This Is All Your Fault, Cassie Parker Page 2

  When she hops off her bus with a big smile, we hurry to catch a glimpse of Tyrick, and my bad feelings about last night fall to the background even further. Tyrick is in one of my favorite shirts, and gives me a one-handed “Hi” as we walk by. I’m not sure who’s bouncing more on the way to the library, where we’ll spy on Lagoon: me or Cassie.

  “You’re so gonna get asked out before the end of the year,” she hisses when we find a table and settle in.

  I feel myself flush.

  “I wonder if we could double with—oh. Six o’clock.” She ducks her head and leans close to the desk, having spotted someone interesting behind me—someone other than Cory, who we already know is in the computer lab, thanks to earlier scopes, and the wall of windows between it and the library. Whoever Cassie’s spotted now could have on a great outfit, or be picking their nose—it’s hard to tell from her expression.

  Before I can get a glance, though, my chorus friend Evie comes in with her best friend, Aja. They see us and wave, coming over to our table.

  “Are you guys studying?” Evie rushes in a loud whisper. “We didn’t know you hung out here. Can we study with you too? We have that math test coming up and—ooh, Fiona, I love your hair that way.”

  Automatically, I reach up to feel my head, making sure everything is still lying down flat. For most of the year, my hair’s been a kinked-out curly crown that sproings up all around my face and ears, unlike Evie’s, which she gets done into glossy spirals. I’ve been growing mine out, just to experiment, and now it’s finally long enough to wear in a bun-looking pony if I sleek it all down tight with tons of product, lots of brushing, and what feels like a hundred bobby pins jammed into the sides. I’m constantly expecting it to turn a bit flyaway, though, and sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t just cut it back.

  “Huh?” Cassie snorts, her whole face tightening with criticism. “Just because Fee’s got fluffiness doesn’t mean she can’t be sleek, too. I mean, is that such a surprise?”

  It stuns me, and Evie too.

  “Of course I love it natural,” Evie stammers, “but this is so . . . sophisticated.” She darts her eyes at me in apology.

  But before I can say or do anything, Aja leans on the table with one hand, putting her body between Cassie and Evie. A wave of her spicy perfume wafts over us.

  “Do you think you’ll keep growing it?” she asks, as if my hair is suddenly the most interesting topic of conversation.

  Aja is a tall, Egyptian-queen-looking girl, and while we know each other because of Evie and chorus, we don’t normally hang out. She’s perfectly nice, but somehow her closeness now is intimidating, especially since Cassie was just so horribly rude. I say something clumsy about somewhere between my chin and my shoulders, though with summer just about upon us, I might get hot.

  Cassie hasn’t even noticed. Her focus is back to the glass windows. Behind them in the lab, Cory must be getting ready to make his move to homeroom, because Cassie starts getting her things together so we can follow him. We can’t go in there because without a coding project (only for eighth graders) we’ll look too obvious, but from here we can see perfectly. Right now, I’m just glad to have a way out of this situation.

  “I’ll see you in chorus, okay?” I apologize to Evie and Aja with my face.

  “Have a good first period,” Evie chirps behind us, like everything is fine.

  As we stride out of the library, Cassie super-widens her eyes so that she looks like a silly manga character, mouthing, Have a good first period.

  Again, it’s shocking.

  “Hey, did something happen with Tom yesterday?” I say, careful.

  She looks surprised. “No, why? Did he post something about me?”

  “No. I mean, if he did, I wouldn’t know. You just seem on edge today.”

  Mean is the word I want to use, but I need to be cautious. Cassie and her brother, Tom, have been fighting more than usual lately—or, more specifically, she’s been fighting with her parents about her brother, who’s older and in their eyes perfect—and sometimes it leaves her pouty and sensitive. If I’m not careful her temper will flare up from nowhere at me, and we’ll end up in a fight.

  She rolls her eyes. “Ugh. I know you like her and everything, but sometimes that Evie can be, you know.”

  “Can be what?” I like Evie. She’s nice.

