“Thank you, Poppy,” Mr. G said, waving me to the stage stairs.
The kids in the seats didn’t make a sound. Sometimes they applaud when someone gives a really good audition. My hand was icy and wet on the railing as I stepped down from the stage. I curled my script into a tight roll. I wanted to pound it against the wall.
“Rose Groban?” Mr. G called from the stage. “You can be next.”
I turned away from her as she approached the steps so I wouldn’t have to see her smug face. And I gasped when I saw the familiar figure storming down the aisle toward me.
“Heather?” I cried. “What are you doing here? And what are you doing with that knife?”
Her eyes were wide, crazy. She didn’t answer. She stopped a few feet from me. Kids turned to see what was happening. Before I could call out, before I could scream, Heather raised the knife high—and plunged it deep into her own chest.
6
Poppy Continues
I heard gasps. Screams rang out.
Heather pulled the knife blade from her chest and laughed. “Did I get you? You really believed it?” She pushed the blade into the handle, then let it pop out. “It’s a stage knife. Didn’t you recognize it? I found it in the Drama Club prop closet downstairs.”
She plunged it into her chest and pulled it out again.
Kids were shaking their heads, chattering about my sister’s little joke. “Am I missing something?” Mr. G called from the stage. “Is there another show going on down there?”
“Sorry, Mr. G,” I called. I grabbed Heather’s arm and pulled her toward the side of the auditorium. “That was very funny. A riot,” I said, rolling my eyes. Onstage, Rose had begun her audition. She said the word poltergeist perfectly.
“Let go of my arm.” Heather tugged herself free. I hadn’t realized I was gripping her so tightly.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came to audition,” she said. She scowled at me, the patented Heather Miller scowl that could make milk go sour and paint curl off the wall. “You’re not the only talented one in the family, you know.”
I sighed. “Did you see my audition? Not too impressive talent-wise.”
Onstage, Rose was finishing up. She gave a piercing horror-movie scream that actually made my skin tingle. She wins, I thought. Maybe Mr. G will let me do Gretchen.
“I got a script from Mr. G last week,” Heather said. “I’m going to audition for Claire. It’s a small part, but she’s kind of funny. I think I can be funny.”
I flashed her a thumbs-up. I didn’t know what else to say. Heather had never shown any interest in the Drama Club before. Was she just copying me? Or was this a good thing—Heather finding something she really wanted to devote herself to?
I didn’t want to be discouraging. But she had already given up on her keyboard lessons and her horse dressage and her online “Secrets of the Universe” college course, and just about everything else she had ever tried.
Kids applauded as Rose stepped down from the stage. Mr. G called Sari Bakshi to the stage. Sari was also auditioning for Becka. She was new to our school, so I didn’t know how she rated as an actress. I wanted to sit down and watch her audition, but Heather grabbed my arm.
“Will you stay for my tryout?”
Her intensity startled me. She suddenly looked so needy. “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be here rooting for you.”
I was trying to be nice but my words sounded phony. She noticed. Her mouth twitched into a two-second frown. “I . . . wanted to surprise you,” she said.
I laughed. “Well, you certainly made an entrance.” I lowered my gaze to the stage knife, still clasped in her hand.
“I’ve memorized all of Claire’s lines,” Heather said. “It wasn’t so hard. You know I’ve always had a good memory.”
She’d always had a good memory for the supposed crimes I had committed against her. I don’t think she ever forgot any argument we had or any fight or disagreement about anything. Heather could bring up something that upset her when she was five just as easily as something that happened last weekend.
“I’m sure you’ll be great,” I said. Why did I sound so fake? Was I upset that she was invading my space? Drama Club had always been my thing.
I led Heather to a seat on the aisle in the fourth row, and we watched the other auditions. The part of Claire was the last role in the tryouts, and only one other girl besides Heather was interested in the part.
“This is a lock,” Heather whispered, squeezing my hand.
