Torched Page 10

  Just then, Ben took over the DJ stand and introduced the court for our dance.

  “Want me to hold your purse?” Hayley asked. I shook my head and marched onto the dance floor, as if I weren’t afraid Paxton would sink to a new low of jerkitude and leave me out there alone. But he followed, and the music started. The prince and princess couples began to sway.

  Paxton settled his hands at my waist. I lay mine on his shoulders, and let my unzipped purse dangle from my arm. My plan wasn’t going to work with the acres of personal space between us, so I moved closer.

  Opportunity: check.

  Paxton’s shoulders were tense. And broad. He smelled good, like the cedar discs his mom put in closets. Once upon a time--for like a second of sophomore year--I’d thought I liked Paxton, as in liked him liked him. Hey, he’d looked good in his football uniform. After a game one time, I’d smiled at him for real.

  Thankfully, I’d snapped out of it when I found a pile of earthworms under my pillow that night. My dad claimed my shrieks broke his eardrums. The next day I’d installed a deadbolt on my door.

  Paxton had one for his room too--and I needed the key to it. Luckily, he was wearing a blazer--guys at our school dressed sharp for dances--and I knew he kept his keychain on him at all times. To protect against little old me, of course. If I wasn’t mistaken, his left jacket pocket bulged more than the right one.

  “Rose,” Paxton murmured in my ear. His voice was hard. “What are you up to?”

  I leaned back, just a little, to show him the conciliatory expression I’d practiced in the mirror this afternoon.

  “I decided to take your advice,” I said. “This will blow over. And hey, we’ve been cat-and-dogging for too long, haven’t we? Time to bury the hatchet for real.” Yeah. Right into his back. “And the whole Ryan cheating thing ... I guess we just weren’t meant for each other.” I’d practiced saying this with just the right mixture of sadness and acceptance, but my voice broke on the last part, and “meant for each other” came out in a sort of choky mumble. My face suddenly felt wobbly, and ...

  Oh, no. A tear slid down my cheek. Nononono. I couldn’t cry in front of Paxton. This was all an act, dammit.

  Paxton held me stiffly, his gaze locked on the tear. A moment ago he’d been suspicious, but now he seemed terrified I might break down entirely. I ducked my head. When I glanced up again, Paxton looked ... uncomfortable. Really, wretchedly uncomfortable. Was remorse finally eating through that tiny shriveled soul of his?

  Good, I thought fiercely, and decided my real tear would support my fake peacemaking. I shifted, deliberately tilting on my high heels, and overbalanced. “Whoops!” I half-fell against Paxton, and his arms tightened instinctively to catch me. While he was distracted, I darted my hand into his coat pocket. “Sorry!” I said to cover any telltale clinks, and managed to slip the keys into my purse. I felt hot, as if he could tell what I’d done, but Paxton didn’t seem to notice.

  “Whoa. You alright?” Paxton set me on my feet. I bit my lip as if embarrassed, and surreptitiously zipped my purse closed. It had worked! I was a pickpocket prodigy. Or, finally, Lady Luck had turned her air-kisses in my direction.

  “Sorry, my shoes are on a mission to murder me,” I said.

  “Then we probably shouldn’t dance.”

  “Okay.” We went back to where Ryan, Hayley and Alina sat, on a bench beside the wall. I felt as if I STOLE PAXTON’S KEYS was tattooed above my sweetheart neckline. Pretending calm, I casually reached up to my eye.

  “Oh, I think I smudged my mascara. I’d better go fix it.”

  Hayley stood up. “I’ll come with you.”

  I hesitated, but I couldn’t say no without sounding suspicious. In spite of the new obstacle, I was smiling as we crossed the gym. At least not everyone was shunning me.

  In the hallway, we passed some girls from the basketball team. Somehow they’d gotten a basketball and were on their way to the half-court, high heels be damned. Tiffany, her tall dark frame elegant in a green halter sheath, paused to smile at me.

  “Hey, Rose. Want to play?”

  “Shove it, Tiff,” I snapped, and kept going. Tiffany couldn’t hold a grudge to save her life, and thought no one else should either. But I hadn’t forgiven her for yesterday. I could still hear everyone shouting how I was on fire.

