Dead Man's Match

Twenty

It's a bright day the next morning. The sun glistens over the trees in the arboretum. Our group has claimed a gazebo away from the visitors passing by. An earthy smell fills my nostrils from the nearby flowers and grass. Fall leaves are falling from the trees, coating the concrete floor and tables in red, yellow, and burnt orange.

My fingers twitch around my phone. The screen lights up with the time, ten minutes past eleven in the morning. I turn it off, sighing to myself. I just want this project to be over with. Last night, I fell asleep on my laptop and woke up an hour before I needed to leave. I did some quick project research in the car, adrenaline propelling me to work instead of ruminate. But now, as my group members painstakingly draw the map of France on a giant piece of construction board, all I can think about is Evan.

My eyes zero in on Hannah despite myself. Zoe and I stayed up for hours talking through theories. Even after Mom came home, we continued to whisper about the case. I hope she didn't overhear me, but she didn't say anything about it this morning during breakfast.

A breeze sweeps by, sending a chill scurrying into my bones. I hug my red windbreaker tighter around me.

"Can you hold the corner?" Hannah asks me. I place a hand on it, and my left hand raises to cover my mouth as I yawn. When I glance at the others, I find Brooklyn looking at me from across the table while the boys work on drawing the third mountain range.

I place my hand on the corner. The cool air fills my lungs, cleansing them from all the toxicity and negative energy pulsing through my body. My eyes flutter shut, then open again when I realize just how weird it is for me to have my eyes closed. My gaze lands on Brooklyn again, who quickly averts her blue eyes. She props her leg up on the bench, her bony knee poking up from the other side of the table through the rips in her jeans.

"Okay, I think we're in pretty good shape," Steven says. The wind tossles his long, straight hair. Seriously, why do some guys look like they have strands of silk hanging from their heads?

Hannah shakes her head. "We've barely done anything." Her eyes surreptitiously land on me, and I shrink in my seat, feeling guilty at the poor quality of my work. While Steven, Brooklyn, and Henry started on the map right away, Hannah and I spent half an hour trying to cross-check my work and get more detailed information. It's like I've let her down.

I feel guilty about that... until I remember that it was her secrets that kept me up for hours last night, procrastinating on my work. Not an excuse, but an explanation.

"We still have to do the towns and major events in the towns." Steven flops onto the bench with his back to the table. He leans against it with a sigh. "Maybe we should just finish tomorrow."

Hannah glances at her Apple watch. "We still have forty-five minutes until noon. We can break for lunch and then resume this afternoon." Henry groans, and Hannah glares at him. "Dude, it's due on Monday. We don't want to put this off."

"Yeah we do," Henry says.

One thing I notice about Hannah is that she's really nice, until she isn't. She's got a commanding streak. She told me that she often takes charge during rehearsals to make sure people do their parts right. Could she have also tried to take charge of Evan, steering their friendship in a direction he didn't want to go in? Or maybe there was animosity between them due to her wanting to direct him too much during the school plays. Perhaps easy-going Evan just wanted the theatrical moments to happen, while Hannah wanted to control the scene and turn it into her own vision, which differed from his.

But to kill over that seems petty.

Wait, didn't the drama club members say something about a theater competition? I wonder if Hamlet was supposed to be prepared for a competition.