“You’ve got to get better at partying,” Ruth told me. “We’re leaving for college in like two years, you know.” Next year was supposed to be so much fun. Prom and choosing colleges and parties with beer kegs. A few days ago, Dom asked me if I’d given any thought to Ivy League schools and I barked at him to can it. I don’t want to talk about leaving now that there’s no one to be excited about it with.
I get the stuff from my locker, and when I come back down the stairs there’s Libby Quinn. She’s taking down the old black-and-white printouts of Ruth’s school photo and putting up color fliers for the next Foundation Brigade meeting. It takes her a second to notice me.
TRIAL APPROACHING!!!
NOW IS OUR TIME FOR JUSTICE!!!
Come to Libby Quinn’s house
11/1 at 3 p.m. 11 Elm Street.
Apple juice and carrot sticks available.
Bring anti-Widdacombe feelings and rally ideas!
“Hello, Katie,” Libby says. “I got your little threatening text.” She flattens one of the fliers against the metal locker and rips several pieces of masking tape from a roll with her teeth. “You’re so delusional. And to think I thought I could get through to you.” She shakes her head. “I could have really made something of you.”
“Stop,” I murmur. I want to punch her in the gut. I mean, even though Ruth harbored similar feelings about my needing a transformation, it’s somehow more obnoxious hearing it from Libby’s mouth. What was she imagining? Vigils and makeovers?
“Oh Katie.” Libby bats her eyes. “You need help—in so, so many ways. Like your clothes, for starters.” She nods at my sweater, which is perfectly fine, though also plaid.
“Whatever, Libby, not all of us can shop on the internet, okay? Also my name is Kippy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to remember since our names are pretty much exactly the same.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” She sneers. “We missed you at that last meeting, by the way, even though you, like, basically promised to come.” She presses loops of tape onto the next flier, keeping her eyes on me the whole time, and raises her eyebrows. “WWRT?”
“Excuse me?”
“What Would Ruth Think?”
I slip my thumbs under my backpack straps, trying to control myself, ready to pounce. Libby’s tall and has a lot of repressed rage, and is also a potential suspect, I remind myself. She could easily murder me—or at least scratch my face really bad. What would Miss Rosa say again? Think like a giraffe.
Libby shrugs sarcastically. “Maybe you were too busy hanging out with Davey Fried? That’s supernice of you, by the way. What’ll you do next, date Colt? Everyone knows that’s what you wanted the whole time.” She uses her fingernail to flatten the edge of the flier against the wall. “Exactly how many ways can you betray her, Katie?”
“It’s Kippy,” I scream, and tackle her against the lockers. Her head hits the metal hard, and before I know it, I’m climbing all over her, tugging on her hair and raking my nails down her neck. By the time I realize what’s happening, I’m sitting on her chest with her head between my knees and strands of her hair between my fingers, fighting the urge to scream, “Banzai!”
“I know about you and Colt,” I say, breathing heavily. “I have proof and I’m gonna show the police, how’s that?” Libby lies beneath me looking stunned. I’m shocked, too, but mostly intrigued by my own behavior. Violence is sort of easy, I guess, if you think you’ve got some kind of reason for it. I shift my weight on Libby’s chest and reach into my backpack for Ruth’s journal.
Potential suspect types
1. Racist-ish
2. Can justify what they’ve done
3. Homicidal lesbian?
4. Doesn’t like interruptions.
Wants to be in charge.
5. Likes calling people names
6. Likable
I’m definitely at number two right now.
I was going to read Libby the journal entry about her and Colt out loud but instead I’m stuck on the list of attributes. “Hmmmm . . .” I tap my pencil against number six and peer down at Libby. She kind of fits every trait except for that one.
“WTF you crazy asshole!” she yells, tossing me off her and touching the back of her ear. There’s blood on her fingers. “You fucking bit me!”
She’s right—I didn’t even know I did that.
“And I already told the police about me and Colt for your information!” she shouts. Her crucifix necklace slides off her neck onto the linoleum, landing in the shape of a snake. I guess I yanked on it and broke the chain.
“What?”
“You’re a psychopath,” she hisses. “I knew it—everyone always said you had problems.” She’s laughing but there are tears in her eyes. “Yeah fine, I hooked up with him, okay? Like, a lot. Gah might not like it but it’s not against the law, you know.” We’re slumped side by side with our backs against the lockers. She slides a safe distance away, then turns to look at me and I notice there’s blood trickling down her neck. “The whole reason I started RFFB in the first place was because I felt so bad about it. Are you happy now?”
There goes her motive. I guess I should take her off the list and maybe give her a hug or something. “Libby, I’m really—”
“Crazy? Believe me, I know.” Libby winces, rubbing the back of her head. Unsettling scenarios spring to mind—a concussion, maybe, or court-sanctioned support groups and Dom breathing down my neck even harder than usual. I stumble to my feet, readjusting my backpack.
“I was just going to say, ‘I’m sorry,’” I mutter. “That’s all.” Then I run.
In the parking lot, I’m barreling toward Rhonda when I hear someone call my name. It takes me a second to realize they’ve said “Banzai,” not “Kippy.”
“Banzai!” the voice shouts again.
I turn around and it’s Mildred, the lunch lady.
“I saw what happened,” she says, trudging toward me. “Here.” She’s holding out a sheet of paper.
“What are you doing?” I snap. “Are you following me now or something?” My words sound weird, like they’re zipping out of my mouth. The whole world feels like it’s in fast forward.
“No.” Mildred tucks a strand of hair into her hairnet. “Head start on tomorrow’s meat loaf.” She smiles, waving the paper in my direction. “Listen, you don’t have to like me—and I’m not here to scold you about what happened back there with that Oompa Loompa—looking girl—”
“It’s fake tanner.”
“Fine, I’m just saying”—she waves the paper at me harder—“listen, this here’s the NVCG phone tree. If you need anything, you can call me.”
When I don’t take it right away she looks embarrassed. “Fine,” she yells. And before I can pacify her, she crumples the phone tree into a ball, lobs it at my feet, and storms back toward the cafeteria.