Chapter #41Going Alloway: Thursday Morning by: Masktrix   KATE GROSS. Kate was probably genuine in trying to cheer Mariah up, but you honestly have no clue where Niamh is hiding. You’re fast running out of options and time, so you’ll have to throw a Hail Mary tonight.
MISS!!! Shelly texts back a few minutes later. Omg having such a hard time not giving hints like ::sun emoji:: or ::snowflake emoji::! But I'm not helping Niamh either. Her guesses are all over the freakin place!
Two more days and still 11 suspects. Your odds are less than one in five.
***
You review your suspect list as you board the Bus of Shame. Of the prefects, only Todd Baldwin and Dalton Reeves remain suspects. Next, the boarders. Loki Swain hasn’t really been out of his admittedly dopey character all week. Nor has Michael Boateng or Alyssa Erikson, although the latter has been singing Mariah’s praises and she barely knows her.
Scott Ricci walked into the girls’ bathroom on Monday, but otherwise you haven’t seen him, and Frances Washington is behaving strangely. You need to investigate both today. The final two boarders, Kristen Wright-Wallace and Mathilde Ambard, have both gone out of their way to talk to Mariah with some pretty unusual requests. But, you decide, they both had good reasons. I really need to ask someone if Mathilde’s accent was missing on Monday... but who?
The two remaining suspects, both day students, are riding with you: Gabriel Santos and Ken Zero. They seem the least likely – you saw Niamh head upstairs and she had no reason to think you were watching – but you can’t rule them out.
“Hey Gabe,” you say, flopping down into a seat next to him. Today’s a particularly biting morn, so you’re sporting your red jacket, beret and your gloves. “Cold, huh?”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to be you tonight,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Swim practice. You’re going to take a dunk then step out into the night air, waiting for the bus. Hair soakin’, freezing.”
“I’ll use a hair dryer, Gabe. And aren’t you going to shower after training too? Because if not, that’s vile.”
“Course I am. But,” he leans over and ruffles his short, black hair, “this is easier to dry. Your pal Niamh’s onto something.”
God, wouldn’t it be just like Niamh to boast about her haircut as someone else? Fortunately you have the perfect Mariah counter. Time to play it.
“That haircut makes her look like a receptionist.”
You look directly at Gabe, trying to pick up even the slightest flicker of piqued annoyance. But if it’s there, it’s hidden behind Gabe’s surprise.
“Ouch. I thought you were her friend.”
“I am. I love Niamh to death. I would get into a knife fight for her. But that haircut? C’mon. It’s worse than when Jack Bright dyed his hair some sort of blue-black and ended up like a manager at Hot Topic.”
“Well, I like it.” Gabe shrugs.
“You should tell her,” you say, deciding to change tack.
“Yeah? Why, think she’s into me?”
“Oh, not as a pick up line! I just mean tell her as a friend. She’s got a boyfriend now, dating a guy from Westside. If you were interested, that ship has sailed.”
“Westside, huh?” Gabe glances out the window. “That’s where I would have gone if I hadn’t been given a place at St. X. Where most of the guys from my neighborhood go. What’s this boyfriend’s name?”
“Uh, Will…” you feign trying to come up with your own surname. “Something. Seemed cute. In a squirrelly kind of way.”
Gabe thinks a moment. “Nah, don’t know any Wills. And chill, I’m not interested in breaking up two lovebirds. I just think you’re harsh on her pixie cut. It’s distinctive. Makes her look like a university chick.”
You spend the rest of the ride in silence. You haven’t decided if Gabe is really Niamh or not… but he’s given you a great idea how to find out.
***
You have no excuse to be upstairs. But then nor did Niamh on Monday morning, and her mission was definitely a success. So, at first break you head across from the school proper to Founder’s Hall and slip up the stairs.
OK,, you think, whose room is where?. As Chris Fiore, your room was B10, pretty much in the middle of the hall, but he and his roommate, Mark Pederson, aren’t suspects, so you turn toward the west wing instead. You’re nosing around, looking for an open door, when― jackpot! You can see a track meet pennant pinned over one of the beds. Michael Boateng. With a nervous glance in either direction, you push the door open. Empty.
