The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

“You didn’t think of it either,” he said, exasperated.

“Well, now it’s your turn to step up and figure out how to get your hands on it,” I said. “There are a few things that need to end up on the cutting room floor before anyone can take Baxter down.”

“That’s ridiculous, Nat, you know it,” he muttered. “Who do you think I am?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “The DVD is in police custody, and I’m supposed to magically lift it off their hands so you don’t get embarrassed for showing too much skin.”

“What if there’s more on that DVD than just too much skin?”

“Remind me what you’ve done to help get us out of this? What was your end of the deal again?”

I crossed my arms. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Tracy because I was too busy being blackmailed by the cops.”

“Right, I forgot, you were supposed to talk to Tracy. I hope that won’t be too risky for you. Let me know what she says — if you make it out alive.”

“Mike—”

“I’ll see you after school.”

By then, he was already halfway down the hall. I wasn’t about to make a scene by yelling after him in front of the Bambies clustered near the Coke machines. I stormed up the stairs toward the junior bathroom. I would find Tracy. And Mike was going to have to do some serious groveling if he wanted to know what I learned.

“There you are,” Tracy said, pushing her sapphire glasses up on her nose when I barged through the bathroom door. “Jesus, Nat, you look like shit.”

“I just—” I started to say. . I just what?

Had a blow-out fight with my boyfriend/coconspirator?

Got compared to my social-climbing mother by the biggest loser in school?

Almost cracked under the pressure of this monster secret?

“I just got hit on by our new ‘police liaison,’ ” I finally said. “It’s wigging me out pretty bad.”

“Poor thing,” Tracy said, gathering her braids in a thick ponytail. “I met O.P. this morning. Smokin’ but slimy, right?” She guided me over to the mirror and lit some incense. “Here,” she said, starting to brush my hair with her fingers, “let’s calm you down.”

In the mirror, still shaking, face flushed, I hardly recognized myself. I looked so tired and so old. My hair had lost its luster, and even my dark brown eyes looked dull. Had it only been a week since Palmetto judged me worthy of the crown?

“That man is an absolute slimeball,” I said.

“I know,” Tracy cooed. “But as much as you might hate to hear this, you have someone in common with Officer Parker.”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about? Where would you have heard something like that?”

Tracy clucked her tongue. “You know I never reveal my sources.” She looked thoughtful. “I guess that’s the only thing I have in common with the rumor mill. Anyway, if you want to get even with O.P., all I’m saying is, an old friend might come in handy.”

“I don’t get it. How do I—”

The bell rang. Tracy blew out the incense and shrugged.

“I really can’t say any more. Except this: Revenge is often closer than you think, and the fall is never far behind it.”

CHAPTER Thirteen

MORE POTENT THAN THE FIRST

After school on Monday, I ducked out the fire exit toward Mike’s and my spot under the bleachers. I really wasn’t up for getting sideswiped by any of the numerous people I was avoiding — from Darla Duke to Officer Parker. And I definitely didn’t want to see Kate. My head was still spinning from trying to make sense of Tracy’s latest enigmatic prophecy. Maybe Mike would be able to shed some light.

We always tried to hook up under the bleachers for our own version of a pep rally. Usually, I let him score a touchdown before practice because, on the field, he had to play defense. But today, after I ducked under the third rusty bleacher and navigated over the puddles to our little grassy knoll, I was surprised to find that for once, Mike hadn’t beaten me there.

We didn’t like to go to class angry, and we never stayed mad past the last bell. I just assumed that both of us would be racing from eighth period toward the bleachers to make up. Now I wondered whether our argument in the halls still hadn’t blown over for him. I reached for my phone to text him, but something made me hesitate. He’d either show up, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, I thought, spitting out my gum in the grass, at least I’d know that he was really mad. Which had never happened in the whole history of Nat and Mike.

I waited, peeping out at the field from under the bleachers, and remembered a couple times this year when Mike and I had been mid-makeout, and I’d opened my eyes and strained my head to catch a glimpse of J.B. running laps around the track.

I know it was a weird thing to do, but it had always made me feel good — to know that finally, I was with the right guy. But now, the memory just made me feel sick and alone. I’d never get that same feeling again, never see the pulsing sinew of J.B.’s calves or the blond flop of his hair rustle in the wind as he ran. More than ever, I wanted Mike in my arms to take some of that pain away. I couldn’t let him slip through my fingers, too.

Then, there he was, jogging out of the locker room with the rest of the guys. I felt a sharp sting in my chest. He’d ditched me. Hadn’t even tried to call. And when the team made their first lap around the track, Mike looked the other way when he passed our hiding spot beneath the bleachers.

My cheeks flushed with anger. Part of me wanted to run out there and let him know that he couldn’t just make an executive decision to blow me off like that. We were a team — even when things got tough, the bond we shared still had to remain sacred.

But this wasn’t the time or place to bring that up, and I still had the big project of Tracy’s prophecy to unfold — on my own.

I couldn’t shake the memory of the vile O.P. running his hand along my leg, but it wasn’t only him I needed revenge against. Baxter and O.P. were connected for me now; neither one would fall without the other. And what had Tracy meant by an “old friend” who knew Officer Parker? I scrolled through my cell phone rolodex for answers, hovered over Kate Richards’ name. . but kept scrolling. I didn’t stop until almost at the end of the alphabet.

Sarah Lutsky. My old best friend from Cawdor. I was surprised that I even still had her number. Well, she had always had a thing for men in uniforms. But could Tracy have meant that old of a friend?

There was only one place to find Sarah Lutsky — that is, assuming some fundamentals of the planet hadn’t changed. Within minutes, I was starting up my car and driving east. I drove across the train tracks and soon found myself back in a part of town I’d once thought I’d never set foot in again.

Other kids from Palmetto went over to Cawdor occasionally when they needed a dive-bar fix. Whenever my friends decided to go slumming, I’d always make up some emergency family excuse. The thought of those particular two worlds colliding was more than I could stand.

Today, I went in search of one old friend, in the place where I’d likely find another: my old BFF, cheap booze. Mike, of course, hated when I drank before the country-club-approved cocktail hour, but by abandoning me under the bleachers, he wasn’t really leaving me much choice.

I drove past the strip of bars on Cawdor Street, recalling the years when I’d definitely patronized them a few too many times. Slowing down to find a parking spot was quite a trip down black-out lane. There was the old brothel-turned-dive-bar that probably had a few of my lacier training bras still hanging from the chandelier. There was the Mexican taco stand where I’d turned twenty-one at least twenty-one times because on your birthday, the tequila flowed freely for free. There was my favorite punk rock club — wait, where was my favorite punk rock club?

My ex-favorite haunt had a new sign, new paint job. . and a new name.

A shiver went down my spine as I parked my car in front of the club that was now called. . Sweet Revenge. Perhaps there was more to Tracy’s prophecy than I’d guessed.

I pushed my way through the old Western-style doors and entered the bar. It was smoky inside, but when my