7. April

7

APRIL

DECEMBER 30, 1:30 P.M.

After the LeBlancs', all I want to do is go home, curl up with Mouse, and try to dissociate until Presidents' Day. In fact, that's exactly what I'm planning to do as I walk down the marble porch steps, aiming straight for my car, when I hear Piper behind me.

"Where are you going?"

I stop, turning to look at her there on the porch. Vivian's behind her, still as pale as she's been since she came back inside to finish answering Marty's questions.

"We have to go to the darkroom," Piper says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We have to at least try to figure out what Lily meant."

I hike my camera strap up my shoulder. I don't like the thought of it, bringing Piper and Vivian to the darkroom. It's my own little cave, and like most trolls, I prefer to inhabit it in peace.

"I don't know what she was talking about," I say.

That's not true. I have an idea, but I don't like it. I don't like anything about this—how even now, from wherever the hell she is, Lily LeBlanc has managed to take control of my day and make it all about her.

Another memory from that summer burns through me: Margot bent over her phone, fist pressed to her mouth to hide a grin. As soon as she caught me looking, she stashed it. Nothing, she'd said when I asked, before telling me that, actually, she couldn't catch a movie later, because she had a "thing" she forgot about. Obviously a lie. It was also obvious who she was really texting. Lily had been trying to edge me out of their friendship for weeks, and even then, some part of me knew it was only a matter of time before she got what she wanted. She always did.

"Well, then, we'll go without you," Piper says, looking to Vivian. "Right?"

Vivian puts her hands on her hips like she's about to ask me to drop and give her twenty. "You seriously have no idea what Lily meant?"

I chew the inside of my cheek.

"Look, I know Marty thinks she just ran away, or whatever, but she's my best friend," Vivian continues. "She could be—"

"I know." I take a deep breath in and blow it out.

The thing is, part of me kind of agrees with Marty. Even if no one else can see it, staging her own disappearance seems like exactly the sort of thing Lily LeBlanc would do just to create drama in her picture-perfect life. Because nothing bad ever happens to her. She lives up in her perfect tower, looking down on the rest of us like we're little ants she could fry alive with the glow from her diamond necklace.

But I don't think I can walk away from this. Not because of Lily, but because of that text.

We need to talk about Margot.

Ever since I read those words, I've been flooded with memories of that night. Margot's hand around the lighter, the hiss of the flame. April, please.

For a full year, I've tried to forget what we did, how it ended. How I know it's my fault. But now, with Lily's message… I can't shake the feeling that maybe I was wrong. Maybe there's more to the story.

The thought is almost too big, too paralyzing to linger on, so I focus on the immediate issue—Piper and Vivian, waiting for my answer. I sigh, reaching for my keys.

"Fine," I say. "Let's go."

If nothing else, I'm not about to let them go traipsing around my darkroom unsupervised.

Beaumont is technically closed for winter break until Tuesday, but for one of the wealthiest schools in the city, they've never been all that concerned about security. They don't have to be—at a school with fifty kids per grade, everyone knows everyone, and it's easy enough to spot someone who doesn't belong.

When we get there, the iron gate by the football field is open, a groundskeeper mowing the grass to Beaumont's standard of perfection. He doesn't bat an eye as we pass, just waves a friendly hand in greeting.

We walk down the brick path beside the football field, and Piper frowns at her phone.

"What?" Vivian asks.

"Wyatt. I guess he just woke up and heard about Lily." There's a slight wrinkle in her nose, like she doesn't approve of slothful habits like sleeping past noon. Then, as she reads further, she looks worried. "He's going to the LeBlancs' to talk to Detective Rutherford."

Vivian gives her a sideways glance. "Was there anything, like… weird with them last night?"

Piper's grip tightens on her phone. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, I just got a weird vibe. Also…"

Vivian hesitates, like she's not sure if she can trust us yet—which I guess is fair. We may have gone to school together since kindergarten, but it's not like we're friends.

She sighs. "Right before she left, I saw this text on Lily's phone, from an unsaved number. I didn't see what it said, but she was weird about it."

Piper's jaw tenses. For a moment, she's quiet.

"Okay, so I might have overheard them arguing before they left," she says finally. "It sounded like Wyatt was annoyed that Lily kept texting someone." She glances at Vivian. "Do you have any idea who it might have been?"

Vivian deflates. "No."

"Hmm." Piper narrows her eyes. "Why didn't you tell Detective Rutherford about the text?"

"Why didn't you tell him that Wyatt and Lily were arguing?"

Piper holds her in an icy gaze for a moment before turning back to the path. "Because I didn't think it was important. Besides, wouldn't he have just taken that as more proof that Lily ran away because of a ‘tiff' with her boyfriend?"

