“You don’t want to be friends?” Belle looks really hurt, which makes my body feel like heated explosions are going off all at once.
“I don’t.”
Belle nods and puts the toothbrush down. “Okay, that’s fine,” she says quietly, before walking past me.
I think I want her to leave, stop confusing me, but at the same time, I don’t want her to go. I want her to stay and let me explain.
“I think I like you in a non-friend way… I-if that weirds you out, you can go,” I say, stumbling over some of my words. I look down, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s still in the room. I didn’t hear the door close.
I keep going.
“I just don’t think I can be friends with you if it weirds you out or if you don’t feel the same way—for now at least. I was friends with Jamie for ages, and I always wanted more… I don’t want to repeat that again,” I say without taking a breath.
This is embarrassing.
Closing my eyes, I add, “So leave, please, if that’s not something you want too.”
In the distance I can hear screams, from the gym or the grounds outside, but there’s dead silence between us.
The sound of the door opening and then slamming shut shatters something inside me. I breathe out raggedly, turning around to lookat the empty room. Only I’m met, face-to-face, with the smell of vanilla and blond hair and pink lips that smile at me.
Belle leans in, closing her eyes, and kisses me. And then, within nanoseconds, I’m kissing her too.
23
DEVON
Thursday
I meet Chiamaka in Morgan Library during lunch.
Until today, I’d never really been in Morgan before, but, like the other libraries, it’s huge and old, with dark brown shelves that reach the ceiling, books that carry this old dusty smell, and rows of computers. Computer 17 is tucked into the corner. Some guy’s using it to watch videos, so all I can do is stare and wonder what’s being kept on there. Hundreds of secrets, locked away on Aces’s account.
Chiamaka’s writing something down on a tiny notepad.
“If we hide behind the cart of books over there by the computer, we’ll have the best view and best cover,” she says in a whisper. I look over at the cart.
“What if it’s not there on Sunday?”
She sighs, looking around. “The carts don’t move. I’ve come here a few times this week to check, and there’s always a cart by the entrance. But if for whatever reason it isn’t here on Sunday, then we hide behind the first bookshelf and wait for them to arrive.” She flipsthe notepad shut as the first warning bell sounds, signaling the end of lunch. Despite Chiamaka’s confidence, I still worry that something will go wrong.
We walk out of Morgan separately—Chiamaka a few steps ahead, so that it doesn’t look like we were in there together—and I head toward my locker. The crowd divides us as people make their way down the hall.
There’s a shift in the air as I near the senior lockers. Something feels different. For one, it is completely dark in the hallway. Two, people are slowing down, their mumbled voices growing louder, and at first I’m unsure what all the chaos is about.
Then the lights blink on and I see them.
Posters plastered to every single locker.
Posters of a passed-out Chiamaka in a short silver dress, black tights, black heeled boots, mascara dried on her cheeks, and her hair a tangled mess. Some of the posters haveBitchwritten in big black bold text, othersSlut.
I move closer to the posters. Surrounding her body are these weird identical blond dolls.
I scan the crowd for Chiamaka, swallowing the lump in my throat when I see her in the center of the hallway, frozen.
The quiet chaos is interrupted by pop music blaring from the school speakers as a figure dressed head to toe in black, with a black hood and a terrifying Guy Fawkes mask, carrying hundreds of posters, appears out of nowhere and rushes forward.
The hairs on the back of my neck are raised and a chill runs through me unexpectedly. My mind flashes back to the park, the figure with the camera.