Mr. G called Heather up to the stage. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden stage floor because the auditorium was nearly empty. Most everyone had auditioned and left.
As Heather began, I realized I was holding my breath. Of course, I’d never seen her act or perform. I had no way of knowing that she would be so awful. I mean, her performance was so lame, so . . . dead, I was waiting for Mr. G to hold a finger under her nose to see if she was breathing.
She said every line in a low monotone. Even though she was speaking into a microphone, I could barely hear her. She never changed her tone, and she read everything so seriously, so earnestly, she didn’t seem to realize that most of the lines were supposed to be funny.
When she finished, a smile spread over her face. Mr. G smiled back at her. “Thanks for auditioning. We’ll let you know, Heather.” Then he called Kathy Taylor, the other girl who wanted to be Claire, to the stage. I knew that Kathy didn’t really have to audition. She had the part without saying a word.
Heather still had that triumphant smile on her face as she walked up the aisle to me. It was easy to see she was happy with her performance. Her hands were balled into tight fists and she was swinging her arms as she walked.
“Well? Poppy? What do you think?” she asked me. “Was I okay?”
I hesitated. Should I start World War III and break up the family by telling her the truth? Should I lie? Would it be better for Heather if I told the truth?
“You were awesome,” I said.
She nodded, as if agreeing with me. “Thanks. I won’t be home for dinner. Brie and I are studying for our science test together.”
Brie? I’d never heard that name before. A new friend, I guessed.
I watched her trot up the aisle. I suddenly felt sorry for her. I mean, I love my sister. We used to be a lot closer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her and care about her.
And I hated to see her be so totally clueless.
Keith was waiting for me in the hall as I stepped out of the auditorium. He had been typing furiously on his phone, but he slid it into his pocket when he saw me. He kissed my cheek. “How’d it go?”
I frowned. “I would describe my audition as not great.”
He blinked. “Not great? What does that mean?”
“I sucked out loud.”
He locked his eyes on mine. “You’re always so hard on yourself.”
Ha. I knew he was trying to say the right thing. But I also knew that he was completely wrong. I’m almost never hard on myself. I have a totally upbeat attitude. One of my best qualities is that I never get in my own way.
I’ll admit I can be hard on other people. Maybe I can be too judgmental. But I have a good, balanced view of myself. I think, unlike most kids my age, I’m confident and enthusiastic, and I’ve found the things I like to fill my life with.
So . . . Keith saying that I’m always hard on myself just showed how he didn’t know me at all. And I suddenly found myself thinking about Jack. Truth is, I kept having flashbacks about that night we were together in his truck. And I kept wondering when I would see Jack again.
“Why are you here so late?” I asked.
“Debate Club meeting,” he said. “And I wanted to catch up to you, see how the tryout went.” His eyes flashed. “I can’t believe you didn’t kill it.”
“Believe it,” I said. I started toward the front doors.
He followed me. “Want to hang for a
bit? Get a coffee or something? A Coke?”
I didn’t want to hang for a bit. In that moment, I realized that Keith was history. I just had to figure out how to break up with him.
It wasn’t Jack’s fault. But Jack had helped me see that I was spending too much time with the wrong guy, a guy who didn’t really ring my bells or push my buttons or whatever people say when they’re trying to say they’re just not crazy about someone.
“I can’t,” I said, walking faster, hoping to get away without too much explanation. “I promised my mom.”
“Promised her what?”
But I was out the door now, into the late afternoon sunlight, gold on the lawn in front of the high school, shadows dancing across the grass as the sun filtered through the shifting trees. The air smelled fresh and sweet, and I turned and saw that Keith hadn’t followed me. A wave of relief spread over me.
Weird. I had thought I really liked Keith once. But when was that? I couldn’t really remember anymore.
My house is four blocks from school. I started striding along the sidewalk, my brain spinning, a mix of Keith and Jack and my lame audition and Heather, Heather plunging that knife in her chest . . . Why did she want to frighten me like that? Was she so desperate for my attention?
