Chapter #39Going Alloway: Tuesday by: Masktrix   MARIUS HALL, you type. Niamh wouldn’t have had Marius’ memories by chapel, so would have had to bluff her way through his speech. Every phrase he used to describe the party instigator was masculine – and Niamh knew Todd was responsible.
Shelly texts back almost immediately:
Sorry! :( :( :( :( :( I'd give u a hint but that'd be cheeating lol!
Haven't heard from Niamh yet. She must be going crazy trying to find u lol and ur right under her nose!
Best of luck to both of u.
You close your phone and shift under the covers. Damn. Your best chance of catching her was while her memories were patchy.
***
You stand in your red coat, shivering along with the rest of the horde assembled outside St Francis Xavier Cathedral in the chill November morning. You’ve had to get up early just to make it to the pick-up for the Bus of Shame. The Pauper Wagon. You and your fellow sixth formers are a full head above most of the bus riders. With the exception of Gabriel Santos, who seems perfectly sanguine with the situation, you’re all a picture of discontent.
“Am I the only one who’s going to say it?” Zero asks. One of your suspects, with a surname like that nobody calls him by his first name (Mariah didn’t even know it was Ken until you checked the intranet). “We all know who hosted the party. This is bullshit.”
“Chill, brah,” Gabe Santos, another of your 14 remaining suspects, mutters, his breath creating clouds in the cold. “Nothing to be done. Four days on a bus ain’t a hardship compared with what’ll happen if you snitch. Honestly, I kinda missed the bus. It’s a nice change of pace for a few days.”
Neither of them are saying anything that gives you a hint, so you pop your earbuds in and crank up the bootleg, Mariah’s lips muttering the odd lyric as you stomp out the cold in your toes. The Niamh golem convinced her parents for a ride, so it’s not like you have anyone to talk to.
Once on the bus, you’re so preoccupied with trying to stay warm that you don’t see the figure who’s swung in beside you until she taps you on the shoulder. Day student suspect number three: Roxanne Hurley. Leather jacket on, blazer probably folded in her beaten rucksack, she oozes hipster chic.
“That’s the Petrovics.”
You pause your music. “What?”
“That’s the Petrovics’ band, right? KC and her sister. Slow Fast Hazel. I was their keyboard player for about three weeks over the summer, before we realized my job at Monte Viso’s meant I’d miss gigs and practice.”
“Uh,” you nod. “Yeah. I was at the concert a few weeks back at…”
“I was there too.” She says. “Didn’t know they’d finally uploaded something.”
You scratch a little awkwardly behind your ear. “Uh… they… haven’t. Or I don’t know if they have, anyway. It’s a bootleg.”
Roxanne gives a nod of frowned admiration. “Cool,” she says. “Can I get in on this?”
“Huh?”
“Mind if I sit with you, listen too? Send it over.”
Roxanne Hurley thinks I’m cool. It’s a little buzz that’s made Mariah’s month as you open up your iPad to airdrop the music over.
***
You’re at a desk in the Stables, trying to work out how to get more time on campus, when you’re interrupted by what sounds like an accusation: “You are good at math.”
You glance up. Mathilde Ambard looks down at you. Her pursed lips aren’t exactly smiling, but then they rarely are. Elfin, with cheeks that taper into a nub of a jaw, she’s fresh from the brisk walk outside, a wool knit hat perched stylishly over dark brown hair.
She’s so French. Damn, I should have spoken to her yesterday morning! Shelly and I struggled with accents, so Niamh would have been faking a throat infection or going ‘Oo-la-la, iz zis over ze top?’ One chat and I could have eliminated her as a suspect.
“I dabble,” you grin, with all the self-confidence Mariah possesses but does not deserve. Mathilde gives no sign of acknowledgment.
“We are holding a study group tomorrow for physics. Myself, Kate, Dalton, some others. You are going to join us.” Mathilde’s English is near-perfect; you’re not sure if she just phrased things wrong or is giving you an order. Three of my suspects in one place, and Dalton doesn’t even take physics… wait. He could be working on his Navy entrance exam.
“Can’t,” you say apologetically. “No car privileges, I’m going to have to get the Bus of Shame home.” As much as it’s the perfect chance to get more time to find Niamh, there’s no way Mariah would agree. You’d be busted in a heartbeat.
Mathilde looks at you with incomprehension. “Get a taxi.”