  In the bathroom, I fixed my non-smudged mascara, then sighed.

  “Look, I’m going home,” I told Hayley. She shook her head.

  “Stay, Rose. It’ll be fun, I promise.” She sounded like she meant it, but I bit my lip.

  “No, I’m tired and ... seeing Ryan, it’s too soon. I just want to go home.” The tear that hit my cheek was real this time too, and suddenly I did feel about to shatter. It must have showed, because Hayley put her hand on my shoulder.

  “I understand. Do you want me to drive you?”

  How could such a sweet girl be dating a troll like Paxton? “No, I have my car,” I said. “But ... could you not mention to the others that I left? Just say I’m off talking to other people. I don’t want them to think I’m running away, you know?”

  “Sure.” Hayley hugged me. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I actually felt bad for fibbing to Hayley, but if all I had to trade for proof Paxton framed me was a couple white lies, I’d count myself lucky.

  I slipped out of the gym and crossed the parking lot to Cloudmonster. Throwing my purse on the passenger’s seat, I smiled smugly at the bulging silver fabric.

  “Keys to enemy fortress: check.” I put my car in gear. “Come on, Cloudmonster. Let’s roll.”

  Chapter 10

  I parked at my house and ran inside to change into cat burglar attire: black leggings, a black shirt, black flats. I even had a black satchel, prepped with items I might need. My parents were out--there was some art gallery opening in San Francisco or whatever. I’d only paid attention to the important points: they’d be gone until midnight, and Mr. and Mrs. Callaway were joining them. With Juliette and Paxton at the dance, I was set.

  Paxton’s keys in hand, I sprinted across the grass, then unlocked the Callaways’ front door. They had a security system, like we did, but since the adults were such good friends, we knew their code and they knew ours. I punched it in. It killed the security as far as Paxton and I were concerned; thus, backup bedroom locks.

  I found myself tip-toeing, and made myself stop. What, did I think they’d suddenly acquired an attack dog? Not if Yonkers had anything to say about it. The Persian cat waddled out of the dining room and meowed loudly. I petted him, then jogged upstairs and let myself into Paxton’s room. Everything was dark except for the rectangle of window on the far side. I flipped the light on.

  Whoa. Things had changed since I’d seen this place last. Last spring I’d caught a glimpse when the Callaways hosted a Memorial Day barbecue. Then, it had looked pretty normal: light walls, mostly neat, posters of movies everywhere.

  Well, it was still neat-ish. But now the walls and ceiling were a deep, dark blue, painted with stars. All the posters and pictures had been taken down, so the false night sky was broken only by the window and the tall bookcase by the closet.

  “Wow,” I breathed. It felt like I was in space. Maybe this was why Paxton had gone off the deep end, I mused: he’d been sniffing too many paint fumes.

  I shook myself. Focus. Time to find proof Paxton framed me. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I started with the bookcase. It held a bunch of sports and science nonfiction. I took a digital camera from my satchel and snapped pictures of each shelf, so I could pore over the titles later. I scanned them for anything suspicious--Arson for Dummies would have been nice--but after a couple of minutes moved on to the rest of the room. I had limited time; at some point soon Paxton would realize what I’d done and catch a ride h
ome.

  I checked under Paxton’s bed, and pulled out a nearly flat pillowcase. It held only a scarf. My scarf, one I hadn’t seen since last winter. I must have left it here sometime, and Paxton had swiped it. My eyes narrowed; this was enough to convince me Paxton was guilty. He could have stolen my cheer tank, then planted it when he went on his psychotic Let’s Destroy Rose bender.

  Now I just had to find proof to convince the rest of the world.

  I went through his walk-in closet, which smelled of the cedar discs his mom liked to put everywhere. Nothing more interesting than what appeared to be ...

  A gorilla Halloween costume? I frowned at it. Odd, but not helpful. I went back to the main room and pawed at a pile of smelly football gear, then rifled through his dresser.

