Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

“ANY IDEA WHAT MR. CUNNINGHAM’S GOING TO DO WITH US non–acting types?” Bree said as she and John trudged across the quad.

“Personally,” John said, holding the door open for her, “I’m hoping you get put on wardrobe detail. I’m sure Amber Stevens and Olivia Hayes would love to have you as a dresser.”

Bree gagged. “Barf.”

“Everyone take a seat,” Mr. Cunningham called from the front of the house. “I’ve got crew assignments to hand out before we jump into staging act three.”

John leaned down so his lips were inches from Bree’s ear. “Wardrobe,” he whispered.

The feel of John’s breath against her neck sent a chill racing down Bree’s spine. What was that all about? She laughed uncomfortably as she spun away from him. “Yeah, perfect.”

“We’ll begin with the set crew,” Mr. Cunningham said, consulting his clipboard. “Does anyone—”

“Mr. C!” Shane raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. White?”

Shane shot to his feet. “Can I make an announcement?”

Mr. Cunningham sighed. “I don’t know, can you?”

“Um . . .” Bree cringed as Shane scratched his chin, missing Mr. Cunningham’s grammatical commentary.

“Proceed, Mr. White.”

“Awesome.” Shane turned to face the class. “There’s a Bangers and Mosh show next Sunday night at the Ledge. All ages, and we’ll be premiering the new songs for the play.” He looked at Mr. Cunningham. “Cool?”

“Absolutely cool, Mr. White. I think that will be a mandatory field trip for all drama class members.”

Bree elbowed John in the ribs. “The Ledge? Seriously?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“John.” Bree turned to face him. “Stop downplaying this. A gig at the Ledge is a big deal.”

“If you say so.”

Bree narrowed her eyes. “I do. Enjoy it for once in your life, okay?”

John’s face softened. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Now it was Bree’s turn for a smart-ass comeback. “Do or do not,” she said, throwing the Star Wars in his face. “There is no try.”

“Crew assignments,” Mr. Cunningham said, picking up where he left off before Shane’s announcement. Olivia tuned out as he rattled off a bunch of names, appointing people to sets, props, wardrobe, lighting, and sound duties.

While she waited for her first scene to be called to the stage, Olivia wandered around the expansive wings, basking in production glory. A graveyard of old stage lights had been removed from the rafters, their aging color gels awaiting replacement before they were remounted. Carpenters assembled set pieces, the cacophony of drilling and staccato hammering more sublime to her ears than a Mozart symphony. A group of student crew members gathered around scenery flats, paintbrushes in hand, ready to turn empty canvases into retro Harlem.

Olivia leaned against a wall behind the electrical grid and smiled to herself. This was home.

Footsteps clacked against the concrete floor and Olivia instinctively pressed herself into the shadows.

“I don’t understand,” Jezebel said. “Why do I have to lie?”

Amber tsked her tongue. “I told you, my dad might ask where I was. Just tell him I stayed at your place.”

Jezebel stopped and folded her thick arms across her chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t want Daddy to know where I was that night.”

“Fine.” Jezebel sighed. “What night?”

“Tuesday,” Amber said.

“You slept over at my place Tuesday night,” Jezebel recited, her voice intentionally monotonous. “Good?”

Amber turned and dragged Jezebel onto the stage. “Perfect.”

Olivia stayed in the shadows, confused. Amber bragged all the time that her parents didn’t care where she spent the night, implying that her sleepovers at Rex’s house were frequent and condoned. So why would she be suddenly worried about a cover story for Tuesday night?

Olivia stiffened. Tuesday was the night Ronny was killed. Could the two things be related?

Bree stared at the anarchy of stage lights in dismay. “We have to do all of these?”

“I think so,” John said.

The heavy black lights were all coated with dust and grime, and several of them were so corroded, they looked as if they’d been buried in a swamp for a decade. “This makes wardrobe look like fun.”

“You want me to go tell Mr. Cunningham?” John asked playfully.

