Rebel Belle

Still, when I hung up the phone, I couldn’t shake this feeling that there was a problem. I pulled out my day planner, and on my list of weekly activities, added, “Spend more time with Ryan.”

Seeing it written down made me feel better and I reminded myself that it wasn’t like this was forever. As soon as I understood what had happened Friday night, I could move past it and get back to my normal life. Easy.

Monday was gorgeous, one of those perfect fall days that are kind of rare in Alabama. I drove to school with my windows down, the cool autumn air blowing my hair around my face. Now that I knew I wasn’t crazy, I felt a lot better. Being a superhero, or Paladin, or whatever, seemed like a natural extension of the stuff I already did. I mean, didn’t I work my butt off to make the Grove a safe and fun place to be? Whatever was at the Grove that needed protecting, chances were I was already protecting it.

As I pulled into the sweet parking place I had by virtue of being SGA president, my good mood swelled. The school looked so beautiful under the bright blue October sky. The Grove was made up of four redbrick buildings with a large courtyard in the center. There were stone tables and benches in the courtyard where seniors ate lunch when the weather was nice. The trees surrounding the cluster of buildings were stunning shades of red and orange and gold, and when the bell tower chimed the half hour, I thought my heart might burst with pride.

I got out of the car, smoothing my hair and readjusting my green headband. Even though the Grove didn’t have uniforms, we did have a really strict dress code that ensured everyone always looked nice: No jeans, no T-shirts, definitely no shorts. Today, I had worn one of my favorite outfits, a turtleneck the same green as my eyes, and a plaid skirt with brown knee-length boots and tights. I looked awesome and I knew it.

In fact, I thought it was my awesome outfit that was making people stare at me as I made my way from the parking lot. Then I noticed that they were . . . staring.

That’s when I realized that the starers were all holding a bunch of papers stapled together—the school newspaper.

Clutching my books and tossing my head back, I forced a big smile and approached the nearest group. They were sophomores, so they were still a little scared of me. All three immediately went to hide the papers behind their backs.

“Hi!” I said brightly, hugging my bag tightly to my chest.

“Hi,” they chorused back. The one in the middle reminded me a little bit of Bee, all fluffy blond hair and big dark eyes, and I was sure I’d seen the other two around campus. Yes, the one on the right—a tall redhead wearing a skirt just a little bit too short—had tried out for cheerleading last spring.

None of the three met my eyes.

“So, is there something in that paper that I should know about?” I asked, trying to sound friendly and jokey. “It’s not a hideously unflattering picture of me after cheerleading practice, is it? Or me shrieking at the SGA?”

Translation: I am head cheerleader and SGA president, and I could destroy you all if I wanted to. And that’s not even bringing my superpowers into it. I had never used my popularity for evil before—but I’d never been gaped at either. So I figured there was no harm in putting a little of the fear of God into these girls.

The girl on the left cracked first. She was tiny and had white blond hair, and her blue eyes were huge as she looked up at me. “It’s just the . . . uh, special Homecoming edition of The Daily Grove.”

My smile froze in place. Surely, he wouldn’t have.

“Can I see it?” I asked, still grinning, still upbeat.

The one who looked like Bee shook her head ever so slightly at the tiny girl, but she was already handing me the paper. I took it with trembling hands.

My worst fears were confirmed.

There, on the front page of the special Homecoming edition of The Daily Grove, was a huge, albeit blurry, picture of me leaning on Bee, clearly sobbing my eyes out, as we made our way out of the girls’ bathroom. It looked like it had probably been taken with a cell phone, and the headline read, “It’s Her Party and She’ll Cry If She Wants To?” Under the picture of me and Bee, there was a smaller caption: Homecoming Queen misses crowning under mysterious circumstances. My eyes darted over the rest of the article as my heart started pounding. “. . . hiding in the boys’ room . . . violently ill . . . tension between the ‘Queen Bee’ and her underling, Bee Franklin . . . this reporter . . .”

By now, I had sort of started hyperventilating as my eyes zeroed in on the byline in bold letters.

David Stark.

Who I was now going to murder.

