BREE SPIED KITTY COMING TOWARD HER IN THE HALLWAY AND was careful not to make eye contact. Those were DGM rules, of course, but after their run-in at the library on Saturday, Bree wanted nothing to do with her de facto leader. And she was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.
Which made it even weirder when Kitty pretended to trip and fall directly into Bree.
“Sorry,” she said, turning back to look at the tiled floor. “I slipped.”
Bree felt something being pressed into her hand. A note.
Kitty was gone in a flash, disappearing through the door into the courtyard. Bree palmed the folded piece of paper, then shoved both of her hands into the front pockets of her hoodie while she continued down the hall.
She ducked into the ladies’ room, moving slowly and calmly, like she hadn’t a care in the world, and didn’t pull the note from her pocket until she was safely locked in a stall.
MM are coming for JB. Be careful.
As the warning bell tore through the restroom, Bree hastily flushed the note down the toilet, standing over the bowl until the tiny paper square spiraled downward into the sewage system.
This was all her fault.
John had been keeping secrets from her, had replaced her with Cordy, and had maybe even discovered her long-buried secret about Christopher, yet suddenly all of Bree’s resentment evaporated, replaced by blind panic. She needed to protect him, no matter what.
Lunch. That would be the most dangerous time. If Rex and the ’Maine Men found John alone on campus, especially someplace secluded . . . Bree’s stomach lurched at the thought of John getting pummeled by Rex Cavanaugh in an attempt to beat a confession out of him.
She needed to find him first.
Bree whipped her phone out of her pocket and texted John.
Hey.
Bree paused. How was she supposed to break through the gigantic iceberg that had settled over their friendship?
Can we talk? At lunch today?
No response.
Meet me in the library, or your mom’s car?
This time, her phone buzzed as a text came through.
The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.
Well, at least he still had a sense of humor. She quickly responded.
This is serious. There’s some drama going down you need to know about.
John’s response was so fast he must have copied and pasted it.
The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.
The cell phone equivalent of plugging his ears and chanting, “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!”
John was still mad at her. Fine, she’d deal with that later. For now, the important thing was keeping the ’Maine Men from kicking his ass. If only she had friends on the wrestling team, or some big biker dudes who could create a perimeter around him during lunch. But she and John didn’t have friends like that.
Or did they?
Bree opened the Facebook app on her phone and located Shane White’s page.
Shane? This is Bree. She paused. John Baggott’s friend, she added.
This is going to sound crazy, but I think there’s a group of ’Maine Men going after John at lunch.
Could you keep an eye out for him?
Bree held her phone in a death grip as she swung her surplus bag over her head and hurried to class.
Third-period trigonometry lasted an eternity. She kept her phone in her pocket, set on vibrate, and every time someone so much as moved at their desk, Bree was convinced she’d gotten a response.
When the bell finally rang, Bree discovered she was wrong.
No notifications on her cell phone. Total radio silence.
Bree sat in the empty classroom, staring at her phone. She double-checked to make sure the message to Shane actually went through and wasn’t caught in some sort of Facebook messenger app purgatory, but it had a timestamp. The message had been delivered.
She’d just have to find John herself and drag him into hiding.
Students were already in the quad eating lunch when Bree exited the building. The same cliques of friends sat at the same tables in the same corners of the courtyard as they always did, that unspoken territorialism that was only ever challenged in teen movies and antibullying PSAs. She looked around for Shane. John had been eating lunch with him all week, but other than the sour-faced Cordy and some of her goth friends, none of Shane’s gang was in sight.
Which might be a good thing. Wherever Shane was lunching, maybe John was with him? That should keep the douches at bay.
Bree hurried across the quad. She’d better keep searching, just in case. Small groups of blue-shirted ’Maine Men roamed campus, questioning students—a militia on a manhunt.
But unlike those Smurf-shirted idiots puffing aimlessly around school, Bree knew John better than anyone.
When John was in a shit mood, the first thing he turned to was music.
The music building was silent, eerily so. Usually there was at least one neurotic string player sawing out arpeggios on a cello during lunch. She peeked into each of the practice rooms through their small, double-paned windows, passing empty room after empty room. Until the last one at the end of the hall, where John sat on a piano bench, leaning against the wall with a book propped up on his leg.
“Dude,” she said, swinging the door open unceremoniously. “There you are.”
John glanced up at her, then slowly lowered his eyes to the book. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
With a pang of embarrassment, Bree noticed that he was reading Nietzsche.