  Cassie makes another sickeningly sweet face—with the emphasis on sick. “A little too much is all. She should have learned to tone down the sunshine by now. We’re not in sixth grade anymore. She doesn’t have to be everyone’s friend.”

  “Well, she’s my friend,” I say.

  She tosses me a humble shrug. “I’m glad she likes you so much, I guess,” she says. “And your hair does look sophisticated that way.”

  It’s still not much of a peace offering, but I understand it’s the closest thing to an apology as I’ll get right now.

  “We’ll see if it holds up by lunch.” I smooth my hair a bit more, deciding to let the issue go. “And whether Pencil has anything to say about it.”

  With that, she squeaks in excitement, and we follow Cory once again into the eighth grade wing. We don’t go all the way to his homeroom this time, because we can’t be late again, but Cassie’s thrilled anyway. I’m just glad she’s happy, though when we separate for homeroom she hollers “Ciao, bella!” at me the way Kendra and all her other friends do. In a way that sounds practiced.

  I can’t believe it’s already a mixed-up morning, or that I need my diary so soon, even for just a quick entry.

  Ebullient girl

  Vivacious and sweet

  Interested in everyone

  Even if some think it’s too much.

  Amazon queen

  Just waiting to pounce

  And silence you with her kohl-eyed stare.

  Catty without cause

  Always

  Silently judging

  So confident in her opinions

  Immune to

  Everyone else’s.

  It feels like a mean thing to write about my best friend, but also good to get down, because I don’t want to dwell on negative feelings about Cassie. I decide to turn things around when I see her again at lunch.

  “We need to make a list,” I tell her when we get to our table.

  She grins, sly. “Ways to sabotage your dad’s romance?”

  “Ha. Maybe tomorrow. This, you may be surprised to hear, is more important.” I show her the fresh, blank page in my notebook, across the top of which I’ve written PLANS FOR DISNEYLAND.

  Cassie fake swoons against her chair. “Finally my dream of freeing Aladdin from my evil twin, Jasmine, is within reach!”

  “You might want to explain that little third grade infatuation to Lagoon first.” I nod over at their table. We have a perfect view from here, but they can’t quite see us.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we need a vintage Disney marathon this weekend, so I can get her moves down. I may have forgotten the best ones.”

  “Hopefully Jennifer won’t butt in this time,” I grumble.

  But Cassie’s not going to let me go down that path today. She pulls me up to get in line for our drinks, humming “A Whole New World” close to my ear, and doesn’t even acknowledge Kendra’s gang when we pass their table, or seem to care about Cory, either. When we’re through the line, she does a little Wizard of Oz–style skip to our seats, and takes out her best pen to write down all our ideas: the rides we’ll have to do multiple times, the ones Leelu’s finally big enough to go on with us, the food we want to try, plus the shows at night we can’t miss.

  “And Haunted Mansion at least five times,” she insists.

  I cross my eyes and make my face like a cartoon ghost’s. “Of course!”

  As the list builds, we feed off each other’s excitement, both of us getting giddier and sillier. By the time lunch is over and we’re walking to science, we’re positively hyper—Cassie squeaking in a Minnie Mouse voice—neither of us caring who sees
or overhears, just like in fifth grade.

  It isn’t until we get to class when I stop. “Oh no.”

  Cassie sees my face and halts, too. “What is it?”

  “My backpack.”

  Her expression immediately becomes serious. “Let’s go look.”

  We speed-walk back to the cafeteria, Cassie assuring me the whole way my bag’s surely still under my chair right where I left it. I want to believe her, but I can’t help thinking of the video Dad made me watch when I got my cell phone, about how important it is to keep your eyes on your things, because somebody could snatch them at any time.

  But of course Cassie’s right—my backpack’s still in the cafeteria. Only, now it’s shoved under a chair two tables away from where we sit. We trade worried glances.

  “Just noticed it myself,” Mr. Olansky, the lunchtime supervisor, says. “Was going to finish locking up, and then look for an ID.”

