The Murder Pit by Jeff Shelby Page A

think he really is. He just doesn’t want me to go.”
    I took a deep breath and exhaled. “What do you mean?”
    She wiped at her eyes. “Well, he came up to me in history and he asked if I was still going and I said I thought so. And then he said well, I don’t think I’m going now. I asked why and he said something about his dad needing him to do something. It was totally weird and he was all mumbling and he never mumbles because I hate mumbles, but whatever. So I said okay, thanks for telling me or something lame like that.” She paused and she winced like she was being pinched. “But then after lunch, Bailey told me that she heard he was still going and that he told me that just because he didn’t want me go.”
    My hand balled into a fist as my mother hen instincts kicked in and I wanted to punch the face of a teenage boy who was being a butthead to my daughter. I knew that dealing with boys was going to be an ongoing process for her and she needed to deal with butthead boys in order grow up, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to grab the little weasel by the nose and tell him to stop being such a butthead.
    “Who did Bailey hear that from?” I asked, trying to poke holes in what was hopefully maybe just a rumor. “And why would he say that?”
    She wiped at her eyes again and then folded her hands tightly in her lap. “She heard him talking to Josh in math. And he said it was because of the whole dead body thing and it freaked him out.”
    The knot in my stomach retied itself.
    “He told Josh that he thought it was creepy and he didn’t want to hang out with some serial killer girl,” she said, wincing again.
    I forced myself to breathe and unclenched my fist, stretching out my fingers. “Okay. Two things here. One, you are not some serial killer girl.”
    “Well, duh.”
    “And, two, if he is basing his decision to hang out with you or like you or whatever on something he knows nothing about, then he is not a boy you want to be wasting your time on,” I said.
    She looked at me for a moment. I was pleased with my response. It was reasonable, rational. It made sense. I was able to impart a little life wisdom on my daughter and maybe some day she would look back on this conversation and thank me for helping her wade through the cesspool that is teenage boys.
    “Thanks for the Disney show advice,” she grumbled, her voice full of disdain.
    Or maybe not.
    “I don’t want people to be weirded out about hanging out with me,” she said. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes.
    “Is Bailey?”
    She thought for a second. “I don’t think so.”
    “How about your other friends?” I asked. “Girlfriends, I mean.”
    She thought again. “Not that anyone has said, I guess.”
    “So your friends aren’t making assumptions,” I said. “They’re still your friends and aren’t jumping to ridiculous conclusions. They’re still your friends.”
    She made a non-committal shrug that seemed to be especially teenaged in nature.
    I reached out and laid my hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry Nathan is lame. But if that’s really what he said and why he told you he wasn’t going to the game, then he is lame. There are plenty of boys who won’t be lame. And I’m sorry that all of this stuff going on is affecting you. It’s affecting all of us. But it won’t last forever. It will all get sorted out.”
    “When?” she asked.
    “I can’t answer that,” I said. “Hopefully, sooner rather than later.”
    She stood and grabbed her backpack from the table. “Okay.”
    “Or we can just have Jake wait for Nathan after school tomorrow and, like, rough him up or something,” I said.
    She rolled her eyes. “Mom.”
    “I’m serious,” I said. “He’ll do it. He could hide behind a trash can and jump out and throw him in the back of the car —”
    “Whatever,” she said, her eyeballs doing another lap.
    “We could give him some rope—”
    “Oh my God,” Emily said. “Stop.”
    She