I stared at it.

  "You getting in or what?" he asked.

  I bit my lip.

  "Earth to Hartley?"

  "I'm debating."

  Chase rolled his eyes. "Just get in the car, Hart."

  He walked around to the driver's side, got in, and gunned the engine, creating a cloud of black smoke in the region of his precarious muffler.

  But without much other choice, I hopped in, buckled my seat belt, and gripped the side door for dear life.

  The first thing Chase did was crank up the radio so high the Camaro's windows vibrated.

  I said a silent prayer and held on tight.

  Ten minutes, two "orange" lights, and three "California stops" later, we arrived in front of the address listed under Quinn's name in our school's buzz book. I pried my fingers out of the white-knuckled position they'd frozen into then silently counted to see if my teeth were still intact. Yep, all there, despite rattling together like Tic Tacs as we'd caught air on the speed bumps leading to her neighborhood.

  Chase, oblivious to my concerns, hopped out of the car, shoving his hands into his pockets as we made our way up the front walk. He rang the bell, and a beat later, it was opened by a middle-aged guy with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark looking scowl on his face.

  "Yeah?" he asked.

  I shifted from foot to foot, suddenly nervous. "Um, hi," I said, waving. "Is Quinn here?"

  "Quinn's grounded," he said, moving to shut the door.

  "Wait!" I raised a hand.

  He paused, lifted an eyebrow at me, but continued the scowl thing.

  "We're, uh…here about homework," I lied.

  Chase shot me a look but thankfully remained silent.

  "Homework?" the guy asked.

  "Um, yeah. Quinn's teachers didn't want her to get behind, so we're here to tell her what her homework is."

  He paused a moment, then looked from me to Chase. Then back at me. Clearly Chase wasn't what he'd expect in a messenger of the teachers, but he finally shrugged. "Fine," he said. "I'll get her. But she has five minutes—that's it."

  I nodded. Hopefully that was all we needed.

  He stepped back, pulling the door shut again, as we heard him call out to Quinn.

  Chase elbowed me in the ribs. "Nice one, Featherstone," he whispered.

  I tried not to grin at the praise as the door opened again to reveal Quinn.

  While Quinn and Sydney had been best friends all through high school, the two could not be more opposite in the looks department. Sydney had been brunette, green eyed, tall. She'd had long wavy hair that was always professionally highlighted and perfectly curled, and she'd had her finger (and closet) firmly on the pulse of the latest fashions. Not only had Sydney been captain of the lacrosse team, a starting pitcher on the girls' softball team, and a 100-meter dash record holder on the track team, but she'd also been on the debate team, the yearbook club, and was head of the Spirit Week committee. Basically, Sydney had had a hand in everything that happened at HHH.

  Quinn's extracurricular activities, on the other hand, started and ended with the athletics department. She was a sporty girl through and through. The only time she wasn't wearing a pair of sweats was when she was in an HHH jersey of some sort. Quinn was slimmer than Sydney had been—all lean muscle—and half Japanese, giving her a warm tan, straight dark hair, and brown, almond-shaped eyes that created an exotic look.

  Today, Quinn was wearing the Sporty Girl uniform of pink sweatpants, a T-shirt, and Ugg boots. The word Juicy was written down the right leg of her sweats, which was ironic considering I couldn't see an ounce of body fat on her from where I was standing.

  While Sydney may have been her ex-BFF, I could see that Quinn's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, like she'd spent a fair amount of the morning crying. I suddenly felt bad for her and just a little guilty that we were there to question her as a suspect.

  "Hey, Quinn," I said as she stared at the two of us on her doorstep. "I'm Hartley. I'm with the Herbert Hoover High Homepage."

  Quinn nodded, her ponytail bobbing up and down behind her. "I recognize you," she said.

  "We wanted to ask you some questions about Sydney for the paper," Chase added.

  "Oh." Quinn's eyes hit the ground. "Um, sure, I guess."

  "You two were friends, right?" Chase asked.

  Quinn nodded, her eyes flickering up from the cement porch. "Yeah. Since 6th grade."