  I thank him and check inside, trying not to panic. In the small front pocket are my house keys, and my money purse—nothing missing from that, including my library card, which may not matter to anyone else, but matters a lot to me. My phone is still in the elastic-edged inner pocket too, and nobody would want my pen case, since it was a gift from Leelu and therefore is covered with pictures of Doc McStuffins. The main section of my backpack—the one with my tablet, my notebooks, my books and other binders—still gapes open. But everything’s there too, except—

  “What is it?” Cassie says, seeing my face.

  My stomach detaches from my body. “My diary, Cassie. I think it’s gone.”

  Chapter Three

  Mr. Olansky lets Cassie and me search for my diary under all the cafeteria tables, and even offers to look through the trash for it. I want to cry, picturing the cover’s beautiful marbled Italian paper stained with pizza sauce, or its pages soaked with half-drunk milkshake, but if it’s in the trash at least I’d know my secrets were safe, instead of being pored over by whoever might have taken it.

  “You have to get back to class,” I tell Cassie, trying to be rational.

  “And you should get a pass to keep looking.”

  I tell Mr. Olansky I’ll be back, before Cassie and I walk in glum silence together to science. It’s good Cassie knows not to try and make me feel better, because I’m not sure anything can make me feel better right now. My diary is like my best friend—more than my best friend, since I write things in there I would never even say to Cassie. It’s where I’ve poured out absolutely everything, no matter how angry or ugly or embarrassing, including—my body prickles with horrified heat—all those details about Tyrick.

  When we get back to science, I tell myself not to freak out, that I’ll surely find it, and ask Ms. Tasker for a pass to go back to the cafeteria. Luckily, she is not only brilliant but also very, very nice, and she writes me one without hesitation. When I return to the lunchroom, Mr. Olansky has already gone through one of the three bulging trash cans with no luck, but he tells me he’s had to do this many, many times, for lost retainers or phones, and hands me a pair of latex gloves.

  Picking through people’s half-eaten sandwiches, soggy hot lunches, and discarded pizza crusts is gross, but at least it gives me something to focus on, until we get through the last bag and my desperate hope of finding my diary is dashed and ruined.

  “I’m sorry, kiddo.” Mr. Olansky pulls off his gloves and tosses them into the last bag. “Most of the time, we find what we’re looking for.”

  I thank him and throw away my own gloves, trying hard as I can to steel my face until I can be alone. So many horrible thoughts are swirling in my brain about who might have my diary now, or what they might do with it, I’m not sure I can breathe. Thank goodness there are bathrooms right outside the lunchroom doors. I slip inside, rush to the last stall in the row, lean against the wall, and cry.

  I don’t say anything to Cassie after science, because we both know neither of us can say anything that will make a difference. She lets me slip down the hall without more than a wave, and for my final periods I try to make my mind as blank as possible. At the last bell, though, Cassie’s somehow gotten out of her own class early and is waiting outside the chorus room for me. I’m surprised, but also relieved, and when Aja and Evie pass us and wave good-bye, I can even manage a small, genuine smile.

  “I thought I’d walk you to the pickup,” Cassie says.

  “But you’ll miss your bus.”

  She shrugs. “You might need company. I’ll call my dad.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait for him, silly. We could give you a ride if Leelu didn’t have dance.”

  Cassie winces in sympathy. Leelu’s dance means I have to do my homework perched on a folding chair in the corner. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Go ahead.” I’m not exactly sure I will be okay, especially if I don’t have my diary to write in about how awful today has been, but there isn’t anything Cassie can do. “I should probably study for math. And I can always read.”

  “You’ve got Little Women? For comfort?”

  I pat my backpack. “At least they didn’t take that.”

  We’re at the top of the hall, where she needs to head right and I need to head left, but Cassie hesitates again, giving me a sympathetic look.

  “Really, it’s okay.”

  She’s still worried. “Call me later?”

  I nod. She squeezes my hand, and clearly doesn’t want to leave, but she really needs to catch her bus.

