Kate leaned in. “He apologized for disappearing. He said we’ll probably have dinner or something soon.”
Her voice carried the unmistakable female urgency to deliver the news — and to be consoled that it was good news. I sighed. This wasn’t strong-willed, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-miniskirt Kate that I’d befriended last year. You think you know a girl — and then she goes and loses her virginity at a Mardi Gras party and goes soft.
“That’s great, sweetie,” I cooed. “And did he mention anything about the night he disappeared?”
Kate bobbed her head. “He swears he’s innocent. He says he’ll prove it soon, but he wouldn’t tell me where he’s been or when he’s coming back.”
“But. . so he is coming back?” I asked.
I could see from the way she was looking at me, forehead creased and eager eyes, that Kate was in pretty deep. I felt for her, I did. No girl dreams of her crush disappearing immediately after her first time. But this girl really needed to snap out of it. On his best day, Baxter didn’t come anywhere near deserving her. Plus, I needed a clearheaded and unemotional source of information on his whereabouts.
If I knew Baxter, wherever he was, he was probably planning on making a grand reentrance as soon as the opportunity arose. If he was already putting out teasers of his innocence and claiming to have proof, that grand reentrance sounded less than promising for Mike and me.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be as simple as I’d thought. I could feel my heart start clamoring in my chest, but the only thing to do was channel that energy into something productive.
“You must be so worried,” I cooed, shaking my head, “to not have any idea how to help him. If only you knew where he was, maybe then there’d be something we could do.”
“I can keep trying to find out.” Kate sounded hopeful at the thought of a Baxter-related project. Darla shuffled her feet.
I brushed a loose strand of Kate’s hair behind her ear. “Whatever happens, you know I’ll be happy to help,” I said sweetly. “Just keep me posted. Anything you find out, anything you need, come talk to me.”
“Of course,” Kate nodded. “Thanks.”
“Girls,” the Dick called from the upstairs balcony, “come on up and get the tour.”
Both he and my mom looked flushed. I didn’t even want to think about what they’d been doing in the master bedroom. Usually, whenever I thought about other people getting it on, I’d get a flash of Mike’s body over mine in bed, followed by a tingly feeling inside. Mike and I called it the flash ’n’ tingle.
But today, something was different. When my mind flashed to Mike’s eyes, they didn’t look turned on. They looked terrified.
If I wanted to see the desire in Mike’s eyes, not the fear, I needed to keep the two of us and our crowns in the clear. When I looked at Kate, I couldn’t stop thinking about Baxter. Mike and I were helpless until we knew enough about what the old druggie had up his sleeve. Only then would we be able to thwart him.
No one knew who started the mill, or when, or why by now we hadn’t updated the old-fashioned note-passing format to accommodate any range of technological advances. But every kid in this school loved it (and occasionally loved to hate it). So despite the loathing faculty’s tired attempts to eradicate it, my guess was that the rumor mill would outlast us all.
I hadn’t exactly expected to spend my first official day as Palmetto Princess mitigating rumors that had to do with me, but there I was in first period European history, censoring the notes that came around.
Someone had drawn an arrow under Darla’s name and written:
My instinct was to put a big red circle around False and forge in someone else’s hand:
Instead, I kept my cool:
By next period, in French class, the second note milled through:
I laid the note down on the middle of my desk and tried to read anyone else’s handwriting into it other than Kate’s. But the telltale hot-pink pen and half-print/half-cursive writing style was unmistakable. I covertly popped a piece of Juicy Fruit and grit my teeth around its juice. I leaned down to stare at the odious note until the letters went out of focus and I could think again.
Something about my close friend relaying Baxter’s Bin Laden-style communication to the whole school felt so subversive. Especially after the little conversation she and I had had at the Cove yesterday. I thought I’d made myself very clear that the lines of Baxter communication between the two of us should be kept open at all times. What became of Baxter was not for the whole school to concern themselves with.
I didn’t realize I’d been bearing down so hard on my pen until a big black blob of ink started to bleed through the center of Kate’s note.
Okay, so she was trying to stand by her man — fine. The real issue was how this news might grow as more people saw the note. At least I’d gotten it early enough in its infancy that I could still shape its direction. All I needed to do was tone it down again — with slightly less authorship credit this time.
I folded up the note and passed it on, knowing that Kate might push back on this one. But I hoped, in the long run, she’d understand that I was really looking out for her best interests. The sooner Baxter was out of all of our lives, the better.
Fingers crossed, the biting sarcasm of my response would nip this rumor in the bud. But before I had too much time to relax after my smooth operating, the third note of the morning hit my desk.
What did that even mean? I looked around to see where the note had come from, but all the other kids in my immediate vicinity had their eyes glued to the chalkboard where Madame Virge was conjugating irregular verbs. When she put down the chalk, she looked up at the clock and reached for a slip of paper on her desk.
“I have strict orders to read this prompt,” she said, getting everyone’s attention because of the rare break from her native tongue to say something we could actually understand. “Don’t get any ideas about me speaking English after this.”
As the class groaned, Madame Virge cleared her throat and read.
“‘Attention: to anyone who hasn’t yet met with our new police liaison, Officer Parker. You will be called to Principal Glass’s office during your regular study-hall period for a brief questioning. Every student must attend.’ ”
Hmm. I didn’t have study hall until third period, but Mike would have had it first thing in the morning. Why hadn’t he texted to give me a heads-up?
“A.J.,” I whispered to Amy Jane when the bell rang to dismiss us, “did you already have study hall? What’s the deal with this new cop?”
Amy Jane made a pouting face and said, “Not till last period. Sucks — the word is he’s hot as hell.”
I chewed on my nails and ducked out of class in a huff. I wasn’t going to wait to be called down to meet this new liaison officer, hot as hell or not. I rapped on Principal Glass’s door just as the next bell rang.
“Come in,” an unfamiliar voice called.
Through the fishbowl walls, I could see a man in uniform standing behind the principal’s desk, leaning up
