Chapter 1
Alice
It took five seconds of staring into her empty parking space for Alice Thornton to compute that her car had been stolen. It took another five seconds to locate it. Ten seconds for an averagely shitty day to level up into an extraordinarily shitty day.
Technically, she decided, it wasn’tstolen. It waswedged. Hood to trunk between the Montrose High Memorial Library and the science lab. Not an inch of room at either end.
Couldn’t have been driven there, not without the wheels turning sideways. Had to have been … carried? How many high school seniors did it take to carry a small car from the faculty parking lot—she mentally judged the distance (two hundred feet?)—to a concrete strip twelve feet across? They had to have measured it and figured out where it wouldjustfit. Shitheads.
And now there wasn’t a student in sight, which meant they had to be secretly filming her reaction, probably live on social media.
Breathe. If she was doomed to go viral, better it be as the teacher who maintained Zen-like levels of chill upon discovering her mint-green hatchback stuck between two buildings than as the teacher who lost her shit, even if, in fact, she was losing her shit. She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose: freshlycut grass, burnt metal and dusty wood chips from the workshop, the tang of internalized rage. For now, it was satisfaction enough just to imagine taking a sledgehammer to the science lab and then driving tank-like over the rubble as students dove from her path, the lab exploding into a fireball behind her car. One day she might even appreciate the ingenuity—a step up on last year’s seniors, who’d covered the principal’s Prius in foil. Today, damn it to hell, she needed a double espresso from Main Street before her afternoon classes.
She pocketed her keys, spun, and forced herself into a casual stroll toward the English department, head high, chin level. Would this qualify for emergency roadside assistance? Best-case scenario was to get the car quietly returned to its allotted space during senior assembly in seventh period, drive off after school as if nothing had happened, and never mention it. This time in sixteen days, she and her car would be on vacation, and the pranksters would be spending their summers packing her groceries.
Survive the day. That’s all you need to do. That’s all you ever need to do.
Not that Thorntons had ever been good at that.
Alice was half a step from the door when a girl called out from behind her. “Ms. Thornton?” Alice locked an unconcerned smile into position and swiveled. A tall kid she didn’t recognize held out several stapled sheets of paper. A new student? Strange time of year for a transfer.
“What’s this?” Alice said, taking the papers.
“Complaint Form,” the girl said, pointing at the top page. She leaned forward and flipped it. “Summons.” Flip. “Affidavit of Service.” She flicked back to the top page and double-tapped the paper with purple fingernails painted with skulls. “All here.”
“Is this for a paper? Did you want the civics teacher, because she’s?—”
“Is her name also Alice Thornton?” The girl pointed to a typewritten name on the front page.ALICE THORNTON—DEFENDANT.
Frowning, Alice speed-read the first paragraph—some lawyer she’d never heard of representing some guy she’d never heard of, claiming her book had defamed him, announcing he was pursuing legal remedies, and demanding she “cease-and-desist” from selling further copies. Another prank, obviously, though it looked and sounded remarkably legit. She shook her head and shoved the papers at the girl, who held up her palms in a no-takebacks gesture.
“Truly impressive,” Alice said. “But you’re too late—you guys already got me with the car.”
“You’ve already been served? Who by?”
“Nice work, seriously. Authentic. Inventive. But one prank per teacher per student body per day is sufficient. Come back tomorrow.”
The girl jammed a hand on her hip, skewing her blond head and ponytail to one side, so she resembled a question mark. “Legally, it doesn’t matter if you believe me, but I’m gonna need you to sign the affidavit to confirm receipt.” She pulled a pen from a side pocket of her pink backpack.
“This issoclose to being plausible, but you’ve overlooked a key thing. My book can’t defame anyone. It’s fiction. I wrote it at my kitchen table with a friend, over cups of coffee and blocks of chocolate.”
The girl shrugged and pushed a backpack strap up her shoulder.
“You know, anovel?” Alice tried. The girl’s face remained blank. “A spy thriller? Russian agents, CIA moles, dead drops, black ops, Moscow Rules, vodka… Entirely made up.”
“Don’t look at me—I don’t write the letters. I don’t even read them.”
The girl held out the pen. It had a fluffy white tail. Alice stared at it, blinking. Still no other students in the vicinity. Where was the video camera—on the girl’s bag?
This couldn’t be … real.
Could it?
“I’m … not … signing anything until I talk to my lawyer,” Alice said, feeling silly. Was she giving the pranksters the reaction they wanted? Her lawyer probably hadn’t dealt with anything trickier than wills and estates in three decades—and Lord knew Alice’s family kept the woman busy with those.
“Whatevs. Smile.” The girl held a phone up and snapped a selfie. Alice caught a glimpse of herself on the screen, a pale stunned trout next to the girl’s wide grin and tanned face. “Or not,” the girl said, checking the photo and pocketing the phone. “I don’t have your writer friend on my list, but maybe she’s getting hers later.”
“She died.”
