Chapter
Thirteen
Well, I really knocked their socks off by killing the pretty girl, didn’t I? Not that they care that the bitch totally deserved it. Because she so did.
Trust me. I know.
They are all talking. They are all speculating. It’s all anyone in this stupid town can discuss. The rumors are flying around school. They’re even flying around the town. The residents are interrogating the cops, demanding answers to questions the police department isn’t ready to answer. What are they going to do? How are they going to stop this? There is a murderer in their ritzy, special little town and they don’t like it.
They want answers. Now.
They want the killer stopped before he strikes again.
Well, good fucking luck with that, peeps.
It’s dark and I’m still at school. It’s like I never leave this place, though no one seems to notice me here. Everyone is long gone, even the creepy janitor, Brick.
Yes, his name is really Brick and he’s about as dumb as one, too. And he’s also a leering pervert who likes to spy on the girls by lurking behind dark corners and listening in on their conversations when they don’t know he’s around. But you see, they do know he’s around most of the time, and they actually make up conversations about blow jobs and messy sex in the backseat of their boyfriends’ cars and weekend slumber parties where the girls wear tiny T-shirts with no bras and skimpy panties and have pillow fights.
They make up all these crazy, over-the-top stories and he eats them up. He walks around campus all day long whistling and smiling, probably trying to hide his boner as he relives those glorious bogus stories of pretty teen girls and the dirty, secret things they do when they think no one else is paying attention.
But he’s not our murderer, so let’s not get distracted by Brick and his twisted story.
Let’s focus on me.
I’m out at the football field, sitting in the stands. There is one single light on, across the field in the visitor stands, but it’s just enough to illuminate the area. Plus, the moon is full, wispy white clouds passing over it every few minutes. The breeze coming off the ocean smells of salt and brine, and I hear the low murmur of the lighthouse foghorn in the far distance. It’s a perfect Cape Bonita night, and I’m taking advantage of it.
The metal bench I’m sitting on is so cold my ass is going numb, yet still I wait. I fidget and check my phone again. She’s almost fifteen minutes late, but she’ll show up.
They always show up.
When I finally see her in the distance, headed straight toward the bleachers, straight toward me, I sit up straight and shove my hands into the front pockets of my thick jacket. I curl my fingers tight around the knife handle, the smooth wood fitting perfectly in my palm.
It is my lifeline. My security blanket. I don’t want to use it tonight, but I can already sense she’s not going to give me much choice.
They’re stubborn and dumb. They seem perfect and beautiful and driven and smart, but they all end up disappointing you in the end. Trust me.
“Oh. It’s you.” She sounds disappointed and I stare at her face, taking in her sharp features. She is not classically beautiful like Courtney is, not vibrant and bright like Gretchen was.
No, this girl is the complete opposite of Gretchen, with her long dark hair pulled into a tight, high ponytail and her wide-set, dark eyes, her perfect slashing eyebrows, and those high cheekbones that look like they could cut glass. She’s tall and slender and she carries herself like a dancer, with perfect posture and those long legs, always walking on her toes like she’s about to go en pointe and pirouette away at any given moment.
“Were you expecting someone else?” I ask her calmly. She hates when people are calm. She always wants to be the calm one so she can do and say something just to rattle the shit out of you.
“Honestly? Yeah. I was hoping.” She shrugs and slips her hands into her pockets, chomping loudly on her gum. So freaking rude. These girls are supposedly perfect, but all of them are rude bitches. Every single one of them.
And this one is no different, despite how beautifully she’s put together. She’s wearing a fitted black leather jacket and a pair of black leggings that make her legs look like matchsticks. She doesn’t have much meat on her bones.
“Want to go grab some dinner together?” I ask, as a test. For once, I’d like to rattle her.
“Now?” she asks incredulously. Like I just asked her to go rob a bank.
“Yeah, now.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t eat dinner. You know this.”
Right. That’s because she has an eating disorder. She believes no one else notices. That we all think she’s just naturally skinny. But that’s a crock of shit. She’s delusional.
“Why’d you ask me to meet you out here so late anyway? What do you want?” Her tone is snotty. She sounds completely put out. “It’s fucking freezing,” she mutters under her breath, a little shiver moving through her.
“I thought we could talk. I’ve missed you.” Truth, though I hate to admit it. It’s like I ask for their abuse whenever I encounter one of them.
She squirms, clearly uncomfortable. “We were friends for like two seconds over the summer and you act like we spent every waking moment together.”
“I can’t help it. I thought we were friends, and when we’re at school, you totally ignore me.” It’s true. She walks right by me in the halls with a blank expression, like she’s not even aware of me.
But I’m always aware of her.
“Please. We are definitely not friends,” she practically spits out.
“That’s all I wanted. Why is that always too much to ask for?” I rise to my feet and take a step toward her. She’s standing on the aisle steps, her hands still in her pockets. It would be so easy to push her over. She’s completely defenseless like that. I’d give her a shove and she’d tumble to the bottom of the steps. Maybe she’d hit her head on the sharp corner of a bleacher, cut herself wide open. All the dirty work would be done for me, just like that.
Ha. I couldn’t get so lucky.
“Well, I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. I wish you’d just let it go. Yeah, I was nice to you when we were younger, before you got all messed up. And yeah, we tried to be friends again last summer, but that didn’t work out, either. You’re too weird, not to mention pathetic.” With that pleasant last statement, she turns to leave, her hands still in her pockets, her shoulders perfectly straight.
I hate her. I hate her so much. Yet I still crave the friendship. The approval. And that makes me hate myself even more.
Without a word, I rush toward her, throw my hands out. They make contact with her sharp shoulder blades and I don’t even hesitate.
I shove her as hard as I can.
She screams, tumbling down the steps, head over feet, just like you see on TV or in the movies. I stay still and watch, holding my breath as she keeps rolling, until finally she lands on the concrete walkway at the very bottom of the steps. Her hands are still in her stupid pockets, like she didn’t even bother to try and break her fall, and her right leg is bent at an unnatural angle. My gaze goes to her face and I see the giant gash on her forehead. Her eyes are full of fear and pain and rage. All directed at me.
“What did you do, you fucking asshole!” She sounds like she’s in shock. I bet I did surprise her, and nothing much gets past this girl. “You pushed me!”
“I did not,” I call from where I’m standing. I sound so calm I impress myself. “You tripped and fell.”
She tries to move her leg and winces in agony, a low moan escaping her. I bet she broke her leg. Maybe even her hip. I’d bet big money her bones are extra brittle, too. They probably snapped, just like that. “I felt your hands on my back, you fucking liar! You did this on purpose!”
I just smile. What can I say? She won’t listen to me. She’s already made up her mind.
She fumbles for something in her pocket, grasping and tugging and becoming out of breath the more she struggles, before she finally pulls out her phone. She sucks in a deep, sharp breath. “I’m calling the cops, you psychopath! You’re going down for this. You’re going down!”
Oh hell no, I’m not.
I run down the steps, the metal clanging loudly from my pounding feet as I whip the knife out of my right pocket. It gleams in the darkness, the moon shining on the silver blade, and her eyes go wide just before I reach her. I grab her by the front of the jacket, thrust my face in hers, and smile, then bring the knife so the point is nudging her just beneath her chin.
“Don’t,” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears, her lips trembling. “Don’t, don’t, don’t. Please don’t do this.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing left to say. She can see it in my eyes, just like I can see it in hers.
She knows it’s done.
She knows she’s done.
I’m so tired of being pushed aside. I’m over it.
Over.
It.