I waved to some guys who drove by in a blue SUV, hip-hop music blasting from the open windows. One of them was pounding the side of the car in rhythm with the thumping beats.
I crossed the street and was halfway down the block when I saw the patrol car. Black and white, the words Shadyside Police in stern black letters on the door. The car slowed nearly to a stop. I could see the cop behind the wheel. His face was hidden in shadow, but I could see that he was turned toward me. Watching me.
I gave him a wave, but he didn’t react. Just stared out at me. I started to walk a little faster. He inched the patrol car forward, keeping it at my side.
I turned toward him again and yelled, “Hey.” But he still didn’t react in any way.
I realized my heart had started bumping against my chest. My muscles tightened. This was definitely creepy. I kept walking. He kept his car sliding along with me.
I stepped off the sidewalk and began to approach him. Before I could get there, he hit the gas and roared away, tires squealing against the pavement.
I stood there watching the patrol car until it sped around a corner and vanished. A chill rolled down my back. My heart was still thumping.
What was that about?
I had no way of knowing that I’d be seeing him again. . . . Seeing a lot of police officers. No way of knowing that the people I cared about would start dying . . . one by one.
7
Ivy Chimes In
On Friday night, Jeremy stayed at my house for dinner, but there was a mix-up, and he was supposed to be at his cousin’s with the rest of his family. I guess they kept texting him and calling his cell for an hour. But typical Jeremy. His phone was out of power and he didn’t even know it.
Sometimes I think Jeremy is a Martian or from some other planet because his head isn’t always on Earth. He has a spacey quality, which I have to admit I like. He’s a good guy, funny and smart, but sometimes he just zones out.
His mind drifts away on its own. Sometimes when a bunch of us are together talking about something, I glance at him and I can see that he isn’t hearing a word.
What is he thinking about? I always accuse him of thinking about things back on his home planet. Jeremy says he’s a royal prince on his planet and he could have me beheaded for making fun of him. Then we both laugh because we have the same twisted sense of humor.
He’s not just a little flaky. Jeremy has a lot of good qualities. He will sit through all the terrible reality TV shows I love to watch, even The Bachelor. He doesn’t make fun of me—too much—for believing everything I read in the gossip magazines and talking about those celebs as if they are my closest personal friends.
And he pretends he enjoys helping me bake cookies or a cake every weekend. I love baking things. I love the whole process. And I make an awesome treat for my family every Saturday, and Jeremy pretends he enjoys helping, when I know he’d rather be watching baseball or some other sport, or hanging out with Manny Kline, playing World of Warcraft or Grand Theft Auto on Manny’s enormous flat-screen TV.
Those are his good qualities. Of course, I have to put up with all his allergies. The poor dude. He’s allergic to nuts and peanuts and some dairy products and some flowers. He’s even allergic to flea bites—and a mosquito bite will make his whole arm swell up and make it hard for him to breathe.
Can you imagine?
What a way to go through life. If I had those allergies, I’d just crunch myself in a corner and not go anywhere and not be any fun at all. So, in a way, Jeremy is very brave, I think.
But tonight he was an idiot, forgetting about his cousin’s dinner. And why did I get blamed?
I mean seriously. My parents blamed me for inviting Jeremy over. And he blamed me, too. He said I distracted him and caused him to forget where he was supposed to be. That’s kind of sweet, but of course, it’s ridiculous.
And then Mom served ham tonight, and Jeremy is horribly allergic to ham, so she had to make him a tuna-fish sandwich. The whole night was basically a disaster. Not to mention I was having a bad hair night. I just couldn’t get it to fall properly, and I ended up tying it back with a hair band, which I don’t like to do. And it felt creaky to me. Like I hadn’t entirely washed the conditioner out. You know the feeling.
I hate it when my hair makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s all I can think about. I know I’m weird about it. Poppy never stops being in my face about how I’m obsessed with my hair.
