Free Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren Page A

up the phone, her shoulders slumping.
    “What is it, Mom?” PJ opened the door, noticing her father’s pictures neatly lined up on her mother’s chest of drawers.
    “I can’t believe it. Right here in Kellogg. Oh.” Her hand covered her mouth.
    “You’re scaring me a little. Is it Connie? Sergei?”
    Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s just horrible. Ernie Hoffman’s been murdered.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it was a dream. Still, it felt real, nearly like a memory. PJ clutched her history book to her chest, the spiral-bound notebook catching on the straps of her camo-patterned tank. “Boone, stop it, I’m late for class.”
    Across from her, over Boone’s shoulder, a poster announced the upcoming prom in silver glitter and blue swirls. The early smells of summer leaked in through the open windows, the redolence of freedom and the fragrance of warm grass on bare feet. Students filled the halls, the roar and laughter backdropping Boone’s murmurs against her neck.
    “Boone!”
    Of course, he didn’t listen, never did. He stood firm, bracing one hand over her shoulder, against the lockers, while the other caught in her long blonde hair. PJ looked down, watching it twine through his fingertips. “Hoffman will kill me. Again.”
    “Peej, it’s gorgeous outside. I just got the bike out. How can you even think of being inside on a day like today?” He stepped back, arms wide, his smile every inch trouble, eyes twinkling, his bronze hair already kissed by the sun. “Skip school with me.”
    Indeed, heat had slithered into the hallways on rays of summer sun. From far away, the school buzzer sounded.
    “I’m late.” The words resounded outside her body, as if someone else might be reminding her of the PJ she knew she should be, the PJ who should fight to extricate herself from Boone’s magnetic pull. She managed to turn away, and as she did, the hallway bowed, as if made of gelatin. She took another step; it wobbled, and she ricocheted off the lockers.
    Boone’s hand closed around her arm.
    “I’m late!” Did she yank her arm away? The floor now sucked at her feet, and she pulled each step out with a slurping sound. Sweat slicked her forehead, dripped off her brow.
    The buzzer sounded again.
    “I’m late!” She threw herself into Hoffman’s classroom, landing hard on her knees. Her books bounced against her stomach, ripping at her breath.
    “No! No! No!”
    Mr. Hoffman stood over her, his mouth open   —the words must be coming from him, but his lips didn’t move   —his dark eyes wide upon her. As she stared at him, his eyes filled and he began to cry, thick crimson tears that dribbled down his chin and splashed on the black-and-white tiled floor, over her books, pooling at her knees.
    PJ held out her palm. No, not tears. Blood.
    She screamed, thrashed awake, and sat up fast. The forceslammed her against the little assailant sitting on her knees, bouncing. They smacked foreheads and he rolled off the bed and landed on the floor.
    “Ow!”
    Davy wailed, staring at her like she’d tried to murder him. He scrambled to his feet and ran. “I hate you! I hate you!”
    PJ held her hand to her forehead, trying to sort dream from reality.
    Her white curtains hung limp in the windless morning. Sweat dribbled down between her shoulder blades. A bird chirruped, late, late, late .
    Her breathing motored to idle. A dream. Just a dream brought on by shock.
    Next to her, on the bedside table, her radio buzzed. She slapped at it and realized she must have done that in her early morning daze because it read half-past the hour.
    Awww. . . . “Davy! We’re late!”
    Throwing off her comforter, she ran to his room. He crouched before his PlayStation, still sniffing. He cut his eyes to her with a look that read betrayal. Tears dribbled down his cheeks.
    It hit her then. He’d been on her bed. Trying to wake her? “Davy . . . are you okay?” She knelt beside him, reached