Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Above the tree-line, the stadium lights illuminate the sky, and the harmonized thuds from the marching band echo through the car before the parking lot comes into view.

I find an empty space and squeeze my SUV between two minivans, each one with colorful window decals displaying their school spirit.

Wherever students place on the complex rungs of social hierarchy, most can be found supporting the Menteuse Minks every Friday night, even if their percentage of wins isn't that impressive. We take pride in our school, and especially in our players. That includes Jordan Pacey.

I scan the crowd and wave my pass at the ticket stand, before making my way to the bleachers. I'm not sure where she sits, but her bouncy auburn waves shouldn't be hard to spot.

The stands are packed as I probe the perimeter, with more spectators lining the fence around the field. Suddenly, the crowd goes wild. Their arms flail in the air as if they're driving away swarms of mosquitoes, their mouths chanting "touchdown" as we score against South Liberty High. I stand on my tiptoes and crane my neck, but there's too much commotion to make sense of faces.

"Arbor Hayes, Arbor Hayes, wherefore art thou, Arbor Hayes?" Mey's hands circle her mouth like a megaphone, her voice rising above the crowd.

Shit. I don't have time for this. I'm not here on a social call.

Reluctantly, I step onto the bleachers and swallow my irritation. "There you are. What's the score?"

"Thirteen to thirty-seven. It's the end of last quarter and we're winning. Can you believe it?" She grins, her dark eyes twinkling in the glow of overhead lights. "And guess whose boyfriend is the star of the show?" She points to herself with both thumbs before I can answer.

I barely keep the sarcasm from my voice. "When isn't Kobe the star?"

"Oh my God, right? If they could figure out a way to clone him, we'd win every game. Oh, wait. Then there'd be all sorts of girls going after my men. Never mind, bad idea." Mey inches over and I press myself in between her and a pimple-faced sophomore I recognize from lunch. "I thought you weren't coming tonight?"

"Guess I changed my mind. Is Smith still here?"

Mey points toward the mob of boys huddled along the sidelines. "He's down there with Lance and a bunch of their macho cronies. I swear, testosterone surges like a tsunami when boys congregate for sports." She gives me a goofy grin and rolls her eyes. "Does he know you're here?"

"I wanted to surprise him." It's a lie, but just a little one. "Have you seen Jordan Pacey around?"

Mey's perfect eyebrows scrunch in my direction. "That's random. Why are you looking for her?"

I shrug, and turn away. "No reason. Are we going to Porkie Pies later?" I ask, referring to the popular diner that attracts half the student body after every home game.