So I shampooed it as soon as Jeremy left. And then I was up in my room, breezing through the new Us Weekly on my iPad when I knew I should be checking the English assignment. My phone rang—my new phone—I hadn’t even had time to download half my stuff. And I couldn’t hide my surprise that Keith was calling because Keith never calls me.
The new phone felt heavy in my hand. I’d bought the biggest model. A mistake? “Hey,” I said. “Everything okay?” I normally wouldn’t ask that, but like I said, Keith never calls me.
“Yeah. Sure. How you doing?”
“Fine. Just finding ways to put off doing any homework.”
He snickered. “Is Poppy there?”
“Huh? Here? No.”
“Oh. I thought maybe . . .” His voice trailed off.
“No. I haven’t seen her.”
“I’ve . . . been texting her, and she hasn’t answered,” he said, a little breathless.
“Maybe her phone is dead,” I said. “It’s been going around. It happened to Jeremy tonight.”
“Ivy, have you noticed? She’s been acting weird.”
I hesitated. Where was he going with this? I knew Poppy was thinking of breaking up with him. We’d talked about it more than once. Actually, Poppy talked about it a lot. She was so conflicted. After our last discussion, over two-dollar double cheeseburgers at Lefty’s, I’d actually thought she wanted me to decide.
“Well . . . I think Poppy is a little depressed about her audition for the play. She doesn’t think she’s going to get the part she wanted.”
“I waited for her after school,” Keith said. “I thought we could talk about it, or maybe I could try to cheer her up. You know. But she seemed in a big hurry. She didn’t even want to talk to me.”
“Because of the audition,” I said. “And her sister. Heather showed up. Did you know that? Heather showed up and auditioned, too.”
“I didn’t know. Poppy was surprised?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“Poppy likes her own space,” Keith said. “She probably hated Heather showing up like that.”
“Probably,” I said. “I think Heather is okay. I mean, she’s a little whiny, you know. A little drippy. But I always think Poppy should give her a break.”
“Has Poppy said anything to you?” Keith asked. “
About me?”
“About you? Like what?” I started to feel it getting awkward. I’m Poppy’s best friend, and I’m not going to betray any trust between us. Besides, it’s not my job to break up with Keith for her. If she wants to dump him, she has to do it on her own.
“Has she said anything about . . . you know . . . her and me?” Of course, he felt awkward, too. “I know she was honked off at me because I didn’t stay for the pet-shop prank. But I have to be careful, Ivy. Seriously. I’m on the waiting list at Tufts, and I can’t do anything crazy that’ll screw me up.”
“Keith—”
“My dad went to Tufts, and he’s already disappointed that I’m only on the waiting list. So if I got caught in a joke like that pet-store thing, and the store owner pressed charges, and it ended up on Facebook or Instagram or something . . .”
He wanted me to say it was okay that he ran off and didn’t help out with our prank. I didn’t care. But I knew it had really annoyed Poppy. She’s always so enthusiastic about things. I think it reminded her of just how different she and Keith are.
Keith is a nice, straight-arrow kind of guy, but he’s definitely lacking in fun.
“You should talk to her,” I said. The phone suddenly felt heavier in my hand. I was ready to click off.
“I’m trying to,” Keith said. “But do you think there’s a problem?”
“You should talk to her,” I repeated. Then I had a thought. “I’m going over to her house,” I said. “Maybe I could tell her you’re trying to reach her.”
“You’re going over there?”
“Yeah. I just got a new phone, and Poppy is so good with phones. I need her to help me get back some of my apps.”
“Maybe I’ll swing by, too,” Keith said.
“No. Why not let me talk to her? I’ll tell her to give you a call.”
“Oh. Okay.” His voice became soft. “You know, I think Poppy is awesome.”
“Me too,” I said. Was he going to get all gooey? I think I liked him better when he was a stiff.
A long pause. He coughed. “Okay. Well . . . see you.”