“To Saratoga Falls? It must be, like, 50 bucks.”
Still, that unblinking incomprehension only the French can manage. “So?”
“And― Do you not get the exchange rate or something? I’m not going to spend 50 bucks to hang back a few hours and study with you guys.”
The look of withering contempt that ripples across Mathilde’s face, from her sculpted cheeks to her small, tight mouth, is remarkable. Then she shrugs. “Fine. I’ll pay for your taxi. And I suppose your dinner too.” She gets out her purse, a flash of iconic YSL on its metal clasp, and pulls out a bill. It has Ben Franklin on it – $100 – and she casts it down as if it were a quarter. “We meet from 7pm until 9pm, while Kate takes study hall.” She gives you the barest, briefest smile. “See you then.”
***
“I need your help.” You’re at the vending machine trying to fish out a granola bar when Kristen Wright-Wallace falls against the glass, speaking very quietly so no one else can hear. You look startled. I’m not going to ignore another suspect falling into my hands.
“You do?” Mariah’s voice makes it sound like you’re an agent and handler meeting in a park. Maybe the game of hide and seek is getting to you.
Kristen looks nervous and darts her eyes around so no one can see. “I need you to smuggle something in for me. I’ve run out.”
You scrunch your brow. “Forget it. I’m not getting Abi whatever she told you to ask me for.”
“No, no, no!” Kristen waves the idea off. Her emotions seem genuine: a mix of fear and desperation. Either it’s real, or Niamh is a good actress. “It’s not about Abi or Vee. You cannot tell them. I just figure you might understand, is all.”
Your curiosity is piqued. “Go on.”
Biting her lip, yet more nervy glances around, Kristen turns over her smartphone. “I need someone to bring me this.” You look at the image on screen. It’s a tub of powder for a weight loss shake, part of a meal replacement program. “You know what it’s like. You’re, uh,” she gestures, “bigger, too.”
“Plus size, Kristen. The term is plus size.” Mariah’s breast flushes with annoyance. She’s not self-conscious of her curves at all and your Will mind quite enjoys having something to jiggle, but nobody likes to be called fat.
“Right, plus size, sorry. Shit, Vee’s coming.” She fumbles her phone back into her blazer, and looks at you desperately. “Strawberry or banana, I don’t mind. Anything but the chocolate one. Please. And don’t say anything.”
***
“OK, you cannot tell anyone else, but I can’t keep this in any longer.” You’re in your sports kit, stood with Niamh’s golem on the side of the track. Sports are compulsory, but sometimes you can get away with doing very little. “Kristen asked me to get her diet shakes. Because, apparently, I am big too.”
Niamh looks aghast, but bursts out laughing when she can see how funny you find it. Mariah’s anger has long subsided, replaced with amusement. “I know!” you continue. “I was like, WHAT?”
“Lookin’ sporty, ladies,” Michael Boateng says as he jogs past, stretching as part of his warm-up. The guy is about 80% muscle, his dark skin taught over bulging biceps. There’s a reason you decided to stand here.
“We’re sporty,” you call back. As if to demonstrate, you pick up a water bottle and fake doing bicep curls. Niamh falls in too, doing a faux discus throw with a handful of training cones. Michael slows down and grins. He looks about to say something when Lucas Tanner rushes up.
“Mike, we doing this?” he asks. Still annoyed. He’s been in a bad mood for two days, and Mariah can’t ever remember Lucas being mad for five minutes. Boateng glances back.
“Sure, Lucas. Sure. Ladies, you mind being our starters? Lucas thinks he can take me in the hundred.”
You nod, and set the water bottle down as the two runners amble up to the line. “On your marks… get set… GO!”
The two take off down the track. The first 25 is close, but Boateng is comfortably ahead by the halfway point, and even showboats by pulling up and jogging the final five metres. Lucas is still moody, but a good loser.
“Thanks, ladies,” Michael says with a light pant, dropping into a dab. And, just to showboat a little more, he throws in a few press ups as Lucas jogs off again.
***
Your evening is a long, incredibly tedious slog through Mariah’s photography homework, trying to edit a portfolio from several hundred mundane shots she took around town at the weekend. Fortunately, AerisLives777 finally pings on at around 9pm, and you get to play online with Niamh – or at least the fake – for an hour and a half. You’re still going at 10.30, when you open up another window. You need to give a name to Shelly.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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