Chapter 6

It wasn’t just the humiliation of having the entire school know that I was puking and crying in the bathroom during Homecoming, or the veiled insinuations that I’d been sick because I was pregnant or on drugs. It was that the school probably already knew that Mr. Hall and Dr. DuPont were missing. And sure, that bathroom had looked spotless, but it’s not like I’d done a sweep for DNA. For all I knew, the police were in Headmaster Dunn’s office right now, with big folders full of evidence that two men had died in the girls’ bathroom last Friday, and asking if anyone was displaying any “strange behavior.” And, oh, look! Here was a convenient picture of me sobbing around the girls’ bathroom.

“Are you okay?” the tall sophomore asked. “You look kinda . . . purple.”

I snapped my head up and smiled, or at least pressed my teeth together in the semblance of a smile. “I’m fine,” I said, but my voice was way too loud. “This is just a silly misunderstanding between me and David. Can I keep this?”

“Sure,” the shorter girl who’d handed me the paper said.

“Thanks so much!” I turned around and headed straight for Wallace Hall.

Before I’d gone more than a few steps, I heard Ryan call my name. He was jogging over from the parking lot, a bunch of purple papers crumpled in his hand. “Hey!” he said once he’d caught up to me. One hand cupping my elbow, he leaned down, studying me. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I said, trying to look more okay and less homicidal.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick Friday night?”

“It was nothing,” I insisted, shifting my backpack to my other shoulder. “And I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. Honestly. This is just another one of David Stark’s jerk moves. I can handle it.”

Ryan clenched his jaw, looking up toward Wallace Hall. “What is that dude’s problem?”

“He’s a jackass.”

Not taking his eyes off the building, Ryan shook his head. A muscle worked in his jaw and he shoved the sleeves of his dark blue sweater up his forearms. “No, it’s more than that. He’s always been like this with you, ever since we were little. Back in middle school, I thought maybe he had a thing for you, but—”

“First of all, I highly doubt that. Secondly, sometimes people are just . . . I don’t know, born mean or something.”

Glancing back down at me, Ryan gave a half-smile. “Maybe. Want me to go kick his ass?”

Ryan was joking; I think the closest he’d ever been to a fight was watching UFC with his brother on Saturday nights. But as soon as he said it, it was like someone had punched me in the stomach, an almost overwhelming sense of wrongness washed over me. “No!” I yelped, and Ryan startled.

“Whoa, Harper, I was kidding.” He held both hands up in mock surrender. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

That weird, nauseous sensation subsided, and I rubbed my temples. “I know, sorry. Anyway, let me go talk to David, and I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

“Sure you don’t want me to go with you?” An auburn curl fell over Ryan’s forehead as he ducked his head to meet my eyes, concern all over his face.

But the idea of him coming with me to see David sent my stomach roiling again. I managed to give a little laugh. “No, I’ve got this.”

Ryan dropped a kiss on my cheek and gave my elbow one last squeeze. “You always do.”

He headed across the quad, broad shoulders held back, long legs striding across the grass, and I turned back to Wallace Hall. I don’t know what I looked like, but it must have been pretty scary, because everyone was quick to jump out of my way. Most of them were holding papers, though, so they probably all thought I was about to have a nervous breakdown right in front of them. Which actually was a good thing. After that weird thing with Ryan, a lot of my anger had died down. Hearing people whisper behind my back powered it right back up.

As I pushed open the heavy door, I mentally called David Stark every bad word I could think of.

By the time I reached the journalism lab, it felt like sparks were exploding from my head. There were a few articles taped to the door, and even in my rage, I saw that almost all of them had David’s byline. Gritting my teeth, I stepped inside.

Thanks to all of the computers lining the back wall, the classroom felt a lot warmer than the hall. No one was working at the computers now, and there were only three people in the room. David was sitting on a desk, laughing with two other newspaper staffers, Michael Goldberg and Chie Kurata.

I’d planned out this whole speech in my head amidst all the bad words—yay, multitasking!—about how what he’d done was not only personally offensive to me, but demoralizing and degrading to the school, because when we make one of us look bad, we all look bad. And honestly, how did he expect to get away with this kind of crap? He had to have written the article and printed up the paper over the weekend. That meant he’d done it behind Mrs. Laurent’s back, and that had to be a detentionworthy offense at the very least.

But something about seeing him sitting on top of a desk, eating yogurt and laughing with his friends made me snap. I could feel my face get red, and this intense, trembly feeling rose up from the middle of my chest. My intelligent and calm speech flew right out of my head.

“WTF, David?” I asked, storming into the room and throwing the paper on the nearest desk. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">