Vivian doesn't answer, but I can tell she agrees. Clearly Piper can, too, because she gives her tennis skirt a self-satisfied brush.

We're nearing the end of the football field, where the mas sive athletic building marks the beginning of the upper school campus. A breeze reaches under my flannel, and I pull my sleeves over my hands, balling them into fists. Already, I'm dreading having to be back here every day, even though it's technically nice to look at. Beaumont is more like a tiny college than a high school, with red-brick buildings connected by green courtyards and open breezeways, classic French lanterns dangling above them. It's like a brochure come to life, and that's why I don't trust it. It's the kind of beauty that's too symmetrical, too airbrushed. Nothing here feels real.

We walk in what I'm sure Piper and Vivian would consider an awkward silence, but mostly, I'm glad no one's trying to make small talk. Still, when we get to the art wing, I'm relieved.

The classrooms here are clustered around a small courtyard, one room for each discipline Beaumont offers: drawing and painting, ceramics, and—my favorite, obviously—photography. Piper looks around like she's expecting to get jumped, and I wonder if she's ever even set foot here, or if she's one of those straight-A students who thinks any degree that isn't STEM or law is basically worthless.

But what she says is, "I'm pretty sure the classrooms are locked."

I pull a key out of my pocket.

Vivian quirks an eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Ms. Ramirez gave it to me," I explain, face going hot. "So I can work on my portfolio after school."

That, and I'm pretty sure she also just took pity on me. Poor, friendless April. At least let her hide from her peers in this dark hovel where she can, for a brief moment of her day, know peace.

I'll take what I can get.

But when I slide the key into the lock and twist, it's already unlocked. Weird. I push it open and step inside, greeted by the welcoming scent of photo paper, chemicals, and the lemony cleaner they use on the linoleum. I do a quick scan, but despite the unlocked door, the room is empty. Piper follows me in, and then Vivian, shutting the door behind us.

As we walk deeper inside, Vivian scans the prints clipped to the drying rack, and I realize with an instant burst of regret that they're mine. I shot them at a cemetery in the Garden District, and I've been experimenting with bleaching the film to get a distorted, surreal kind of look, but so far, I haven't gotten it right. The photos always come out messy, and not in an artistic way—just directionless. To someone like Vivian, they probably make me look like a wannabe goth, or worse, a straight-up creep.

The embarrassment must be clear on my face, because Vivian asks, "These yours?"

Reluctantly, I nod.

"They're good."

She sounds surprisingly genuine. Usually, when popular Beaumont girls talk to me, it's with an air of exaggerated niceness, like acknowledging the weird, quiet girl is some kind of tax write-off.

I shrug. "They're fine."

Without giving her any more time to reply, I speed over to the round darkroom door and push my way through to the other side. For a few glorious seconds, I'm alone again.

But the peace doesn't last for long.

"So where do we start?" Piper asks, as she and Vivian shuffle inside, glancing around the room like it's a foreign planet.

My eyes track up to the ceiling.

At first glance, you wouldn't know anything's wrong with it. But when I climb up on a stool, stand on the table, and reach up for the tile, it comes loose, sliding to the side like always.

"Okay, Mission: Impossible, " Vivian says, sounding both impressed and a little wary.

I let out a breath. I'd half expected the tile not to open. I haven't let myself check all year, but I'd assumed someone would have noticed the loose tile and fixed it by now. But why would they? No one has hidden anything here since…

The memory is so vivid, I'm almost lightheaded. Two years ago, January of sophomore year. The day I walked into the darkroom and found Margot sliding this same tile back into place. The first words she ever said to me:

"What the fuck?"

My hand had frozen around the PB&J I'd swiped from the dining room as Margot stared me down. I was both an underclassman and patently uncool, which, in the face of Margot's junior clout, gave me about as much status as a worm. But somehow, before I could stop myself, I'd answered her question with another:

"What are you doing in here?"

Margot raised an eyebrow and sat down on the table. She pulled one leg up to her chest and let the other dangle, heavy Doc Marten bobbing. An amused smile stretched on her lips, revealing her slightly pointed canines. "She speaks."

My first instinct was to back away and flee through the doors, after which I'd pretend that this entire interaction had never happened, but something made me hold my ground. Maybe it was the fact that this was my space, and she'd invaded it.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Just observing. I've literally never heard you talk before."

"I'm a sophomore."

"I'm a Gemini. And?"

"I mean we've never had a class together," I said, face hot. "I talk. You just don't know me that well."

My argument was flawed. At Beaumont, it doesn't matter how well you know someone. It's hard not to know everyone's full name and life story, no matter how much or how little they talk. Which was pretty little, in my case. Margot was annoyingly right about that.

She pulled at one of the loose curls falling out of her messy bun, twisting it around her finger with an amused look. "What are you doing here?"

