themâor anybody who knows them.â
Rachel pauses. âUm, Iâm pretty sure they have other stuff to worry about besides Ben Cody being too smart.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âOnly the biggest story of today,â she says.
âYou mean the party?â
âI just canât with you right now,â says Rachel. âYou havenât looked at your phone since you walked over to Benâs, have you?â
âJust now,â I admit. âYouâre my first contact with the media that is social.â
âThis is why I love you, Kate Weston.â
âWhatâs going on?â
âNothing I canât catch you up on tomorrow,â she says. âSleep tight.â
âWaitâhow do you know Iâm already in bed?â I ask her.
â Are you in bed?â
I fluff my pillow and assume my British accent. âI might be. Or I might be about to sneak out for a clandestine rendezvous with a mysterious stranger.â
âUh-huh,â says Rachel. âAnd I might be crowned Miss Nebraska next month. See you tomorrow, Katherine the Great.â
eight
âSHE WAS SO wasted.â
I can hear Christy long before I see her walk around the corner with Lindsey. Itâs one of the things that makes her an excellent goalie: Her voice carries clear across the field. Also, sheâs built like a tank: solid muscle.
The four of us got lucky this year; we were assigned spots just across from the senior stairwell where the lockers of the graduating class begin. Dooney and Deacon Mills shuffle down the steps above us. Some people claim the basketball players at our school have an arrogant strut, but Ben says theyâre all walking that slowly because theyâre in pain. Coach Sanders kills them with squats in the weight room.
Today, their lope is slowed further because theyâve got their noses about an inch from the screen of Dooneyâs phone. I hope they donât break their necks text-walking on the stairs. We need them both for the state tournament.
Christyâs laugh thunders over the noise in the hall as she gets closer. âLike, blackout drunk.â
âIs she here today?â Lindsey wants to know.
I wait behind my locker door, pretending to dig through books. Are they talking about me?
âOf course not,â Christy says. She tucks a corkscrew of her blond bob behind her ear, spins the combo on her locker, and pops it open as Rachel sails around the corner. âWait, what? Whoâs not here today?â
I grab my geology book and turn around. âIâm here, Iâm here. And, yes, I may have been the slightest bit inebriated Saturday night.â
âNot you.â Christy rolls her eyes. âWe all knew youâd be here today. You wouldnât miss school if the building was on fire.â
âSo who were you talking about?â Iâm confused. Also, possibly, still a little hungover.
âStacey,â says Rachel. âNo way sheâs showing up today.â
âMaybe sheâs just running late.â Lindsey slips a sparkly barrette into her straight black hair to hold it out of her face, then checks her lip gloss in her locker mirror. Sheâs the only varsity defender I know who bothers with lip color or hair accessories.
ââRunning lateâ?â Christy scoffs. âDid you see that picture? I donât think she was drunk, I think she was dead.â
At the mention of a picture of Stacey, my eyes go wide. Rachel sees the stricken look on my face and holds up both hands. âI deleted it, I promise. This is a different pic.â
âWait, there are more?â Christy asks. âI need to see them. Now . â
âUgh. I donât.â Lindsey sighs and closes her locker.
Rachel shakes her head. âThere was one of Stacey with our precious Kate here. I took it early in the evening. Upstairs. In the kitchen.â
âIt has been
Learning to Kill: Stories