“It’s terrible!” I finished the assessment for him, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “And who chose those pictures?”
It almost seemed as though whoever’d killed Mr. Killdare and/or Mike had subsequently been tapped to create their pictorial memorials. The photo of Coach Killdare, affixed to an oversize posterboard, captured him on the sidelines at a game, red-faced and bellowing, his trademark vein popping in his neck. And the picture of Mike wasn’t any better—although it was his official junior year photo. Regardless, he was wearing a too-tight polo shirt, as if he’d grudgingly ditched the Eagles jersey on “picture day,” and he was scowling like he wanted to beat the crap out of the photographer.
“Not exactly flattering,” Chase muttered. “Coach Killdare, at least, deserved better.”
I’d kind of forgotten that Chase had shared a bond with Mr. Killdare, and I tentatively touched his shoulder. “Hey, Chase . . . Sorry this is so crappy.”
He met my eyes and shrugged. “It’s okay. I know most people didn’t get him. I didn’t always get him.” Then he reached for a marker that was dangling by a string tacked to a corner of Mike’s poster. “I guess we should sign both of these, though.”
That was the first time I noticed that what I’d taken for black squiggles around the edges of the posterboard were actually notes written by kids and chaperones. It was like the most dismal, oversize yearbook ever. Still, I reached for the marker that swung next to Mr. Killdare’s picture, agreeing, “Yeah, I guess so.” Then, while Chase tried to figure out what to leave on Mike’s board, I bent down and wrote, at the very bottom of Mr. Killdare’s frame, “Journey safely, Cap’n Andy.” And although I wasn’t sure I believed in angels—or that Hollerin’ Hank would be in their company if they did exist—I added, “May you sing ‘Ballyhoo’ forever with a heavenly chorus!”
“Millie, what does that mean?”
I heard Chase asking me to explain my inscription, which referenced Mr. Killdare’s star turn in Show Boat, but I didn’t answer him. I was too busy fixating on the note right next to mine. A very brief farewell. In fact, all it said was “Farewell.” Without a signature. But something about that writing . . .
All at once, realization dawned on me, and my heart started to race.
“Chase!” I reached behind me and groped blindly for my date, half afraid that if I turned around, that word would disappear. “Get down here!”
“What?” He bent down next to me. “What is wrong with you? Maybe you should just take off those shoes—”
“It’s not the shoes!” I finally looked away from that terse sendoff, long enough to meet Chase’s eyes as I informed him, my words sounding strangely at odds with the background melody of an incredibly sappy Celine Dion song, “I think the killer’s here!”
Chapter 70
“That script didn’t look the least bit familiar to you?” I asked after Chase had pulled me away from the memorial. We had started to look like a pair of ghouls, lingering forever near those horrible pictures. We were also no doubt drawing attention because nobody’d expected to see Chase or me at a dance, and our arrival together was obviously blowing minds sky-high. I had to keep giving kids my best what-are-you-looking-at glare—while Chase, used to being an object of worship, seemed blissfully oblivious. He took his time getting us a snack, choosing novelty-shaped iced shortbreads from a table decorated with plastic grass skirts and lawn flamingos.
Is this all I’ve been missing? Is this really how we Honeywellians interpret “tropical paradise”?
And what kind of theme is “Into the Sunset” for a dance that honors two murder victims, anyhow?
Who picks that for ANY dance?
“No, Millie,” Chase said, so for a second I thought he was answering my unspoken questions, at least about the decor. For just a moment, I hoped he was about to tell me that I’d been missing tons of great stuff, and that any minute now, the bleachers would part to reveal a sparkling pool surrounded by real tiki torches and exotic flowers. But, of course, he was still talking about the writing we’d seen on the poster. “It was only one word, and I guess I don’t notice handwriting that much to begin with.” Chase piled me high with food. “It could belong to any girl.”
I bit into a cookie, then covered my mouth before speaking. Even I knew better than to spray a quasi date with crumbs. “You definitely think it’s feminine, though.”
Chase was not eating any of the—let’s face it, putrid—treats. “Yeah . . . I would say that.”
