Deadly Cool by Gemma Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

preserver.
    “Since last year. Spent my sixteenth birthday in line at the DMV.”
    “Really?” I felt the seat belt go taut against my chest as he took another corner at NASCAR speeds. “Did you, uh, pass on the first try?”
    “Of course.”
    He went over a speed bump, and I swear we caught at least two feet of air. I felt my head kiss the ceiling.
    “And how many accidents have you been in?”
    “Just one.”
    That was a small comfort.
    “This month,” he added.
    I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the gods of clear intersections.
    Luckily, we arrived back at Herbert Hoover High in one piece (though I was pretty sure Mr. Chase’s wild ride had shaved a good five years off my life). We turned onto High School Drive (geniusly named, no?) just as classes were letting out for a fifty-five minute lunch period and pulled into the school’s back parking lot. Which, at this time of day, was a drive-at-your-own-risk zone. Brand-new drivers in SUVs and hand-me-down sedans filled the lot, furiously texting despite hands-free laws as they rushed to Starbucks for a quick caffeine fix. Each car was filled to capacity, and the sounds of dueling mp3s blasting from souped-up stereos filled the air—Taylor Swift warring with Usher over the indistinguishable deep bass of a hip-hop song.
    Chase seemed oblivious to the dangers of three hundred newbie drivers all cramming into one lot at the same time, his Camaro flying over the speed bumps like a bad seventies cop show. My teeth chattered together as I again caught air in my seat.
    “You know, you’re supposed to slow down for speed bumps,” I offered.
    “Where’s the fun in that?” Chase grinned at me in the rearview mirror.
    I gritted my teeth, praying I would make it with all my fillings intact.
    After narrowly avoiding a collision with a Honda Accord carrying half the debate team, Chase pulled his car into a slot near the field.
    As Chase locked up his death trap and we crossed the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Detective Raley hovering near the cafeteria. He had a member of the school band cornered, questioning him with an intensity that had the poor guy pinned. I hated to break it to the detective, but if Courtney had said more than boo to a band member all year, I’d eat my chem book. He was seriously barking up the wrong tree.
    I had much higher hopes for our prey as Chase led the way into the HHH main quad where the Color Guard girls held midday court.
    When I’d first started at HHH, Mom had suggested I try out for “that cheerleading with flags.” It had taken me the better part of a gluten-free soy burger to explain to her the intricate and seriously important differences between cheerleaders and Color Guard girls.
    Cheer was for girls who liked to shake their butts and do splits in short skirts in front of a screaming crowd. Color Guard was for good girls who had more school spirit than brains. Cheerleaders dated college guys with tattoos. Color Guard girls dated guys with trust funds. The last four girls in our school’s own “sixteen and pregnant” club were cheerleaders. The last four presidents of the Chastity Club had been Color Guard girls. Cheerleaders were the future Playmates of the world. Color Guard girls grew up to be soccer moms with Louis Vuitton diaper bags.
    Needless to say, neither had been a group I’d been dying to join as a freshman, and I had never regretted that decision.
    The cheerleaders usually spent their lunch break off campus, smoking Marlboro lights (to stay thin). The Color Guard girls, on the other hand, took the prime spot under the lone shade tree in the quad at the center of school, drinking Sugarfree Red Bull (to stay thin). (Okay, maybe they did have one or two things in common.)
    Usually the conversation from the Color Guard camp could be heard from two buildings over, since the cooler the person perceived herself to be the louder she chatted. But as we approached today, the group was unusually subdued in