Wrath - 4 by Robin Wasserman

tracking her path down the hal .
    She stared down at her desk every day in French class, feeling Powel ’s gaze resting on her from across the room. Reed was nowhere to be found, and yet it felt like he was everywhere, lurking in corners, peering out from behind lockers, sneaking glimpses of her—but disappearing as soon as she sensed his presence.
    She’d had her car repainted and washed it three times, but she could stil trace her fingers along the ghostly letters. They were too faint to make out, but she knew they were there, hiding under the new coat of paint, for only her to see.
    So she spent her days watching and waiting, and her nights lingering in town, wandering the narrow, broken down streets of Grace, preferring to stay away from her empty house and its loud silence. The last three nights she’d gone to a movie at the Starview Theater. The same movie was showing each night— Clueless . She didn’t like the film very much; as someone intimately familiar with a realworld life of luxury, she didn’t have much patience with the movie’s shoddy impersonation. But stil there was something strangely appealing about sitting alone in the dark, surrounded by strangers, watching a completely predictable life unfold with perfect symmetry on the screen.
    Besides, it gave her something to do.
    It was ridiculous, Kaia told herself, spinning the combination lock on her locker, al this angst over a one-time thing. It could have been a random act of vandalism—it’s not like there weren’t enough bored delinquents running loose in this town. There was no reason to think that she’d been a careful y chosen target.
    Kaia opened up her locker, and a smal envelope fel out. An envelope she’d never seen before, an envelope that couldn’t have been slipped in through the vent because her locker had no vent. Just a door, and a lock. And someone out there knew the combination.
    She looked up and down the hal way. No one was watching her.They were al absorbed in their own lives. Or so it appeared.
    The envelope was smal , and light blue. And it was blank. She stuck a nail under the seam and slowly ripped it open, unaware that she was holding her breath.
    She pul ed out three smal pieces of glossy paper. And now she breathed again, harsh and fast. They were photos.
    The first, a distance shot of her buying a movie ticket.
    The second, framed by her living room window, showing her curled up on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.
    The third, a close-up, her head tipped back against a wooden deck, her hair wet and plastered against her face. Her eyes closed. And there was something else in the frame, a hand, reaching down toward her face, toward the lock of hair that covered her left eyes. Proving that it wasn’t a telephoto lens, that someone had been there.
    Close enough to touch.
    “I didn’t do it.” Miranda could come up with no strategy other than repeating that over and over, until they believed her.
    “Ms. Stevens, we have proof. Mr. Powel found traces of your file on the newsroom computer.” The vice principal nodded in the direction of Jack Powel , who stood behind his desk, stone-faced and silent. “You were the only one logged in that morning. But we do suspect you had an accomplice. Who were you working with?”
    “No one,” Miranda protested. “I didn’t do it.” She was shaking. She and Harper had gotten into plenty of trouble over the years, but never anything that had landed her here, squeezed into an uncomfortable chair, facing down the vice principal and fending off the claustrophobic conviction that the wal s of his office were closing in. And she’d never gotten into trouble without Harper by her side. It was different, she was quickly discovering, when you were alone.
    “If you tel us who it is, Ms. Stevens, I might consider your cooperation when deciding your punishment. What you’ve done is very serious, you realize. This wil go on your permanent record. It could affect your entire