I swallowed my cookie and ditched the rest in a garbage can that was also wearing a grass skirt. Then I began to scan the gym again, eyes narrowed, searching for someone who’d give me an “aha” moment. Somebody who’d let me connect the writing on the postcard to the writing on the posterboard and then to a real person.
But it didn’t happen. All I saw was a bunch of kids—the girls looking, for the most part, like they were about thirty, in dresses they’d no doubt spent days picking out, and the boys looking almost uniformly thirteen, in ill-fitting suits they’d probably last worn at their confirmations, bar mitzvahs, or whatever “welcome to puberty” traditions their particular families followed. There were also a few chaperones milling around, but nobody who stood out.
“Pardonnez-moi!”
The deep voice cut into my thoughts, and for a second I thought Chase was giving me a hard time by talking in French again. Or maybe that he was going to suavely ask me to dance. Then I turned around and realized that not only was Chase not talking, but I wasn’t the one being asked to partner up on the crowded floor.
As I—and Chase—looked on in horror, Mademoiselle Beamish said something to her favorite student that even I understood.
“Voulez-vous danser, Chase?”
Chapter 71
“I owe you for the rest of my life, Millicent Ostermeyer,” Chase whispered directly into my ear, which wasn’t hidden by red curls because Ms. Parkins had also given me a two-second updo. Fortunately, my hair was thick enough to conceal a drugstore ponytail holder and some bobby pins, so the effect was pretty nice. “You saved me back there,” he added, pulling me closer. I felt his lips turn up against my ear. “Merci. Meaning ‘thank you.’”
“I know what ‘merci’ means—el jerko,” I informed him with a quick shove to his shoulder. Just enough to push us apart and send our gentle swaying off rhythm.
In truth, I was trying to keep us almost continually offbeat and to ignore how strong Chase’s shoulder felt when I rested against it, like I was doing then, because he’d somehow, without hardly moving, pulled me closer again. “You practically told Ms. Beamish ‘Back off! He’s mine!’” he teased.
“Somebody had to save you,” I said, suddenly depressed, because the guy holding me . . . He wasn’t mine. I tried once more to put some distance between us—but couldn’t. Not because he was squeezing me too hard. On the contrary, he was applying just the right amount of pressure to the small of my back, and trapping my hand lightly against his shoulder. I just didn’t have the will to push him away, it seemed. Still, I said, “It’s no big deal. And we probably had to dance at some point, anyhow.”
“Millie . . .” Chase pulled back, so I could see his eyes. He seemed surprised by my comment. “I wanted to dance with you.” He smiled again. “Even before Ms. Beamish made her move, unleashing your inner Doberman.”
“Chase?”
“Yes?”
I dropped my voice to the merest whisper, not believing what I was about to say but saying it anyway. “Could you—just for this evening—not refer to me as any kind of dog—especially the vicious, fighting breeds—or compare my eating habits to those of any member of the football team, be it a fullback, a tackle, or a kicker even?”
He started to speak, but I held up one hand, signaling that I wasn’t done. “And last but not least, could you just shut up for the rest of this dance, because . . .” I hesitated, then forged ahead. “Because some perverse part of me likes you, Chase Albrigh
t. As more than just a buddy.” His blue eyes widened, so I wished I’d stopped earlier. Maybe at my bedroom door, before even walking down the stairs. But what could I do except finish at that point, saying quietly, “I know you don’t like me back—but just let me, for a minute, like you.”
Of course, it was just my luck that the stupid song ended at that exact moment, because songs only last three minutes, and my monologue had run at least two-point-five.
But contrary to what I expected, Chase didn’t push me away—or run out the door, knocking down the tribute posters and bonking his head on the plastic parrot in his haste to escape.
Instead, he kept holding me and swaying, until I started to feel awkward because other couples were separating. But sure enough, within a few seconds, another song started. Another syrupy, slow song by some retro artist my dad had probably danced to back in his day. Maybe . . . Sinatra?
