an eyebrow (impressively high for someone else I suspect has taken a few Botox injections to the face).