  "But she's the reason you're suspended?" I asked.

  For just a second I could have sworn I saw anger flash through her veil of grief, but it was quickly swallowed up as Quinn replied, "Yeah, but she was my best friend for four years. We did everything together, you know?"

  "Including cheat on tests," Chase pointed out.

  Quinn sighed. "Look, it was stupid. I know."

  "Sydney told the principal that it was your idea."

  "It was. And it was stupid," Quinn repeated.

  "Then why did you do it?" I asked.

  "Because I needed to get a good grade on that test! Look, Mr. Lipkins is one of the hardest teachers on campus. I'm not a brainy kind of person, you know? I mean, math isn't my thing. I was struggling just to get a C in that class, and unless I got a 3.4 overall GPA, I was going to get cut from the lacrosse team."

  "Lacrosse means that much to you?" I asked. According to Sam, it was just this side of hell on earth. Then again, the only thing "sporty" about Sam was her collection of cute hoodies.

  "I need to stay on the team," Quinn explained. "I'm counting on a sports scholarship. My parents can barely afford my brother going to community college. There's no way they can foot the bill for a UC."

  I nodded. I couldn't count how many thinly veiled (and sometimes not so thinly) references my own mom made to the cost of college on a daily basis. The day I'd started looking at UC Berkeley, she'd started playing the lottery.

  "Why did Sydney cheat?" Chase asked. "Was math not her thing, either?"

  Quinn paused. "Actually, Sydney was pretty good at math. But lately, with lacrosse and Homecoming plus yearbook and all her other after school stuff, she didn't have any time to study. When I suggested cheating, she was relieved. Like she had one less thing to worry about."

  "Did she seem overly worried to you?" Chase asked, jumping on the word. "Stressed, depressed…suicidal?"

  Quinn pursed her lips together, taking a moment with that one. "If you had asked me that last week, I would have said no way. Sydney was all about overachieving. And overachievers don't throw in the towel. But now…" She trailed off, shrugging her shoulders in indecision. "Honestly, I don't know. I mean, I hadn't really seen her much since Tuesday."

  "You mean, since she ratted you out?" Chase said, coming to the point of our interrogation.

  Quinn turned on him, that flash of anger clearly visible this time. "Yeah."

  "That must have upset you," I added.

  Quinn nodded. "Yeah, it did. It was her idea to put the answers on our nails. I told her we should just memorize them, but she said she didn't have time. Then she gets caught, just like I said she would, and she points a finger at me? Totally unfair."

  "I agree," I said. "So unfair. Where were you yesterday after school?"

  Quinn cocked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, do you have an alibi for Sydney's time of death?"

  She blinked her dark eyes at me. Then she turned to Chase. "Is she for real?"

  "Unfortunately," Chase mumbled. Though, I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth tilt upward into a grin.

  "Look, if Sydney wasn't suicidal, she must have been killed by someone else," I reasoned.

  Quinn shook her head from side to side so hard that her ponytail looked like a flyswatter, flapping behind her. "Well, it wasn't me! Look, yes, I was mad at Sydney, but come on. I wouldn't kill her."

  "Then where were you?" I asked again.

  "Here! Geez, I'm grounded for the rest of my natural life. I can't even sneeze without my dad hovering over me," she said, gesturing behind her to the closed door. "Like I could get out to kill someone."

  While it wasn't an ironclad alibi, Dad did seem pretty vigilant.

  "Do you know anyone else who might have had a problem with Sydney?" Chase asked.

  Quinn shrugged again. "No clue. I mean, we totally decimated West San Jose High last week at the game."

  "Anyone else? Anyone at our school?"

  Quinn just shrugged again. "I don't know."

  "Let's go back to the test," I jumped in. "How did you and Sydney get the answers in the first place?"

  Quinn paused, looking from me to Chase. "Sydney didn't want me to say. But"—she sucked in a breath—"I guess with her gone, it doesn't really matter now. Sydney bought them."

  I raised an eyebrow. "From who?"

  "Got me." More shrugging.

  I shot her a get real look.

