“Oof,” I whisper.
“Or maybe I should call you Traitor.” She twirls her hair around her finger and I smile, trying to look friendly. If I were an animal in the wild I would be the kind that rolls into a ball in front of predators. Or maybe the kind that’s objectively very pleasant but secretly poisonous.
“Wow, I really like what you’ve done with your armband,” I blurt. “It’s, like, way different from all those other ones, in my opinion.” She’s decorated hers with a pink crucifix.
Mr. Jake gestures again at the couch. “Why don’t we get started?”
I try to sit as far away from Libby as possible, but this proves to be difficult, as the couch is actually a love seat. No matter what I do, our legs are basically touching. There’s a tissue box on the coffee table in front of us and Libby plucks one out and presses it to her face. Is she actually crying?
“Wow.” I let out a big sigh and look around, trying to seem impressed. “Well thanks a lot for inviting me.”
Libby sneers and rolls her eyes. “Stop trying to act like you don’t know what this is about, Katie. The entire RFFB—excuse me, Mr. Jake, I’m talking about the Ruth Fried Foundation Brigade. Well our email list got this thing saying you’re basically trying to barricade our whole goal for justice. What are you doing going to the witch’s house and asking her to give an alibi for Colt? Doris Klitch is a known alcoholic for goodness sake! Why would you ever expose yourself to her insanity?”
How does she know I went to Mrs. Klitch’s? “Wait, what email?” No wonder everyone was staring at me in chemistry.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She shifts so that her boob is smushed against my shoulder and our thighs are touching all the way to the knee. “I’ve decided you’re not accepting what’s what, and it isn’t healthy.” She looks down her nose at me. “I notice you’ve got your belt back on.”
It’s true. I’m wearing my utility belt again. I used to wear it a lot in elementary school because I was always drawing animals back then and it was a way to have constant easy access to my markers. Also I may or may not have thought I was Batman.
“So?” I mumble. This time the belt is for my Dictaphone. Oh, and some pens and Ruth’s journal in case I think of something related to the case. I guess it’s kind of weird to write in a dead person’s diary—because maybe you’re desecrating something? But I want to keep all the evidence in one place. Like Ralph said, I’ve got to arm myself. Plus I’m planning to work up the nerve to interview Mrs. Klitch after school and it’ll be easier if the Dictaphone’s in my belt. Having a recorder on a table is distracting, I decided. Hands-free conversation is more personal.
“That’s so gay,” Libby mutters. “Not like gay gay—I’m not a bigot or anything—I mean like retarded gay.”
“Libby, come on.” I try to shrug her boob off me but it’s too heavy. “What do you mean you got an email about me?” The only person I told about Mrs. Klitch was Ralph—unless Mrs. Klitch sent the email. I guess I also emailed Colt’s parents about what I’d found out. I just thought they should know.
“Shh.” Libby pats my hand. “I’m here to help.”
Mr. Jake smiles from his chair. “Libby would like to stage an intervention.”
She nods. “The thing is, Ruth is dead, honey. It’s time to accept that and start doing charity stuff.” Her lip curls sympathetically. “Let’s start the intervention by you remembering some good things about her—just get it off your chest. Then we can light a candle and you never have to think about her by yourself ever again and you can start coming to RFFB meetings. So go ahead. Say a memory out loud.”
I think about Ruth and I holding hands at the elementary school Halloween parade. The two of us at the end of her driveway dancing for cars that never stopped. “It’s none of your business,” I say.
Libby looks at Mr. Jake and raises her eyebrows. “Do you see what I’m dealing with here?”
Mr. Jake taps his fingers together and puckers his lips. “Tell me, Katie: Do you feel like an orphan?”
I pull the hem of my turtleneck over my utility belt. You’d think he would know my name since he and my dad are basically rivals. Am I really so invisible? “How long do I have to stay here, exactly?”
Libby presses her boob harder into my arm. “I mean, let’s count this out, shall we?” She holds up a finger. “One. You give a really weird speech in front of everyone (that was the funeral, obvi). Two. You invent some fantasy world and crawl around on your hands and knees looking for something that doesn’t exist so you can try and help a known killer. And Three”—Libby points her chin at me—“I care about you.”
She’s looking at me so intently that I feel I have to say something. “I care about you, too,” I babble.
“Brava!” says Mr. Jake.
Libby raises her hand and waits for him to call on her. “Mr. Jake, I think Katie should probably have to come to the brigade meeting tonight. Personally, I think it would give us all some closure.” She turns to me and smiles. There is glitter lipstick on her front tooth.
“Now I’m no rule enforcer because I’m not a regular teacher—I’m a cool teacher, don’tcha know,” Mr. Jake says. “But what do you think, Katie? Could you hop on board that meeting? Bring a bit of the so-called verve?” He definitely uses those teeth-whitening strips.
Libby is smiling, and looking really nice all of a sudden—and even though I know she probably doesn’t actually care, I still don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I’ll try,” I announce.
Libby stares at me with a vacant expression that’s probably linked to her learning disability. It’s true she’s going to have to pull some pretty outrageous stunts if she wants to get into Madison. One time for English class, she literally did a current events presentation on aliens invading because she didn’t know the difference between tabloids and regular papers.
“‘I’ll try’ is what a bitch would say,” Libby whispers in my ear. “Make it yes, or die.”
“Whoa, Libby . . .” I glance at Mr. Jake but he seems not to have heard.
“I’m done!” Libby chirps, batting her eyes at Mr. Jake. “I feel like I got everything off my chest.”
“Well okay,” Mr. Jake intones, opening his arms for what looks like a hug. Libby leaps to her feet and actually embraces him, then grabs me by the elbow and drags me into the hallway, jabbering about RFFB member’s dues and poster parties.
“Let’s turn over another new leaf, okay?” she says. “Even though I think it’s totally weird how I caught you hanging out with Ruth’s brother like the second she died.” She elbows me teasingly. “You little slut.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Oh totally.” Libby turns and grabs me by the shoulders, her eyes sparkling. “But watch out because love can make you do crazy things, Katie, believe me.” She links her arm through mine and continues walking down the hall. “I’m just saying. Plus you’re, like, an important mascot now for the group!” She’s got the biggest smile on her face and keeps intentionally swinging her ponytail from side to side. “Colt deserves to rot for what he’s done.” She squeezes my arm so hard that I yelp and pull away. When my mom died, Libby and all the other girls in my grade besides Ruth were always descending on me in front of teachers, trying to braid my hair or tell me I’d done a good crayon drawing, or whatever. They were only seven but they’d seen enough TV to want to be part of my drama—be mothers to me, I guess, like I was a doll to practice on. They all got bored with it after a few weeks and started ignoring me again. But this time the attention feels different somehow. Creepier.