“Save it,” Bree said. She tried to act like there was nothing wrong, like there had never been a rift between them. She desperately hoped he’d take her cue and do the same. “There’s important shit going down today.”
John read in silence, or at least pretended to, but Bree wasn’t about to give up. “Coach Creed has gone off the rails. Did you see the flier? He’s in direct command of the ’Maine Men.”
Flip went another page. Flip, flip.
“I heard through the grapevine,” she continued, planting her hands on her hips, “that they’re looking for you.”
John’s eyes never left the book. “And you felt some great parental need to come save me, is that it?”
Bree threw her hands in the air. “Would you cut it out? I came to find you because you’re my best friend. And I’m definitely not going to sit around and let you get hunted down by some douche nozzle like Rex Cavanaugh.”
“You rang?”
Bree spun around. Three blue shirts blocked the practice room hallway. Tyler and Kyle flanked a sneering Rex.
John settled against the piano lid. “And I thought they smelled bad on the outside.”
Rex glanced at Tyler. “Huh?”
“We’ve entered the eye of the douche-icane,” Bree said, folding her arms across her chest.
“I think you jumped the douche shark on that one, Fonzie,” John said.
“Too much?” Bree asked, acting as if Rex and his boys weren’t even there.
John held up his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “Tiny bit.”
“Enough!” Rex roared. “You two are nuts, you know that?”
“What do you want, Rex?” John said. He stood up and angled his body in front of Bree. “Music lessons? I charge by the hour, and the clock is ticking.”
“Music lessons? Is that what you queers call it?”
Bree snickered. “Do you hear yourself? You’re like an eighties bully cliché.”
“We’re not here for you,” Tyler said.
Rex elbowed him. “She’s as guilty as he is.”
“Guilty of what?” Bree asked.
“Dude,” Kyle said, his face suddenly serious. “I don’t beat up girls.”
Bree clasped her hands together. “Such a gentleman.”
“I’ve got three words for you,” Rex said, holding up three fingers. “D. G. M.”
“Those are letters,” John said calmly. “Not words.”
Rex clenched his jaw, and beside her, John tensed himself, as if preparing for a punch in the gut. Instead, Rex laughed. “That’s funny.” He turned to Tyler. “Funny guy, right? Always thinks he’s so smart. So much better than us.” In an instant, Rex was serious again. “But you’re not. This time, we outsmarted you.”
John remained absolutely still. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rex.”
“I’m going to give you one chance, Baggott. Just admit you’re the one behind DGM and . . .” His voice trailed off.
“And what?” Bree laughed drily. “You’ll leave him alone? You seriously expect us to believe that?”
“You’re here to kick my ass, right?” John said. This time, Bree noted the slight tremor in John’s voice. “That’s how you outsmarted me, by finding me here to beat a confession out of me?”
Tyler and Kyle exchanged glances, but Rex’s eyes never left John’s face.
“Admitting to a crime I didn’t commit will get me a beating either way.” John took a step to his right, distancing himself from Bree. “But, as you said, you’re the smart one here. So get on with it, Sherlock.”
Bree balled up both of her hands into fists. How was she going to protect John from all three of them? Kyle and Tyler might be squeamish about beating up girls, but either of them was strong enough to hold her back while the other two went to work on John. It wasn’t far enough through lunch yet for the fourth-period music students to start wandering in for class, and even if they did, would Rex care? He clearly felt he was above the law at Bishop DuMaine. And he was probably right.
“What’s wrong, Rex?” John’s face was steely as he stared Rex down. “Suddenly not so sure I’m guilty?”
“Of course you’re guilty,” Rex sneered.
“Why haven’t you pummeled my face to a bloody pulp yet? You scared? Or too much of a pussy?”
The last taunt sealed it. Bree watched as a red wave of rage washed over Rex. He reared back his arm, ready to punch John squarely in the face, when a hand appeared on his shoulder. “What’s up, guys?”
Rex flinched and spun around. Behind him, Shane and five of his friends crowded into the hallway.
“You okay, Bagsie?” Shane continued, nodding in John’s direction. “Seems like there’s some kind of problem here.”
“A misunderstanding,” John said. Bree saw his body relax. “Right, Rex?”
Rex eyed Shane’s crew, as if calculating his odds in a fight. Then he turned to John, defeated. “This isn’t over, Baggott.” He pointed at Bree. “And next time, you won’t have your little bitch here to protect you.”
John opened his mouth to say something, but Bree never gave him the chance. Without thinking, she jerked back her arm and punched Rex in the face.
