her.
So why had someone left it in her locker?
SEVENTEEN
BREE PLUGGED HER IPOD INTO THE CENTER CONSOLE OF Mrs. Baggott’s minivan and scrolled through her playlists. It was safer to focus on picking out a song than to just sit there, trying to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened when in reality all she could think about was a douchey seventeen-year-old bludgeoned to death in his bedroom. Bree had been in that room just hours before. It was as if she’d ventured too close to death and now it haunted her, tainting every moment of her day.
“Would you play something already?” John sprawled on the middle bench seat, head propped up on his backpack, munching on Smartfood while he perused his newest comic book. “The silence is oppressive.”
“I’m looking for the perfect hiding-in-your-mom’s-minivan-while-we-ditch-sixth-period-gym soundtrack.”
“We’re not hiding,” John said, flipping a page. “That new kid is dead, and F.U. and the cops think DGM is involved, which means the ’Maine Men will be on the lookout for the two of us.” He lowered his comic book. “I don’t know about you, but Baggott the Faggot is simply not in the mood for his adoring fans this afternoon.”
“I don’t blame you.” Bree landed on her favorite Bangers and Mosh song—“Bangin’ Love”—and cranked the volume.
John groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” Bree smiled innocently. “It’s a great song.”
“A great song I played until my fingers bled last night.”
At the mention of rehearsal, Bree perked up. “You going again tonight?”
“Yep,” he said. Then, as if he could read her mind, “But Shane won’t be there. He’s got an audition for the school play.”
“Oh.” Play auditions? She pictured Shane surrounded by a bunch of pain-in-the-ass girls like Amber and Olivia. He’d be trapped in that theater for fourth period every day, sitting all by himself in rehearsals, bored and snarky.
This was an opportunity. Maybe if Bree joined the drama class, he could get to know her and realize how freaking perfect they were for each other. . . .
“Stop daydreaming about Shane and change the damn song already.”
Bree started, irritated by the fact that he could read her so well. “Fine.” She paused “Bangin’ Love” and searched for something else that would needle him, pausing at a New Wave playlist she’d recently created for just such an occasion.
John arched an eyebrow at the opening synth line, stark and lonely. “Seriously?”
“Relax and let it happen,” Bree said as the drum track kicked in, so utterly eighties it made Bree want to wear an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and leg warmers.
“Why are we listening to this?” John asked.
“Cuz it’s awesome.” Bree sang along with the vocals. “ And if I had to walk the world, I’d make you fall for me.”
“This blows.”
“Come on. You’re supposed to be the open-minded musical genius. How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it?”
“You think I don’t know this song?” John cleared his throat. “‘The Promise’ by When in Rome. A one-hit wonder from the British New Wave scene of the eighties. ‘The Promise’ was their biggest hit in the U.S., charting in 1988.”
Bree stared at him. “You’re like a music savant or something.”
“It’s what I do.” John cracked open an energy drink.
“It’s a little—” Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw a pack of blue-shirted ’Maine Men turn the corner of the gym and wander into the faculty parking lot. “We’ve got bogies, ten o’clock.”
John flattened himself against the bench seat while Bree crouched behind the headrest. Looking like a gaggle of overgrown Smurfs, four ’Maine Men strode purposefully into the parking lot as if hunting for something specific. They scanned the lines of cars; then, satisfied that there was no one to harass, they marched back inside.
“Clear,” Bree said, unpretzeling
So why had someone left it in her locker?
SEVENTEEN
BREE PLUGGED HER IPOD INTO THE CENTER CONSOLE OF Mrs. Baggott’s minivan and scrolled through her playlists. It was safer to focus on picking out a song than to just sit there, trying to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened when in reality all she could think about was a douchey seventeen-year-old bludgeoned to death in his bedroom. Bree had been in that room just hours before. It was as if she’d ventured too close to death and now it haunted her, tainting every moment of her day.
“Would you play something already?” John sprawled on the middle bench seat, head propped up on his backpack, munching on Smartfood while he perused his newest comic book. “The silence is oppressive.”
“I’m looking for the perfect hiding-in-your-mom’s-minivan-while-we-ditch-sixth-period-gym soundtrack.”
“We’re not hiding,” John said, flipping a page. “That new kid is dead, and F.U. and the cops think DGM is involved, which means the ’Maine Men will be on the lookout for the two of us.” He lowered his comic book. “I don’t know about you, but Baggott the Faggot is simply not in the mood for his adoring fans this afternoon.”
“I don’t blame you.” Bree landed on her favorite Bangers and Mosh song—“Bangin’ Love”—and cranked the volume.
John groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” Bree smiled innocently. “It’s a great song.”
“A great song I played until my fingers bled last night.”
At the mention of rehearsal, Bree perked up. “You going again tonight?”
“Yep,” he said. Then, as if he could read her mind, “But Shane won’t be there. He’s got an audition for the school play.”
“Oh.” Play auditions? She pictured Shane surrounded by a bunch of pain-in-the-ass girls like Amber and Olivia. He’d be trapped in that theater for fourth period every day, sitting all by himself in rehearsals, bored and snarky.
This was an opportunity. Maybe if Bree joined the drama class, he could get to know her and realize how freaking perfect they were for each other. . . .
“Stop daydreaming about Shane and change the damn song already.”
Bree started, irritated by the fact that he could read her so well. “Fine.” She paused “Bangin’ Love” and searched for something else that would needle him, pausing at a New Wave playlist she’d recently created for just such an occasion.
John arched an eyebrow at the opening synth line, stark and lonely. “Seriously?”
“Relax and let it happen,” Bree said as the drum track kicked in, so utterly eighties it made Bree want to wear an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and leg warmers.
“Why are we listening to this?” John asked.
“Cuz it’s awesome.” Bree sang along with the vocals. “ And if I had to walk the world, I’d make you fall for me.”
“This blows.”
“Come on. You’re supposed to be the open-minded musical genius. How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it?”
“You think I don’t know this song?” John cleared his throat. “‘The Promise’ by When in Rome. A one-hit wonder from the British New Wave scene of the eighties. ‘The Promise’ was their biggest hit in the U.S., charting in 1988.”
Bree stared at him. “You’re like a music savant or something.”
“It’s what I do.” John cracked open an energy drink.
“It’s a little—” Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw a pack of blue-shirted ’Maine Men turn the corner of the gym and wander into the faculty parking lot. “We’ve got bogies, ten o’clock.”
John flattened himself against the bench seat while Bree crouched behind the headrest. Looking like a gaggle of overgrown Smurfs, four ’Maine Men strode purposefully into the parking lot as if hunting for something specific. They scanned the lines of cars; then, satisfied that there was no one to harass, they marched back inside.
“Clear,” Bree said, unpretzeling
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