  "Seriously!" she protested. "Look, I don't know where Sydney got them. She said her boyfriend Connor knew a guy, and the next thing I know she's got this guy's number."

  "And she didn't tell you who this guy was?"

  Quinn shook her head. "I don't think she knew either. The buy was all set up anonymously."

  "How?" I asked.

  "She texted the guy which class she wanted the answers for, then exchanged cash for them."

  "Where did she do the exchange?" I asked.

  "At the football game last Friday night. That's where this guy does business. She was supposed to put the money under a big rock outside the mascot's dressing room before the game started. Then the guy texted her the answers."

  I nodded. It sounded like a perfect drop place to me. Lots of people would be around at the game, so it wasn't likely the guy selling cheats would stand out. But the mascot room was isolated enough that it was a safe bet no one else would stumble across the cash before he could.

  "He does this every Friday?" Chase asked.

  Quinn nodded. "That's what Sydney said."

  "Quinn," her dad called from inside the house. Apparently our five minutes was up.

  "I gotta go," she said. She moved to close the door but paused just before she got there. "Look, I would never hurt Sydney. We had our differences, but she was my best friend."

  * * *

  "So," Chase said as we walked back down the front walk to his car. "Do we believe her?"

  I shrugged. "She could have slipped away from her dad long enough to shove Sydney into the swimming pool."

  Chase nodded. "It's possible." He opened the Camaro's driver's side door (which groaned loudly in protest) and got in. "But I like the cheating angle better."

  I followed suit, steeling myself for another wild ride back to school. "So you think Quinn was telling the truth about how they got the answers?"

  Chase shrugged. "Well, there's only one way to find out." He turned to me, grinned, and then shot me a wink as he gunned the engine. "Want to go to the football game with me tonight, Featherstone?"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It wasn't until last period was over that I got a chance to fill Sam in on what Quinn had said. She was on the west field again, at lacrosse practice. Only today, I noticed as I made my way toward the bleachers, the team had a whole different vibe. While Sydney and Quinn being suspended might have dampened their hopes of making nationals this year, Sydney's death had put a virtual black cloud over the team, causing the girls to run just a little slower, the coach to yell just a little softer, and the enthusiasm to slide notches down the spirit scale. On the upside, Sam was only two yards behind all the other players today instead of three.

  I waited until the coach blew her whistle, signaling a water break, before hailing Sam over.

  "Hey," she said, panting as she jogged toward me. "I think I'm getting the hang of this." She leaned on her stick, taking in deep breaths. "I almost touched the ball once today."

  "Awesome!" I had to hand it to her, she was optimistic if nothing else. Quickly, I filled her in on Chase's and my interview with Quinn.

  "So do you think she did it?" Sam asked when I was finished.

  I shook my head. "Not sure. If her dad really is watching her like a hawk, it would be hard for her to slip out."

  "But not impossible," Sam pointed out.

  "True." I paused. "But if someone killed Sydney to keep her from talking to me, I'm not sure what Sydney would have had to tell me about Quinn."

  "So, you think it was because Sydney knew something about who was selling the test answers?"

  I shrugged. While selling the answers to a test was enough to get someone suspended, possibly even expelled, I wasn't sure it was enough to kill over. "I guess it's possible he killed Sydney to avoid exposure."

  "So you're going to the football game tonight to find him?"

  I nodded then told her the plan that Chase and I had concocted in the car as we'd driven back from Quinn's house. It was pretty simple, really. We'd wait until the game started, then hide out where we could watch the mascot room. As soon as the cheat seller showed up to collect his cash, we'd catch him.

  "Wait," Sam said when I'd finished. "You and Chase are going?"

  "Yeah."

  "As in together?"

  "Well, kinda…"

  "As in, you're going to the football game together?"

  "I'm not really sure if—"

  "Ohmigod, did Chase ask you out?"

  "No!" I made a pft sound through my teeth. "No way. We're going to the game to catch the cheater. It's a stakeout. That's it."

  "But he did ask you to go with him, right?"

  I pursed my lips together, trying to remember what he'd said. "Well, yeah. But I'm sure he didn't mean with him, with him."

