Free The Deadly Sister by Eliot Schrefer Page B

for me not to show. So what if I was feeling moody and weird. Everyone else would be, too, right?
    I’d predicted the assembly would be awful, and I was right. Bleachers full of slumping teenagers with tearstained faces, a couple of cops, and some people in polo shirts with briefcases—probably shrinks. Lots and lots of bawling kids. Jefferson’s closest friends, five guys best described as bros, shoulder to shoulder, hands shielding their eyes, bodies clustered but not touching, surrounded on either side by long blank spaces of orange bleacher. Pimply loners looking paler than usual. Some sophomore chicks who wouldn’t have gotten the time of day from Jefferson, absolutely hysterical with tears. Teachers, white-knuckled and serious, holding hands like there’d been a school shooting. Our principal gave a warbly speech, trying to project confidence but really just a wreck, clearly unequipped for anything like this.
    I was seated in back beside Cheyenne and a couple other friends. Their calculus quiz had been cut short by the assembly, and while the principal spoke, Sandra and Martine were discussing whether integrating trig functions would be on the final. The rest of my friends were scattered throughout the gymnasium, springing up in the background everywhere I looked. Even though they were right in front of me, I missed them immensely. I hadn’t spoken to them all weekend and couldn’t imagine what I would say now. I found myself wondering, for the first time, whether I really knew any of them. Were they capable of murder? Of course not. Any of the stupid fights we’d ever had seemed like charming kids’ stories. Would they still feel they could tell me their troubles, given the weightiness of mine? I couldn’t bring myself to find out. Their voice mails had been mounting up on my phone. One waved across the gymnasium, and I shot back a look of broad, unspecific concern.
    The principal was still carrying on. He had lost his place and was reading off cue cards.
    I reminded myself I was here to try to find information to help Maya. These weren’t classmates anymore. These were suspects.
    Rose Nelson looked like a mourning queen, eyes dramatically downcast, beautiful and dusky. Her circle of hyper-attentive friends, some of them probably mourning Jefferson for secret reasons of their own, whispered worried thoughts in her ear.
    Nearby, Rachael McHenry had been sobbing into the same tissue long enough that you could actually see her features through the wet paper. She was wearing a T-shirt with Jefferson’s photo on it, with the date of his death—just three days ago—printed below.
    Cheyenne had been holding my hand throughout the assembly, and I felt her fingers tighten when she turned to say something sharp to Sandra and Martine. I hoped she might be asking them to shut up, but then I heard her say that our teacher had promised there wouldn’t be inverse functions on the quiz. I found their “business as usual” approach as irritating as Rachael McHenry’s overdramatic sobs.
    “You all need to stop,” I said.
    “Stop what?”
    “Talking about math! It’s disrespectful. Wait, never mind.” The principal had left the stage, and apparently we were all supposed to be applauding. Who took his place but Brian, Jefferson’s little brother.
    “Tell me they’re not having him talk to the whole school,” Cheyenne said. “Awkward!”
    Was it awkward? The gesture seemed moving, actually. He was fifteen, but looked younger. Really skinny, always wearing a crystal around his neck. Brown hair. Cute. Ill at ease. Today he was wearing a T-shirt with one of those creatures from fantasy movies, a lion with wings. He’d have been more than willing to tell anyone what it was called andwhat spells would be most effective against it, I was sure. On any day but today.
    If Jefferson hadn’t just died, the crowd would have started hooting and teasing. But as a group we were stumped about how to act, so everyone stayed