Free The Scarlet Letterman by Cara Lockwood Page A

signaling the end of class. She’s so close to me that I’m surrounded by the scent of some expensive perfume. Parker always smells like she rolled in a few issues of Vogue.
    “By the way,” she adds as I’m packing up my backpack, “did you know that today was the anniversary of Ryan’s accident?”
    My head whips up. It is? “How did you know about that?”
    “You know I knew Rebecca,” Parker says. “Our families both had summer houses at Lake Geneva. We were the best of friends.”
    Unfortunately, I did know this. Parker has told me many times.
    “Ryan was so devastated after she died,” Parker continues. “You know, I think it’s why he’s in this mlut phase, honestly. He was so in love with her. He used to call me all the time to talk about her, after the accident.”
    “He talked to you about it?” I sputter without meaning to. I’ve given away too much. I’ve literally just admitted to Parker that Ryan hasn’t talked to me about the accident.
    Parker’s lips curl up in a gloating smile. “I wonder why he hasn’t talked to you about it,” she muses. “Maybe he’s afraid to tell you that you don’t measure up.”
    I’m so mad now that I’m pretty sure steam is coming out of my ears. I have a sudden urge to smash Parker’s face in with my theology book.
    “Anyway, Ryan might be late to dinner. He’s got to walk me to cheerleading practice,” she continues. “But I’m sure you won’t mind.”
    “No — of course not,” I say, my voice dripping sarcasm. “But by the way, if you do see Ryan today, you might want to know that he hates your cheap perfume. He told me so.”
    “It’s not cheap! It’s Chanel,” Parker exclaims, sounding indignant.
    “Really? Because it smells like a department store farted in here,” I say as I cough and wave my hand.

    “Snap! You didn’t!” cries Samir in an exaggerated voice when I tell him, Hana, and Blade about my conversation with Parker. The four of us are sitting in study hall in the library.
    “Sounds like you got her good,” Blade agrees, a little smile on her face. “I only wish I was there to see it.”
    “You realize that you’ve now declared war on Parker,” Hana says. “I don’t think anyone who’s ever dared insult her actually lived to tell about it for long.”
    “Maybe you should go into the witness protection program,” Samir suggests.
    “She’s not going to kill you,” Blade scoffs, then hesitates. “At least, probably not until after midterms.”
    “Thanks, guys. You are totally filling me with confidence here.”
    “Don’t listen to them,” Blade says. “I think it’s great. You finally stood up for the rest of us.”
    “I don’t feel so great,” I say. “My day has gone from bad to worse. First, my boyfriend is Parker’s permanent sidekick, and now I have to worry about Blake in theology. He’s nuttier than a fruitcake.”
    “I told you guys,” Blade says, “he once taught one of our entire classes while speaking in tongues.”
    “It doesn’t surprise me. When he was alive, Blake claimed to see angels all the time,” Hana explains. “He was, and I guess is, even after death, a deeply religious man. His two major books of poetry, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience , deal directly with God and Christianity.”
    “Then why wasn’t he teaching theology instead of Coach H? Coach H isn’t even religious,” Samir says.
    “Maybe that’s the point,” Blade says. “Isn’t that why Mary Shelley is teaching chemistry? Which, by the way, she is terrible at? You know, because God has a sense of irony?”
    “You think God is making the teaching assignments around here?” Hana asks, skeptical. “I think that’s the headmaster’s job. Anyway, do you even believe in God?”
    “Well, duh, of course,” Blade says. “I mean, isn’t this purgatory proof that He exists? We’re walking with ghosts here — literally.”
    A Goth girl who walks by gives Blade a strange look.
    “Keep your