The next morning, I joined Mom and Heather at the breakfast table, but I couldn’t eat. I’d tried to sleep on the couch in the den, but the cushion had buttons on it that hurt my back.
I couldn’t sleep anyway. I kept rolling from my side to my back, but the horrifying picture of my murdered rabbit stayed in my mind no matter how I turned.
“I don’t want to go to school,” I said, cupping my face in my hands.
“You have to go,” Mom said, buttering a burned piece of toast. “You didn’t go yesterday.”
“I can see everyone staring at me,” I said. “Everyone watching me . . . afraid of me . . . accusing me. They all think I’m a killer, Mom. They all think—”
“They don’t know that you’re a victim, too,” Mom said. “They don’t know what happened here last night.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. I picked up the cereal spoon and tapped it tensely on the tabletop. Heather kept sipping her coffee, watching me, not entering the conversation.
“After the fake robbery, I went berserk,” I said. “I threatened my friends. I said I’d pay them all back, but I didn’t really mean it. I’d never hurt anyone. You know that. But everyone thinks I’m doing these things to get revenge.” My voice cracked. “Everyone thinks I’m a murderer. Everyone thinks I killed Jeremy.” I tossed the spoon onto the table. “I can’t go, Mom. It’s just too horrible. No one will talk to me. No one will even come close to me. They’ll just stare.”
“You have to go,” Mom said softly. “You can’t let this defeat you. You have to show everyone at school that you’re not guilty. If you stay home, they’ll just suspect it’s because you are guilty and you can’t face them. You have to stand up to them, Poppy.”
I was gripped with fear. Every muscle in my body was clenched. My throat was so tight, I started to choke. “Listen to me,” I said, when I could finally speak. “The real killer is at school. I know it. The person who killed Mr. Benjamin last night is there. And that person is dangerous, Mom. Dangerous and crazy.”
“The police will find him,” Mom said. “Or her.”
“You can’t be a detective,” Heather chimed in. “You can’t solve it or find the one who’s doing these things. You can’t be responsible for that. You just can’t.”
“I know,” I muttered. “I was just saying . . .”
“Go to school and see how it goes,” Mom said. “If it’s unbearable, you can always come home.”
I sighed. “What’s happening is unbearable,” I said. “It’s all unbearable. And frightening. And crazy.”
“I’ll hang out with you at lunch,” Heather offered. “That way you won’t be alone. It won’t be awkward.”
I patted her hand. “Sounds like a plan,” I said.
Mrs. Gonzalez, the Shadyside High principal, was waiting for me at the front doors. She led me past a group of cheerleaders, who grew quiet as I passed by. “Come sit down.” She motioned me into her office and closed the door behind us.
Is she going to suspend me from school?
That isn’t fair. I haven’t done anything.
I sat down on the edge of the chair facing her desk. Her desk was cluttered with files and papers. A framed photo of a yellow Lab sat on the corner. She stood behind her chair and studied me.
Mrs. Gonzalez is a tall, middle-aged woman, straight black hair mixed with streaks of gray, pulled back into a single braid. She has big black eyes and wears a lot of mascara to bring them out. Always comes to school in designer suits and stylish skirts and tops. The teachers at Shadyside wear jeans, but she would never be seen in them.
Her expression is often stern, not unfriendly, just kind of businesslike, but no one has anything really bad to say about her, and the teachers seem to like her.
“I like that scarf you’re wearing,” she started. “You always wear scarves, don’t you?”
I nodded. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“Someone once gave me an Hermès scarf, and I treasured it. That color is beautiful. Perfect with your blond hair.”
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t really want to talk about scarves.
“Poppy, this must be a hard time for you,” she said, gripping the back of the chair. “I heard the whole story. I’ve talked to Ivy. She’s back today, by the way.”
“Oh. Good,” I said awkwardly.
“We have a grief counselor here today for anyone who feels they want to talk about Jeremy.” She waited for me to reply, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence grew awkward.
I lowered my head. “I’ll really miss him,” I whispered.
She nodded. “A roomful of stinging hornets. It must have been horrifying.” She sighed. “I can’t imagine.”
She turned the chair and sat down. She folded her hands on her desk and stared at me with those dark eyes. “Poppy, this is hard to talk about. But you do know there are students here, even friends of yours, who think you were responsible.”
“I know,” I said. “But I didn’t—”
“I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me. I thought you might want someone outside your family to confide in.” She fumbled with some papers. “I don’t know you very well. I guess I know you best from the plays you’ve been in and the Drama Club. But I’m here if there’s anything you want to say or anything I can help you with.”
Does she expect me to confess?
Am I supposed to say yes, I’m the one? I’m the killer?
Thank you for letting me get this out in the open. Thank you.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my eyes down. “I’m just so sad . . . so devastated. Ivy and Jeremy were my best friends. And now . . .”
She cleared her throat. “Why do you think people suspect you?”
“Because I threatened them,” I blurted out. “Because I said I’d get revenge against them.” I pounded my fists on the chair arms. I was losing it and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give anything away to this woman. She wasn’t my friend. She wasn’t really here to help me.
“But I was just angry,” I said. “You say things when you’re angry, right? You say things you don’t mean.”
She nodded. “That’s very true. We all do that.”
“Well, that’s what I did. And now everyone thinks I’m a murderer. Meanwhile, the real murderer is walking around, laughing because everyone is blaming me.”
That seemed to get to her. Her eyes went really wide and her mouth dropped open. It was as if she had never thought of that. Never thought that the murderer was probably in school today.
She clasped her hands together on the desktop again. “Poppy,” she said, her voice hushed, “do you think the murderer is here? Do you think you know who it is?”
I shook my head. “I wish.”
“I had a long talk with the police officer who has been assigned the case,” she said. “He seemed smart. I know the police will figure it out.”
I raised my eyes to her. “I hope so.”
“In the meantime, Poppy, it might be hard for you in school. If you want to take a few days off to stay home—”
“I don’t think so,” I interrupted. “I want to stay in school. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
She’s going to suspend me.
She’s going to force me to leave school.
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “If anyone gives you a hard time, if anyone assaults you or shouts at you or makes you feel uncomfortable, let me know. Let me know and I’ll take care of it immediately. Okay?”
“Uh . . . okay.”
I wasn’t expecting that. I had a sudden rush of feeling for Mrs. Gonzalez. I wanted to hug her. She was on my side. I thanked her again and walked out of her office.
I started down the hall to my locker. People were hurrying. The first bell was about to ring. I turned the corner and saw Ivy. She was across the hall, just a few feet from me. She wore a big floppy blue wool hat to cover her head.
She saw me, but she pretended she didn’t. She spun completely around and strode off in the other direction.
I sighed. I knew I would never win Ivy over. I had to check her off my list of friends forever.
After all, she had every reason to believe that I was the one who’d nearly burned her head off. I was the last person to visit her that night, the last guest in her house. And I used her bathroom. I was in the bathroom with the shampoo bottle.
She had to believe it was me. Who wouldn’t believe it was me?
I took a deep breath and started walking again. “I can do this,” I told myself. “I can make it through the day.”
I turned the corner and nearly bumped into Keith.
“Huh?” I gasped. “Keith? You’re here?”