Slyly, spryly, you slip inside and push the door closed. It’s a typical boys room: a faint funk of something, heavily masked by a choking cloud of deodorant; a sink with toothpaste scum around the drain; and a desk cluttered with too many papers and too few pens. Sink first. There are two hairbrushes. You close your eyes and try to conjure up an image of Michael’s roommate from Mariah’s brain, but she has no idea who he bunks with. So, instead, you turn to Michael’s bed and peel back the covers, looking at the pillow below.
Gabe gave you a great idea. You remember from your days as Shelly Nolan – doesn’t that feel a year ago? – that hair separated from a person under a mask vanished; you noticed when you were untangling that insane length of ginger hair each morning. It’s why you agreed to test each other by snipping your hair, before Shelly went and―
You let the thought hang as you hunch down and scrabble about Michael’s pillow, running your hand along it. For a brief moment you can’t find anything. Then, checking your palm, you see a dark, curling clutch of afro hair. St X. forces students to change bedding each week and collects on Saturdays. This was left during the week. Michael Boateng is exactly who he appears to be.
But at least you’re down to ten names.
You step outside, and are gently pulling the door shut when— "What are you doing up here?"
You whip around. Todd Baldwin is swaggering up from the direction of the stairs. He always looks a little thuggish, but now he mainly looks quizzical.
“Nothing to do with you, Todd.”
“Check the tie, Alloway. I’m a prefect. So, what are you doing up here?”
Shit shit shit. You try and come up with a reason. “I was running an errand.”
“An errand?” Baldwin blocks the stair and smiles like a spider who’s just caught a fly. “What kind of errand?”
“Mathilde asked me to bring something for her last night. Not contraband, wasn’t a big deal, so I picked it up from Walmart before I caught the bus.”
“So,” Baldwin says. “Mathilde Ambard – who, last time I checked, is in G3 in the east wing – sent you to give her something in the men’s dorms?”
You give Mariah’s best look of confusion. “She said B3. Bee.” You point. You’re standing right outside the room you supposedly mistook for hers. “Darn it. She’s got that ridiculous accent. I can never get what she’s saying. Explains why she’s not in. I’m sorry Todd.”
He seems to buy your explanation, but still holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. You heard Marius on Monday. I’m supposed to do contraband sweeps. What’d she ask you for?”
Say ‘women’s things’. Don’t even say it, just allude to it. One mention of anything like that and Todd, or any guy, will RUN. You chew Mariah’s lip and bury the thought. You have an even better idea.
“Cough syrup. You’ve got classes with her. Didn’t you hear her on Monday? She sounded like the girl in The Exorcist. She’s more or less got her voice back, but she’s still a little husky.”
Todd's eyes narrow, and he holds out his hand. "Show me the bottle."
Busted! "What?" you stammer. "I— I don't have it on me. I was just stopping by to tell Mathilde that I got it, that I can give it to her later. Jeez, I don't carry—"
"I'm going to have to make a note of this, Alloway," Todd says. There's a gleam of triumph in his eye. "First, that you're up here without good reason—"
"I told you—!"
"—because, second, Ambard gave a thirty-minute oral presentation Monday, and I didn't notice anything wrong with her voice."
Your cheeks burn.
"Fine!" you spit. "Make a note! Wanna strip search me too?"
Todd smirks, but tells you to move along. He's taking out his cell phone as you wheel for the stairs.
You're halfway down when a sudden terror clutches your gut: What if Todd is texting Shelly to say he's figured out who you're hiding out at school as?
Your knees tremble. If you text Shelly right now with Todd's name, maybe you can beat Niamh, or at least make it a tie. But if you're wrong, you'd have wasted an accusation on the flimsiest evidence yet.
Maybe you should just keep collecting hair samples from the remaining suspects. If you can hit the right one, you could still wrap this game up today. It's as accurate as the blood test in The Thing, and it isn’t against any of Niamh’s rules.
But then again, Niamh doesn’t know you can use loose hair to test for someone under a mask. It’s an unfair advantage, and not really in the spirit of the game.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive
story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Get MORE!
Shop Memberships
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