  “Sissie, you take forever,” Leelu groans when I hop into the back of our nanny Maritza’s car with her.

  “Shut up,” I tell her, fierce.

  “Maritza!” she hollers, startled just as much as I am by my own ugly tone.

  “Both of you, quiet.” Maritza’s voice is tense. While she drives a giant Suburban, and has been in Monterey since she moved from her tiny Texas town six years ago, traffic still makes her nervous. “Fiona, you know about that kind of language.”

  Instead of answering either of them I take out my phone and text Mom: Something bad happened in school today.

  So sorry to hear that, she types immediately back. I’m just getting out of a meeting, and have some things to wrap up before I meet Rachel for dinner. Do you want to talk on the phone before bed?

  I guess, I tell her.

  You are a beautiful rose surrounded by carnations, she says, trying to make me feel better. But right now all I feel like is a bramble of twisted thorns and weeds.

  Trying to study during Leelu’s dance practice doesn’t help. It’s difficult to memorize anything with Leelu and her friends floating around the studio to Jason Mraz anyway, but especially with all the horrible questions swirling in my mind about my diary. Who has it? Why did they take that instead of something else, and what are they going to do with it? Do they even know who I am? Did they do this on purpose? And if so, why? Out of panic and fear I check the school message board and all my feeds about a hundred times, waiting to see if whoever did this might be bragging about having my diary, or even posting passages there, but nothing shows up. I text Cassie too, hoping that she’ll quell my mounting fears, but her battery must be dead again because she never texts back.

  At dinner (salads picked up on Dad’s way home, but at least we’re eating together at our own dining room table, and there’s no Jennifer this time) Dad asks us how our days were.

  Before I can say anything, Leelu says, “Fiona’s in a bad mood.”

  “Is that right?”

  Normally it’s nice that my little sister knows my moods so well, and wants me to feel better, but there’s no way I can talk to Dad about this right now, especially since I’m not really sure how bad it all is yet.

  “Just school stuff,” I say.

  “Is anyone giving you any trouble?” he wants to know.

  I shake my head. Not yet anyway. If I tell Dad what really happened, he’ll just give me a disappointed lecture about keeping better track of my things. And then he’ll probably insist on
coming to school so we can report my missing diary to the principal and the school security officers. Dad could have them do a search of everyone in the entire school if he wanted to, and that would only make things worse than they already are. Nobody would ever forget a mandatory locker search for something like a diary. Probably I’d still get teased about it at my high school graduation.

  “Well, if things don’t improve after a good night’s sleep and another try at it tomorrow, I hope you’ll let us know.”

  I mumble something that could be interpreted as a yes, and excuse myself to my room. In my desk drawer are three more journals people have given me for my birthday or Christmas, since everyone in my family knows I like to write, but I don’t want any of those diaries—I want my diary: its soft, blue-swirled-with-lavender cover and perfect-thickness paper. And I want my mom not to be out with a friend so she can make me feel better. Most especially, I want Cassie to call me back. I’ve tried three times since school got out, but she’s still not answering, and I need her to help me troll the internet and make sure no one’s broadcast my most private thoughts all over everywhere. But after looking at the same sites alone over and over, there isn’t anything to do but try to study. Still, before I go over my notes, I flip to a random blank page in my plain notebook for English, date it, and write two single words:

  Today sucks.

  The first thing I hear when I step off the bus the next morning is a high-pitched voice squeaking, “Oh, Fiona, there you are!”

  My diary anxiety made it hard to get to sleep last night, and when I finally did, I had strange, shadowy dreams of being lost in a giant concrete maze. Evie has to grab my arm before I realize it’s her talking to me.

  Her eyes search my face. “Are you okay? I heard what happened. I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it sounds. Everyone knows Izzy always has to exaggerate everything.”

  The mention of Kendra’s best friend and head minion makes everything jerk to attention. “Izzy?”

  Evie’s face shifts from worried and shocked, to embarrassed and uncertain. “You mean Cassie didn’t tell you?”