Not that it really mattered, as Chase did as I’d requested. He didn’t say a word, but just kept holding me close, his hand pressed against my back and his head tilted next to mine, so anybody who saw us—and I was sure a lot of kids saw us—could’ve easily gotten the wrong impression. But I didn’t care or worry about what Viv might be thinking, even, if she’d shown up.
I’d never been like that with a guy. Never. And although this small part of me knew that Chase was dancing with me because he owed me for saving him from a worse partner, for some reason that hardly hurt my enjoyment of the moment.
And I got the sense that Chase was maybe okay with what we were doing, too. I had no experience with boys, but as the song continued and we kept swaying, I could’ve sworn that I felt something change in the way he held me. In the way his heart beat under my hand, which he’d moved to the center of his chest, like we were getting even closer, sort of shutting out the rest of the dance with its cheesy music and even worse decor, and making a really nice space of our own.
I honestly started to believe that, enough that my heart began to race a little when Chase finally spoke, whispering even more softly, his voice rough with that throaty quality I’d heard once before. “Millie . . .”
What was it I heard when he spoke my name?
Desire? For me?
Guilt? Over dancing so close when he has Allison?
A touch of regret, even, that he’s taken?
All of that?
I could hardly wait to know what he was thinking. It was almost killing me by the time he repeated, even more quietly, “Millie . . . I . . .”
You what, Chase?
You can?
You can’t?
You WANT TO . . . ?
I swore my head was going to explode if he didn’t say something soon, and I winced as pressure seemed to build in my ears—only to realize that we were both cringing at the phenomenally abrasive screech of feedback from a microphone, and the even screechier voice of Vivienne Fitch, who stopped the dance dead by commandeering the sound system and practically shouting at the crowd, “Attention, Honeywell students! It is time for our tribute to Mr. Hank Killdare and beloved student athlete Michael Price!”
There was nothing that Chase and I could do but pull apart and face the small stage at the far end of the gym, where I saw that someone had moved the posters. But I noticed that Chase didn’t separate himself from me entirely. No, he kept one hand lightly on my back, connecting us as we moved with other students to gather around the stage. Even when we found a spot in the crowd, close enough to get a good look at Principal Woolsey taking over the microphone, Chase didn’t pull his arm away.
Oh, gosh . . . What is happening?
And if he has a girlfriend, is even this much wrong?
I didn’t have a chance to grapple with those questions, though, before another one came to mind. An important one, which had to be voiced, and although a big part of me didn’t want to mess up whatever was taking place between us, I turned to Chase and whispered, “Where the heck have I seen that tropical train wreck of a shirt that Mr. Woolsey is wearing?”
Chase didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be looking intently at that shirt, too. A T-shirt emblazoned with two big palm trees, which arched in a way that framed Mr. Bertram B. Woolsey’s middle-aged paunch, the better to highlight the boast “I Rode the Big Banana at Kona Dreams Outrigger Rental!”
Then, all at once, Chase and I apparently made the same connection—one between Mr. Woolsey’s outfit and a photo on Mr. Killdare’s refrigerator, in which the coach wore the exact same shirt. We met each other’s eyes, both of us no doubt registering excitement, shock, and maybe a small degree of discomfort as we muttered, simultaneously, in disbelief, . . .
“BeeBee?”
I also couldn’t help noticing, out of the corner of my eye, that someone else had become aware of that other connection Chase and I had made. The physical one.
In fact, when I looked at the stage again—this time at Vivienne Fitch—I saw her staring at me and Chase. At the way we were still very close, his body positioned slightly behind mine and his hand now at my waist, so it was very clear that we were together.
And, oh, the look in her eyes.
It was like I’d won Camper of the Year, a pumpkin full of Halloween candy, and at least ten Pacemaker awards, all at the same time, while she’d gotten a bucket of goo dumped on her, Carrie-style, in front of the whole school.
Chapter 72
“This can’t be true, right?” I asked hurrying with Chase down the dark corridor, away from the gym—and Viv’s deathly stare, thank goodness—and toward Mr. Woolsey’s office. For the second time that evening, he was holding my hand, but I was pretty sure it was to again help me stay upright.