  Ack. Underwear drawer. I poked through anyway. Boxer-briefs, mostly. The mental pictures might have been nice if Paxton hadn’t ruined my life, but I bet Hayley appreciated them.

  Speaking of Hayley ...

  Condoms. My eyes flew wide as more mental pictures attacked, and I shoved the drawer shut. I shook my head. How could Hayley sleep with such a jerk, football muscles or not?

  Anyway. I went to Paxton’s desk, but his computer wanted a password. I tried a few things, but no dice.

  The three drawers on the left side of the desk were locked. I rifled through the others, finding only pens and staples and such. I contemplated the locked drawers. Their key wasn’t on Paxton’s key ring, so it had to be around here somewhere, right? But a quick ransacking of the room yielded nothing.

  I frowned at the stubbornly closed drawers and checked my watch. My minutes here were numbered. I didn’t have time to take the room apart to find the key. And I knew I’d never get another chance like this; after tonight, Paxton’s guard would be harder to get through than our Panther defense. I chewed my lip, then decided drastic action was unavoidable.

  Out of my trusty Satchel of Resources I pulled a flathead screwdriver. Two minutes later, the front of the drawer broke off. Really, what was the point of a locked desk that could be levered apart by a screwdriver?

  Inside the drawer was a folder, held shut with a rubber band. I opened it. A school schedule, lists of activities and dates and times, and ... my school picture?

  I glanced at the schedule of classes again. It was mine. All the lists were of places I’d been in the last few months, my cheerleading fundraisers and honor society meetings and even movie-dates with friends.

  “Wow. You creepy son of a ...” My attention caught on a spreadsheet, printed out and stapled. One page held all the pranks he’d pulled, or tried to pull, since getting home from summer camp this year, along with info on whether it had worked and the date he’d launched each attack. Holy crap, the guy was organized. I looked eagerly for information on the arson, but came up empty.

  That didn’t prove anything, though. The rest of this stuff was small potatoes. I’d be surprised if Paxton was dumb enough to put an actual crime on his spreadsheet.

  The next list was titled, “Possibilities.”

  I scanned it and shuddered. “Mental note: check shoes before putting them on,” I muttered, then shoved the folder into my satchel.

  Reaching back into the drawer, I pulled out a photograph: a snapshot of Paxton and me. Must have been seventh grade, since I had squirrel hair and wore an awful striped shirt, stained with ketchup or something. And those shorts ... I winced. Paxton wore his pocket protector. In the picture, we each had an arm around the other’s shoulders and were grinning our dorky little faces off.

  Suddenly I felt, for some reason, about to cry. How had Paxton gone from my best friend to trying to send me to jail? I’d thought ... well, I’d thought at least part of our feud was just for fun. Sitting in his room, where he’d made me watch the entire original series of Star Trek, plus the movies, I allowed myself for a tiny moment to feel hurt.

  Then I snapped out of it. Paxton had started this, and I wasn’t about to let him win. I put the picture back, then levered open the middle drawer. It held box sets of Star Trek DVDs. All the seasons, all the series. Some things hadn’t changed. I snorted and moved on to the lowest drawer.

  When I finally levered off the front, I found ... more folders. These bulged, and when I opened the first one I realized each was a year, a whole August-to-August of my whereabouts and timelines and school pictures. “So, so creepy,” I muttered, poring over junior year. He’d apparently sneaked salt onto my ice cream at the football team’s dinner, but I’d gotten distracted and let the sundae melt before I could taste it.

  And--hey, I knew he’d been behind all the bird poop blanketing Cloudmonster the last Saturday of the school year. I’d never been quite sure, because Paxton had supposedly been taking the SATs that day. But he’d apparently skipped them, having done well on a previous attempt, and rented several cockatiels from a pet store. I hadn’t even known you could do that.

  Footsteps pounded on the stairs.

  “ROSE!”

  Oh, crap. I’d been so engrossed in reading about Paxton’s side of our war that I hadn’t even heard the front door open downstairs. Suddenly I realized that while these folders didn’t necessarily prove Paxton framed me for arson, they did prove he was kind of stalking me.

