DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE by Larissa Reinhart Page B

stuff?”
    “Skylar is our valedictorian,” she whispered. “She’s brilliant.”
    “What is Skylar doing in the theater program? Shouldn’t she be hanging in a science
     lab?”
    “You can’t be serious.” The girl curled her lip. “We have one of the best drama programs
     in the country. If you want to hang with the burnouts, go check out the art wing.”
    “Hey now,” I said. “Artists aren’t burnouts. We just think on a different level than
     other people.”
    “That’s because you’re all on drugs. Go take another hit off your bong, burnout.”
    “That’s Miss Tucker to you, missy.” I lowered one eyebrow, but thought about the hard
     drive Detective Herrera carried from the art wing. “So, is there a major drug problem
     among the art students?”
    Little Miss Priss rolled her eyes at me. “Considering Preston King runs fine arts,
     what do you think?”
    “Who is Preston King? A teacher?”
    Priss scoffed and turned her back on me to listen to the continuing discussion between
     Skylar and Tinsley.
    “Skylar, use these excellent questions in building the characters’ motivations.” Tinsley
     broke off his speech, frozen for a moment, then dug a hand into his pocket.
    Around me, the students jolted upright from their cross-legged droops.
    Hands wandered into pockets and purses, and a number of phones slid under legs, into
     palms, and beneath notebooks.
    “It’s settled,” Tinsley announced, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “Verona WAS,”
     he zinged a look toward Skylar, “a technologically advanced civilization and now covered
     in water.”
    “But how did the Capulets develop gills?” Skylar spoke before she raised her hand.
    “They live in a bubble . ” Tinsley said . “Class is over early.”
    Skylar nodded, then bolted toward the side of the stage followed by other students,
     their eyes on barely concealed devices.
    Tinsley waited until they left, untied the cape, and let it drop to the floor. He
     stared into the large auditorium, seeming to forget I remained on the stage with him.
    “Did you get another text?” I asked. “Looked like an all-points-bulletin hit the airwaves
     at the same time.”
    Fishing his phone from his pocket, he drew it toward his face and touched the small
     screen. Shuddering, he shoved it back in his pocket. “Not a text. A PeerNotes communique.
     Or as you said, an all-points-bulletin. Announcements through PeerNotes are designed
     to pop up before and after school unless it’s an emergency. Someone broke those rules.”
    “Can a student make these announcements?”
    “I suppose if they had the password.”
    “What’d it say?”
    Tinsley took a deep breath. “‘Don’t cry for me, Peerless. The truth is I never left
     you. All through my wild days, my mad existence, I kept my promise. Don’t keep your
     distance.’”
    “What does that mean?”
    Tinsley whirled around to face me. “It’s the chorus from ‘ Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina. ’ ”
    “Sounds pretty creepy.”
    “You don’t understand,” said Tinsley. “That song is from the musical, Evita . Which we performed last year. I lost the Tiny Tony on that production.”
    “Why?”
    “Because my lead died shortly before competition finals. Ellis Madsen was my Evita.”

Eleven

      
    “I need to see all your texts,” I said, crossing my arms over my color blocks. “I
     don’t care about your dirty laundry. If you want my help, I’ve got to know what the
     texter is texting.”
    Tinsley shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can paraphrase for you, but I’d rather
     not give the details. The specifics are unnecessary.”
    “Have the police seen your texts?”
    He shook his head. “If they have a warrant, I’ll have to show them, I suppose.”
    “A warrant?” Whatever he was hiding, it must be good. “This last message seems to
     be aimed at you. Has anyone else been targeted or just you and Maranda Pringle?”
    He scuffed his shoe along the floor. “Oh,