Cheerleading Can Be Murder (Horror High #1)(5)By: Carissa Ann Lynch
Genevieve narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips evilly, burning holes into Amanda with her liquid-green eyes.
Amanda shrugged. “Oh yeah, that. Well, you know how I wasn’t on the bus this morning?” I was used to riding the bus alone in the mornings, so I’d completely forgotten all about not seeing her at the bus stop. I nodded.
“Grandma Mimi sleeps ’til noon every day and I forgot to set an alarm. So, I overslept,” she explained, shrugging some more. “I decided to walk because…well, everyone knows that Grandma Mimi doesn’t leave the house, and she sure as shit doesn’t drive.”
“You walked all the way to school this morning?” I asked incredulously. We were only six miles from Harrow High, but that was quite a long commute traveling by foot.
“That’s the thing…I didn’t have to walk. Some older boy picked me up a few blocks from our street. He was super cute and nice, and when he pulled up to drop me off, I rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek,” Amanda admitted, blushing slightly at the memory of it.
“Yeah, so? What does that have to do with Genevieve? Get to the point,” Sydney demanded. I shot Sydney a hateful look. “Sorry,” Sydney murmured under her breath.
“It turns out his girlfriend was waiting out front for him, and she saw that he’d given me a lift, and…she also saw the kiss,” Amanda explained. “How was I supposed to know he had a girlfriend?”
I knew where this conversation was headed. “Let me guess. The guy you kissed…it was Genevieve’s boyfriend, Ronnie, right?” I asked, flatly.
“Yeah, Ronnie. That’s his name!” Amanda exclaimed, cheerfully dipping her spoon into a small pudding cup. She filled her mouth with chocolate, then flashed me a silly black-toothed smile.
I rolled my eyes. Yesterday I liked her…ten minutes ago, I liked her. But at the moment? Not so much.
Sydney shot me a knowing glance. The last thing I needed was another girl flirting with Ronnie, the crusher of my heart and asshole of the century.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot!” Amanda chimed in, interrupting my hateful thoughts. With her painted black nails—the nails I painted for her when I still liked her—she slid a pink and purple flier across the table. I stared at it.
“Do you know that cheerleading tryouts are today? I think I’ll try out!” Amanda announced gleefully.
I tried my best to stifle a groan, but the sound escaped anyway. I laid my head on the Formica lunch table, reminding myself to breathe. Not only was Amanda after my ex, but now she was taking my spot on the squad?
My first day as a high school freshman was getting off to a rocky start.
I closed the door to the bathroom stall behind me. Listened. I didn’t hear anyone coming.
My backpack was heavy. Easing it off my shoulders, I rested the bulky thing on the stained toilet seat. I unzipped the pack. Stopped to listen again, but heard no one.
I stuck my hand in the bag, slipping past the new folders and notebooks. The tips of my fingers grazed cool metal.
I gripped the gun in my hand.
I pulled it out, admiring its shiny, sleek design and lightness despite its power.
I moved the backpack from the toilet seat to the floor, taking a seat myself. I pointed the gun at the stall door. From where I sat, there was very little distance between me and the door.
Just enough to extend my arm. I brought my other hand over, using it to steady my grip.
“Bang bang.” I aimed the gun at the letter “S” in a crude, “School sucks” message written on the door.
Suddenly, the main door to the bathroom swung open, loud sounds from the hallway pouring in…locker doors closing, sneakers squeaking, annoying voices of my classmates…man, I hate Harrow High.
There were two people talking now, standing right in front of my door at the row of porcelain sinks. I tilted my head to the left…down, down, down…until I could make out the shapes of their legs only a few feet away.
If I wanted to, I could take the expression, “knocks their socks off” to a whole other level.
I lowered the gun, aimed it for the back of a tan, fuzzy calf. Closed my left eye.
My finger resting on the trigger, I pressed. It made a small, barely noticeable click.
“Bang bang,” I mouthed silently.
The gun wasn’t loaded. But tomorrow I’d bring some bullets.
Even if I was in the mood for socializing—I wasn’t—there was, once again, no one to talk to in my fourth period, Spanish class. I wondered how to say “I’m bored” in Español?
Yawning, I flipped through my paperback textbook, skimming the terms in the glossary until I received my answer. “Estoy aburrido,” I muttered.
“Miss Densford?” Mr. Thompson called out, his voice strangely feminine for such a hairy, gruff man like himself.
I sat up ramrod straight from my previously slumped position.
“Anything you want to share with the class?” He was grinning like a Cheshire cat. I squeezed my lips together and shook my head nervously.
“Perhaps you would find my class more entertaining if you taught it yourself?” he suggested, raising his eyebrows challengingly.