day of her life. Yeah,she’d been a child, but she’d done nothing to stop it. She’d known something was wrong, and she’d never spoken up. Wasn’t keeping quiet sometimes a very bad thing by itself?
Katie sighed in her sleep, and Tessa whispered, “I’ll be more careful this time. I can’t lose anyone else.”
She’d lost too much already.
W hen Katie cracked open her eyes the next morning, Tessa was already dressed and sitting at her desk, fingers tapping on her laptop.
Katie glanced at her alarm clock. It was half past eight. “Oh, God, I’m so late,” she groaned, throwing off the covers.
Tessa turned her head. “Hey, you. I thought you’d never getup.”
“I’m missing Nineteenth-Century American Poets,” Katie said, hopping on one leg as she pulled on black tights beneath her sleep shirt. Where had she put her bra?
Tessa flashed a rare smile. “The dead poets can do without you for one morning. The headmaster gave us a pass today, too, remember?”
“Oh, crap, you’re right.” Katie sank onto the bed. She sighed and wiped the grit from her eyes. “I feel like I hardly slept.”
“You snored like a freight train.”
“I was asleep for five minutes.”
“Then it just seemed like forever,” Tessa teased.
Katie gave her a look that said thanks. If it hadn’t been for Tessa, Katie wouldn’t have slept at all. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she saw the hand, the red-rose tattoo so bright against the gray flesh.
Blech.
“What’re you doing?” She pushed the ugly thought from her head and crossed the room, peering over Tessa’s shoulder. “Making friends?”
“Hardly.” Tessa moved her laptop screen so Katie could see the Facebook page she was looking at.
It was for a girl named Rose Tatum.
“That’s her,” Tessa said. “The one with the rose tat.”
“Rose,” Katie said, and her guts twisted. Seeing the page made the girl seem more human. She had dark hair hanging past her shoulders, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a wide mouth curved in a cryptic half smile.
“She does look like you,” Tessa said.
“I don’t see it.”
“You just don’t want to.”
Okay, yeah, Katie guessed there was a vague resemblance. But it creeped her out to think she looked like a girl who was missing and probably dead. So she focused on the differences. Rose wore a lot more makeup, had crooked front teeth, and had piercings up and down her ears. Plus, there was the matter of the rose tattoo on her hand and wrist.
“It’s too bad I can’t friend her,” Tessa said. “We could findout more about her, like which Whitney hockey jock she liked partying with most.”
Katie ignored Tessa, reading Rose’s public info: she was single, worked as a waitress at the Barnard Diner, and had 267 friends. Her favorite quote was attributed to Snooki: “I’m not trashy unless I drink too much.”
“Typical.” Tessa sniffed. “Girls like her ask for trouble. Doesn’t it seem like they always end up OD’ing or something?”
Katie flashed back on the hand in the box and shivered. “Nobody asks for that, Tessa. No one.”
But Tessa wasn’t done. “Why would a nineteen-year-old waitress want to party with prep school jocks?”
“Um, because they’re rich and cute,” Katie said, stating the obvious.
“They’re spoiled and conceited,” Tessa countered. “Girls like Rose are Kleenex to guys like Steve Getty. They use them, then toss them.”
“Even if that’s true, she and Steve still could have had a thing. Maybe she helped him set up Mark. Except we might never find out,” Katie said, and reached over Tessa’s shoulder to close Rose’s Facebook page. “I can’t look anymore.”
“Well, you’d better get used to seeing her picture. The police posted a missing-persons flyer downstairs and they’ve got it up on the school’s website, too. They’re nosing around again this morning, asking if anyone’s run into her since last Saturday.”
The Barnard police had shown
Katie sighed in her sleep, and Tessa whispered, “I’ll be more careful this time. I can’t lose anyone else.”
She’d lost too much already.
W hen Katie cracked open her eyes the next morning, Tessa was already dressed and sitting at her desk, fingers tapping on her laptop.
Katie glanced at her alarm clock. It was half past eight. “Oh, God, I’m so late,” she groaned, throwing off the covers.
Tessa turned her head. “Hey, you. I thought you’d never getup.”
“I’m missing Nineteenth-Century American Poets,” Katie said, hopping on one leg as she pulled on black tights beneath her sleep shirt. Where had she put her bra?
Tessa flashed a rare smile. “The dead poets can do without you for one morning. The headmaster gave us a pass today, too, remember?”
“Oh, crap, you’re right.” Katie sank onto the bed. She sighed and wiped the grit from her eyes. “I feel like I hardly slept.”
“You snored like a freight train.”
“I was asleep for five minutes.”
“Then it just seemed like forever,” Tessa teased.
Katie gave her a look that said thanks. If it hadn’t been for Tessa, Katie wouldn’t have slept at all. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she saw the hand, the red-rose tattoo so bright against the gray flesh.
Blech.
“What’re you doing?” She pushed the ugly thought from her head and crossed the room, peering over Tessa’s shoulder. “Making friends?”
“Hardly.” Tessa moved her laptop screen so Katie could see the Facebook page she was looking at.
It was for a girl named Rose Tatum.
“That’s her,” Tessa said. “The one with the rose tat.”
“Rose,” Katie said, and her guts twisted. Seeing the page made the girl seem more human. She had dark hair hanging past her shoulders, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a wide mouth curved in a cryptic half smile.
“She does look like you,” Tessa said.
“I don’t see it.”
“You just don’t want to.”
Okay, yeah, Katie guessed there was a vague resemblance. But it creeped her out to think she looked like a girl who was missing and probably dead. So she focused on the differences. Rose wore a lot more makeup, had crooked front teeth, and had piercings up and down her ears. Plus, there was the matter of the rose tattoo on her hand and wrist.
“It’s too bad I can’t friend her,” Tessa said. “We could findout more about her, like which Whitney hockey jock she liked partying with most.”
Katie ignored Tessa, reading Rose’s public info: she was single, worked as a waitress at the Barnard Diner, and had 267 friends. Her favorite quote was attributed to Snooki: “I’m not trashy unless I drink too much.”
“Typical.” Tessa sniffed. “Girls like her ask for trouble. Doesn’t it seem like they always end up OD’ing or something?”
Katie flashed back on the hand in the box and shivered. “Nobody asks for that, Tessa. No one.”
But Tessa wasn’t done. “Why would a nineteen-year-old waitress want to party with prep school jocks?”
“Um, because they’re rich and cute,” Katie said, stating the obvious.
“They’re spoiled and conceited,” Tessa countered. “Girls like Rose are Kleenex to guys like Steve Getty. They use them, then toss them.”
“Even if that’s true, she and Steve still could have had a thing. Maybe she helped him set up Mark. Except we might never find out,” Katie said, and reached over Tessa’s shoulder to close Rose’s Facebook page. “I can’t look anymore.”
“Well, you’d better get used to seeing her picture. The police posted a missing-persons flyer downstairs and they’ve got it up on the school’s website, too. They’re nosing around again this morning, asking if anyone’s run into her since last Saturday.”
The Barnard police had shown
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