Lies We Tell ✔

The Twenty-eighth Dance

The four of us left the room and headed downstairs to the lounge. It was a school night, so most of the study rooms were taken up by students who were frantically finishing homework assignments. Somehow we managed to snag one just as a girl was clearing out of the room.

Chris, Nigel, and I didn't waste a single moment getting down to business. First task was to create a list of potential suspects, which didn't end up taking too long, mostly because we had no clue who could be responsible. There was only one person who we agreed was definitely suspicious.

"Jennifer," Chris muttered as he scrawled her name into his notebook and double-underlined the letters.

Nigel wrinkled his nose. "Jennifer? The one who's always talking about her rich mayor daddy?"

"That's the one," I confirmed grimly. "Think about it. She didn't show up to the girl's night, which means she had plenty of time to leave you that note. She's got plenty of access to paint and could've snuck outside at any point to paint that graffiti. She's not exactly nice to the international students, either." Chris nodded along, jotting down each piece of evidence as I stated it. "And I don't like her."

This caused him to pause. "I don't either, but that's not a reason."

"I just kind of want it to be her," I admitted. "Everyone else on our floor is so nice. We lucked out with dorming."

Chris nodded thoughtfully, turning the page. He shifted position ever-so-slightly so that his arm rested millimeters away from mine. If I moved just two milimeters to the right, our shoulders would press together. My breath hitched, and I prayed neither he nor Nigel would notice the heat that was spreading to my cheeks.

"...note. Hello? Did you hear what I asked?"

I jolted out of my semi-reverie, face flushing even harder when I realized Chris's face was just inches away from mine, eyebrows raised in concern. Nigel, too, was giving me a funny look. "Um. Sorry. What?"

Chris repeated, "I said, who was the person you said would be able to figure out who sent us the notes?"

"Oh. Right. It's Jessica. You've met her."

"Jessica, Jessica...oh." The quizzical expression on Chris's face disappeared, replaced with realization. And embarrassment. I was sure he was thinking the same thing I was—the day Chris met Jessica was the same day all the weirdness between us started.

Pushing the memory out of my mind, though I felt myself blushing up a storm, I said, "She's a forensic science major. I'll ask if she can help."

While Chris and Nigel continued adding to our extensive list of suspects—suspect, I should say—I called Jessica. She answered almost immediately, and with more enthusiasm than I could've asked for. Much more.

After I gave her a rundown of our situation, there was a brief silence. Then—"You mean the person behind the hate crimes is contacting you? Personally?" she all but shrieked into the phone.

"Yep. With words cut out from magazines, like those ransom notes you read about in books."

"Oh my god. How terrifying. You must be so scared."

"It really is pretty—"

"This is, like, what I live for," she all but squealed. "Hold on. You live in West Tower, right? I'll be right over."

When she said right over, she meant right over. I headed downstairs as soon as I ended the call. Not even five minutes later, Jessica turned up in the lobby, breathless and pink-faced, her blue backpack slung over her shoulder. Half of her hair was wet and half was dry, as if she'd quit blowdrying her hair to run over here.