  "Tell me the exact words he used," Sam ordered, leaning forward on her stick.

  "He said 'wanna go to the football game with me?'"

  Sam threw her hands up. "That's it. He asked you out. On a date."

  I shook my head. "I really don't think he meant it like that."

  "Are you sure?" Sam narrowed her eyes at me.

  "Yes. No. I…I don't know! He said it, and he winked at me."

  "Whoa!" Sam dropped her stick, putting both hands up. "You didn't mention a wink. You never said anything about a wink!"

  "Why? What's the wink mean?" I asked, starting to get a little nervous.

  "Hartley, he totally asked you out."

  "No." I shook my head. "Absolutely not." I paused. "I mean, I don't think he did."

  "As soon as practice is over, we're getting you home and dressed to kill just in case."

  I rolled my eyes. "This is so not like that, Sam."

  "Yeah, well, better safe than sorry."

  * * *

  Two hours later, the entire contents of my closet were strewn out on my bed, and I was beginning to feel sorry I ever agreed to let Sam help me play it safe.

  She held up a pair of jeans and a tank top with a sparkly butterfly on the front.

  "The jeans say chill, but the top says flirty."

  "I'm not sure about flirty—" I started, but Sam ran right over me. She was in her element. In the zone.

  And I was in serious trouble.

  "But see, this skirt," she said, holding up a white denim mini, "says flirty, and if you pair it with this pink Henley," she added, holding up the butterfly shirt, "it says casual yet feminine, too."

  "I like casual," I said, hanging on that word.

  "On the other hand," Sam said, dropping the outfit in a heap on my floor as she grabbed another pair of hangers. "This tube dress totally says sophisticated, and if you pair it with this denim jacket and cowboy boots, it says chic with an edge."

  Apparently my clothes were going to be doing a lot of talking tonight.

  "Sam, the game starts in half an hour. Can we please just pick something?"

  Her eyes ping-ponged between the casual-flirty and the flirty-casual outfits before she finally shoved the tube dress at me. "We're going edgy chic. And I think I can glam your makeup just enough to pull this off."

  "Wait—makeup?" I wore a little mascara on a daily basis and had a tube of pink lip gloss conveniently tucked in my book bag, but that was about it.

  Sam must have read my mind, as she waved me off. "Don't worry. I have an emergency touch-up kit in my backpack. We'll have you looking date-ready in no time."

  Somehow, that did little to relieve my worry.

  By the time Sam was done with me, I was casual-chic-flirty, my makeup was edgy-sophisticated-glam, and my nerves were stretched-to-their-limit raw.

  Not to mention that my heels (I'd drawn the line at cowboy boots) were Mom-will-never-approve high.

  I slowly walked downstairs, Sam a step behind me. Mom was at the kitchen table, directly in the line of sight of the front door. She had her laptop out, her eyes intent on the screen as she scrolled with her right hand.

  "Too tall," she muttered to herself. Some more scrolling. "Too skinny." Scrolling again. Then Mom made a disgusted face. "Uh, too…hairy."

  Mental facepalm. Mom was on dating sites again.

  I took a tentative step forward, hitting the top stair.

  She didn't look up.

  I tip-toed down the rest of the stairs, one eye on Mom, one eye on the door.

  If she heard me, she didn't register it.

  Two feet from the front door, I took a deep breath and made a break for it.

  "ByeMomgoingtothefootballgameseeyalater," I quickly said as I thrust the front door open.

  "Have fun," she called. Her gaze never left the computer screen.

  * * *

  Herbert Hoover High home games were a full community event. Our school was set smack in the middle of San Jose, one of the largest cities in California and quickly filling with enough people to rival both Los Angeles and San Diego in population. Which meant that San Jose tended to divide itself into smaller communities within the larger city, each section retaining its own small-town feel: Willow Glenn in the north, Cambrian just south of that, Almaden Valley farther east, and our little section, Blossom Grove, nestled up against the Santa Cruz Mountains, where Friday nights you were either tucked in at home watching Netflix or at the football game.

 

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