The Scarlet Letterman by Cara Lockwood

than two words at a time.
    “Want to get started?” I ask V, about our dead frog that’s lying belly-up in a metal tray on the lab table we share. V just glares at me.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” I say.
    Behind us Parker’s table starts giggling. I glance back and see that Parker and her clone lab partner have attracted a crowd.
    “Hey, Miranda,” calls one of Parker’s clones, “why don’t you come take a look at this?”
    “How about I don’t?” I say. The last thing I want to do is give Parker the satisfaction of seeing whatever juvenile thing she’s doing back there. She’s probably drawing pictures of me in compromising positions with half the basketball team.
    “Ms. Rodham?” calls Mr. S from the front of the class. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”
    Uh-oh. Mr. S has just given Parker what she wanted: a spotlight. While most sane people feel public humiliation, Parker doesn’t. She likes being the center of attention, and she usually uses it to burn someone else.
    “Mr. S,” Parker says, “we were just exploring the frog’s reproductive system, using a visual aid.”
    The crowd from the table parts, to show the dissection tray. They’ve put one frog facedown in the groin of the other frog. The facedown frog has a sign stick-pinned to its back that reads “Miranda.”
    The whole class starts laughing.
    “That’s enough, Ms. Rodham. That’ll be a detention for you,” Mr. S says, looking like he’s not quite sure what’s happened, but knowing it’s something bad. “The rest of you…back to work.”
    Parker gives me a little triumphant smile. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact that her little prank earned her a detention. Apparently the gloating rights were worth it.
    “Clever,” I say to her, meaning the opposite.
    If there is a big cat stalking students on this campus, is it too much to ask for it to eat Parker first?
    I shrug off Parker’s antics. I’ve got bigger problems. Like whatever it was that I saw with a shoe in its mouth last night. Maybe Ms. W has some answers.
    I head to Ms. W’s office, but when I get there, I find no Ms. W.
    Instead, standing over her desk with his back to me, is the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker. I stop in my tracks. He’s picking up a book from the desk, which he slips into his pocket.
    This is the closest I’ve been to him since the night I saw him in Coach H’s room. I realize being alone in a room with the would-be campus rapist isn’t the smartest thing, but I just can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t attacking people. At least not how they think.
    Besides, it might be Heathcliff.
    “What are you doing?” I ask, causing the hooded figure to turn slightly, but I see no nose or chin, or anything that might identify him. He moves away from the desk, and away from me, toward the bookcase.
    “Wait! Where are you going?” I grab his arm and try to tug him around to see his face, but he gives me a shove, and I fall back a few steps. Now I get a really bad feeling. I’m pretty sure whoever this is, it isn’t Heathcliff. He wouldn’t shove me. I’m almost positive. He’d never hurt me. And now, I start to think how dumb I am — being alone in a room with a would-be attacker.
    He turns from me and pulls a book from the shelf of Ms. W’s bookcase. The entire bookshelf slides to one side, revealing a stone passageway on the other side. A hidden door! I wonder if Coach H’s room has one, too.
    I decide the only thing to do is call for help. I start to shout, for Guardians, for anyone, and that’s when Hooded Sweatshirt Guy whirls at me. He grabs me by both arms and shoves me, hard, against Ms. W’s desk. The corner of the desk hits my back.
    “Ow!” I cry, just as Hooded Sweatshirt Guy lifts his head.
    And I find myself staring at the impossible.
    I look at where Hooded Sweatshirt Guy’s face should be, but there isn’t one.
    The Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker doesn’t have a head at