“No!” She peeled off her hoodie and plopped herself in the middle of the chaos. “This kind of dirty is much more palatable, thank you very much.”

They worked in silence. For each light, Bree had to unscrew the gel frames from the rig, then extricate the little square of colored plastic from its holder. Some slid out easily, while some had melted to their metal holsters and required a vigorous scraping and tearing in order to dislodge. There was something mind-numbing about the process that Bree found soothing, and after half an hour, the backstage looked as if a piñata had exploded, littering the floor with its multicolored skin.

“I heard the police will be on campus indefinitely,” John said, apropos of nothing. His eyes were fixed on his pile of lights.

“Whatever,” she said dismissively.

John sat up straight. “You do realize how serious this is, right? If Father Uberti tries to frame us, there will be real consequences. There’s more at stake now than forcing Daddy to pay attention to you.”

Bree winced. Is that really what he thought of her?

John sighed. “You know, there are better ways to piss off your dad than getting arrested, Butch Cassidy.”

Bree seriously doubted that.

“Your dad would probably freak the hell out if he knew you had a guy up in your room three days a week”—John struck a laughably sexy pose and tossed his hair out of his face like Fabio at a romance-novel cover shoot—“without parental supervision.”

Bree burst out laughing.

John swung around onto all fours and crawled through the sea of lighting rigs toward her. “That’s right. I make you laugh with passion. We’re the hottest couple in school.”

“Oh my God,” Bree managed, blurting out the words between heaves of laughter. “No one thinks we’re a couple.”

John stopped his gyrations. “No one thinks we’re a couple,” he repeated. He planted his boots on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. His face was drawn as he looked down at her. “Especially not you.”

Without another word, he slipped through the curtains onto the stage.

Bree sat there, staring at the empty space that John had vacated. “Shit,” Bree said to no one in particular.

Was Mercury in fucking retrograde or something? Her entire world seemed to be falling apart. What would be next: Earthquake? Meteor strike? Seven hours of religion homework?

She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

Maybe she should text John? But what would she say—sorry people don’t think of us as a couple, we’re still cool, right? Yeah, no. She felt as if a chasm had opened up between herself and her best friend, and she had no idea how to bridge it.

She sat on the cold concrete floor, her eyes searching the backstage wings as if an answer to her problem might magically appear amid the discarded light gels. Eventually, they landed on her ammo bag. The flap was open, and something was sticking out.

Something flat and long and antique yellow in color.

Manila envelope? Back the truck up. No way had Bree put that in her bag.

The fine hairs stood up on the back of Bree’s neck. She glared at it, no longer a mundane office supply but a harbinger of doom.

Really, Bree? Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it. Like the last one, this envelope was probably from one of the girls, trying to tip her off on John’s investigations into DGM without telling the others. Nothing ominous. She whipped it out of her bag and popped the seal.

A piece of computer paper slid out onto the floor. It was a printout of an email to John from an anonymous account.

Bree quickly scanned the contents, and her stomach dropped.

There’s a photo of DGM if you know where to look. Check the school library.

Olivia was halfway to fifth period when Peanut came tearing after her. “Liv! You forgot this.”

“What?” she asked, turning around.

Peanut shrugged. “Dunno. It was under your purse in the theater. You left it on the seat.”

“Oh.” She reached out and lifted the object from Peanut’s hand. It was a plain manila envelope.

Olivia stared at the envelope as Peanut ran back down the hall. It was exactly like the first one. With a shaky hand, she broke the Scotch-tape seal and peeked at the contents.

It was a photo of Kitty and another girl, both in volleyball uniforms and knee pads. It was definitely a younger version of Kitty, taken a year or two ago. The other girl looked familiar, but Olivia wasn’t sure why.

There was no note on the photo, no hint as to why it had been sent to her. One thing was for sure—this photo had nothing to do with Twelfth Precinct, which meant Mr. Cunningham hadn’t left it for her.

What the hell was going on?