  Scratch the “kind of.” He’d been obsessively stalking me, ever since eighth grade. Not that I hadn’t been doing the same, but I kept all the information I gathered inside my head. Seeing it spread out on paper made Paxton seem more than a little scary. And he was about to catch me in his room, breaking into his locked desk. The guy had like eighty pounds on me, and sounded pissed.

  And if he’d set fire to a boat in an attempt to send me to jail, he really hated me.

  I scrambled to my feet, but had no time to do more than scoop up one of the folders before Paxton burst into the room. I hurled junior year at him, and papers flew everywhere. Paxton stopped, stunned, and I tried to duck past him.

  Of course, Paxton plays football, and has to think fast. He snagged my elbow. I lowered my shoulder and rammed him, but he didn’t let go. We crumpled to the floor together, half in his room and half in the darkened hallway. I tried to lurch up, but Paxton grabbed me and pulled me back into his room.

  “Get off me!” I yelled. Paxton pushed the door shut with one hand, then levered himself into a sitting position. I stood up, so he did too, pointedly positioning himself in front of the closed door.

  Rubbing his side where my shoulder had hit, Paxton scowled at me.

  “What the hell, Rose?” He still wore his slacks and blue button-down from the dance, of course, though the shirt had come untucked during our brawl. I didn’t know where his blazer had gone.

  “What are you talking about?” I glanced behind me at the window, but I already knew I’d never make it before Paxton tackled me. Besides, there was no convenient tree outside.

  “Funny story. The Homecoming Queen stole my keys.”

  “Then how’d you get back here?” How could I distract him while I ran past?

  “It’s called a taxi.”

  I scowled. “The Homecoming Queen should have taken your wallet, too.”

  “Then I’d have asked Ryan for a ride. Did you want him to witness you committing another crime?”

  “Another crime.” The now-familiar bitterness swamped me like a cold Californian wave. “Cute.” I picked my satchel up from where it had fallen and hugged it to me. If I couldn’t escape, maybe I could still salvage my mission.

  Paxton’s brow knit. “What do you mean, cute?”

  I slipped my hand into the bag, then surreptitiously turned on my dad’s old-fashioned tape recorder. I was glad I’d brought it. My phone could record too, but I couldn’t work the controls without seeing the screen.

  “It’s only us here, Paxton. You can admit it.”

  “Admit wha
t?” He glanced to my left and must have just noticed the broken drawer fronts, because his eyes widened. “You broke my desk! You little--”

  “You framed me for arson!”

  Paxton paused, looking confused. “What?”

  “You. Framed me. For arson.”

  Five seconds ticked by.

  “You’re talking about Ryan’s boat,” Paxton finally said.

  “No shit.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t start the fire?”

  That set me off. “You know damn well I didn’t start the fire! Because you started it! And you made it look like I did!”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “In retaliation. For me making you fail the calc quiz.”

  Paxton stared at me. “You think I’d set fire to a friend’s boat in order to get back at you for some stupid quiz? That’s crazy.”

  “And what do you call this?” I gestured at all the papers, and Paxton flushed. Gotcha. “Go on, Paxton. It’s just us here,” I said. “You can gloat, just this once.” I held my satchel carefully so the recorder would catch his words. All he had to do was say it, and I’d get my life back.

  Paxton opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again.

  “You’re really serious?”

  And with that, my bubble of optimism punctured. Disappointment flooded in. I’d failed, at least for the night. Paxton was playing innocent and bewildered to a T. If I wasn’t so sure he’d done it, I’d believe him. I knew I was ten seconds from bursting into frustrated tears. I needed to be gone.

  I stepped forward and reached for the doorknob, but Paxton shifted to block me.

  “Let me out of here,” I snarled.

  “Wait, just wait. I--”

  “You’ve got me physically trapped in your room. If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll frame you. For attempted rape!” Ugly. The things coming out of my mouth were ugly, and so were the tears suddenly pouring down my face. Paxton’s mouth was open, like he was shocked I could possibly be upset. I started to yell. “You ruined my life! Why would you do this to me? We used to be friends!” Paxton started to say something, but I ignored him. “Why do you hate me? Why couldn’t you have just left me alone? Let me out of here!”