If my face was hot before, it could now be a literal fire hazard. I stared helplessly at my sandwich. "Sometimes I eat lunch in here."

"Like, in a Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls way?"

Kind of, I thought.

"No," I said.

She smirked at the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign on the wall. "A rule breaker. I love it."

"I don't make a mess, or anything," I told the floor. Feeling her eyes burning into me, I looked up at the loose tile. "Well, what about you? Do you spend your lunch periods doing sketchy stuff to ceilings, or something?"

She didn't answer. Probably because that was less of a sick burn and more of a lukewarm cough. Finally, I gathered the courage to look at her, and there was a wary look on her face.

"What?" I asked.

"Just deciding if I can trust you. Before, I would've guessed you're like a vault when it comes to secrets, but now that I know you can speak…"

For another second, it felt like she was staring through my skin and categorizing my internal organs. Then she hopped up to a crouch on the table and stuck out her little finger.

"Swear you won't tell?"

I frowned, worried she was making fun of me. "A pinky swear?"

She laughed. It sounded genuine. "Would you prefer a blood oath?"

"Kind of." I still wasn't sure if she was just messing with the weird, friendless art girl, but in the end, curiosity won out. I linked my pinky to hers and shook. She grinned.

"I found this spot during class one day," Margot explained as she stood, reaching up to the tile. As her arms stretched out above her, her oversized T-shirt rose to reveal the frayed edges of tiny denim shorts. Way too short, I noted, for winter, and also for the dress code's archaic fingertip rule, but that didn't matter when you were Margot Landry, heir to the biggest energy corporation in the city. Her CEO dad was both literally and figuratively keeping the lights on at this school. At that very moment, the rest of our classmates were eating lunch in the Landry Dining Room. In terms of disciplinary action, Margot was off-limits.

"Thought it was a good hiding place," she continued, sliding the tile aside.

"For what?"

She shot me another wicked smile over her shoulder. "For fun things."

Before I could ask again, she'd reached inside the tile hole and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

I groaned. "Seriously?"

Her smile fell into a defensive frown. "What?"

"I thought we were past the thing where people think smoking is cool."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. I don't smoke them."

"Then why do you have them?"

Margot was picking at the plastic around the cigarette pack, looking almost embarrassed.

"I just think it's fun to get away with shit." She met my eyes and frowned. "It's, like, a statement. This school is so fucking uptight. Sometimes I just like to mess with the natural order of things, okay?"

Before I could think better of it, my jaw dropped into a look of delighted surprise.

Her cheeks tinged pink. "What?"

"Sorry, I just didn't realize you were a John Green character."

She chucked the cigarettes at my head, making me duck. For a stomach-dropping second, I was worried I'd actually hurt her feelings and that she was about to bludgeon me in this darkroom, but when I looked up, her smile was wide.

"Fuck you."

Vivian's voice yanks me back to the present. "You okay?"

I nod. I can't bring myself to lie out loud.

Piper, on the other hand, has no patience for my well-being— which I guess I can understand. She's committed to the mission. "Is there anything in there?"

I reach my hands into the hole in the ceiling, feeling around the edges, but all my fingers brush is dust. With a strange mix of relief and disappointment, I'm about to tell them so when there's a sharp bang from the classroom outside, followed by a loud clatter.

"What the—" Vivian starts, but Piper holds up a finger, silently shushing her with a wide-eyed expression that sends a chill down my spine.

We're not alone.

The classroom door slams, and it's undeniable. Someone else is here, maybe has been this whole time. Panic fizzes under my skin as Vivian runs for the darkroom door.

"Wait," Piper tries. "What are you—"

But Vivian's already pushing through to the classroom, and there's nothing for us to do but follow her.

On the other side, the brightness is jarring. Whoever was here is gone, but they've left a mess behind. The drying rack is toppled over, my pictures scattered on the linoleum floor like dead leaves. I track them all the way to the classroom door, where a crisp white envelope is taped. It's addressed, in fancy looping script, to The Maids.

I get there first, tearing it off the door and ripping it open. Vivian and Piper crowd in as I pull out the paper inside. It's thick and heavy like the Les Masques invitations. Actually, it's identical to those invitations, except for the logo. Instead of the Krewe of Deus seal at the top, there's a familiar image: a clown mask with painted lips and jagged eyebrows, one single tear dripping from an eye-shaped void.

A wheel spins in the back of my memory, igniting. I know exactly where I've seen this image before. Margot tracing it with her thumbnail, its chipped blue-black polish. This sad clown is exactly the same as the one on her lighter.

I'm so struck by it that it takes me a second too long to register the message beneath it, neat and handwritten.

My dearest Maids,

Isn't it time we let the dead stay buried?

After all, we all know how hard it is to keep a body underground in this city.

Yours,

The Jester