Touching Chase is nice—really nice—but ENOUGH, Cinderella. By midnight, you’re going to be on the curb with a bunch of rats and a rotten pumpkin, while he goes home to dream of his girlfriend.
“Wait.” I pulled free of Chase, then bent down and liberated myself from my purple pumps, too. Straightening, I looped the straps around my wrist. “There.” I heard relief in my voice. “Now we can hurry.”
Chase glanced at my bare feet. “Okay, let’s go.”
“We can’t actually believe that Mr. Woolsey is BeeBee . . . Can we?” I whispered. Ditching the shoes had the added benefit of making us more stealthy. “I mean, that would mean that he and Mr. Killdare were almost definitely . . .”
We’d arrived at the door to the suite of administrative offices, and Chase reached up and deftly plucked a bobby pin from my hair, so some of my curls leaped free.
“Hey!” I started to protest, then realized he was using the pin to pick the lock. Besides, I was already shoeless and my scarf-belt had gotten askew. Who really cared if my updo was perfect?
Must be nearly midnight, Cinderella!
“I know it seems hard to comprehend,” Chase said, using one of those vocab words that made me wish I really did have a fairy godmother who could deliver a prince for more than one night. “But we both saw that picture of Mr. Killdare, wearing the same shirt, at his house . . .”
“And you’ll see,” I promised, as Chase—athlete, closet geek, and former delinquent—popped the lock and let us into the offices. “Mr. Woolsey—Bertram B. Woolsey—is posing against the same backdrop. He has the exact same photo on his desk.” I accepted the bobby pin Chase was offering back and stuck it in my hair. “What are the odds of that? I mean, doesn’t it seem like they went on a vacation together? And Mr. Woolsey’s initials. B.B. . . .”
Chase opened the door, letting me in first. “I don’t know, Millie. It’s hard for me to imagine Coach Killdare as gay, but . . . I guess you never know, right?”
I led us past the secretary’s desk toward the door to Mr. Woolsey’s private chambers. “Yeah, it was almost impossible for me to believe Ryan was gay when he came out.”
Chase seemed taken aback. “Ryan is gay? Ryan Ronin?”
I had my hand on the knob, but turned to face Chase. “Yeah.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
<
br /> “You are seriously clueless, aren’t you?” I said, opening the second door, which wasn’t locked. “Don’t you know anything but French?”
He didn’t answer, probably because he was picking up the photo I’d seen a thousand times on Mr. Woolsey’s desk, without ever reading the small print on his shirt about riding a banana-shaped boat. “You’re right,” Chase said. “This is the exact same image. It’s like they photographed each other, trading places between shots.”
He looked at me over the picture frame, and I ventured, “Grown men don’t take vacations together unless they’re . . . lovers, right?”
Okay, I wasn’t sure I’d ever said the word “lovers” out loud, in any context, and it came out kind of . . . ugh. Not because I was applying it to my principal and a football coach, but just because it seemed . . . ugh.
Chase didn’t seem to know how to follow up on that, either. He didn’t exactly answer, asking instead, “The postcard, from BeeBee. You say it’s from Switzerland?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know if Mr. Woolsey traveled overseas this summer?”
“No idea,” I admitted, starting to circle my principal’s desk, looking for, say, a mug that said I ♥ Lucerne or a heavy, three-hole punch that might be used for clubbing a . . . lover. “I pretty much try to forget Mr. Woolsey on my time off.”
Chase resumed studying the picture, getting quiet. Pensive.
“Chase?” I finally asked softly, opening a drawer to discover that Mr. Woolsey kept a stash of Devil Dogs. So, somebody has a sweet tooth—among other secrets. I considered helping myself to just one, but had a pang of conscience and shut the drawer. “Would it bug you if Mr. Killdare really was gay?”
Chase looked up from the picture, seeming surprised. “I grew up in California, Millie. About five miles from Venice Beach. I am not freaked out by homosexuality.” He resumed staring at the picture, though, as if that was freaking him out. I was about to tell him that a vacation snapshot probably wasn’t going to yield any more answers when he turned it over and peered at it even more closely, saying, “I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions, though . . .”