Five Little Liars Read online

  For my family

  More Blood

  There should be more blood.

  He lay there, sprawled across the floor, his lips parted as if he were about to speak. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even breathing. His left eye was partially open, revealing a half-moon of jelly-white eyeball.

  Her breath caught somewhere deep in her throat and stuck there, a hard knot just below her vocal chords. She pressed her hand against her chest and swallowed, over and over again. She wouldn’t be sick. She couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

  When someone dies, there should be more blood.

  Ivy

  Friday, May 29

  Girls like Ivy McWhellen did not get embarrassed. And if they ever did happen to be embarrassed, it was in an adorable way. Like in an Oh my gosh, I can’t believe he thinks I’m cute way, which was just ridiculous because girls like Ivy McWhellen knew they were cute. They were born knowing.

  Which is why anyone would expect Ivy McWhellen to be doing something amazing with her summer. Like maybe sunning on the beach in Cabo. Or having some sort of whirlwind summer romance with the captain of the hockey team (if her school even had a hockey team). Or, at the very least, hanging with her best girlfriends/understudies.

  One would not expect a girl like Ivy McWhellen to be trapped desperately on her back underneath a vending machine, slowly suffocating to death. Which happened to be where Ivy was at that exact moment.

  It wasn’t her fault. Ivy had been, until very recently, the queen bee. Then she made a really bad decision by following the advice of every terrible chick flick ever that told her to follow her heart.

  What those chick flicks never told Ivy was that hearts are bad at directions, and that following her heart would eventually lead her into the high school over summer break and right up to a vending machine. And that her ex–best friends would tip it over on her and leave her there to die.

  Stupid, stupid heart.

  At least there weren’t cameras. There had been some student council vote about using low-energy ones, and so the old ones had been taken out last week, and the new, not-yet-installed cameras were apparently on back order. The last thing Ivy needed was a stupid video getting stolen and going viral.

  Of course, that wouldn’t even matter, if she died.

  Ivy took a deep, slow breath, and the vending machine crushed her ribs a little further. And then she lifted up as hard as she could.

  The hulking monster of a machine moved two full millimeters.

  Ivy lay back. Maybe she should just concentrate on breathing. And try not to think about the way Klaire—who had been her best friend since that time in kindergarten when Ivy convinced her to eat paste—had laughed while Johann, the quarterback, had held Ivy down. Then his two linebacker goons had slowly lowered the vending machine onto her body.

  That bitch was going to pay. And so were Johann and the linebackers.

  Ivy took another deep, slow breath, and pushed upward. The machine actually moved . . . maybe an inch. And then it teetered and slid, and pain rocketed up her arm as the weight shifted. Ivy sucked in as much breath as she could and tried to scream, but she hardly had anything left in her. All that came out was a pathetic little whimper, like a dying kitten, or like Marc Selver last year when he got sucker punched in the stomach.

  “Ivy?”

  Ivy tried to pivot her head. It couldn’t be him. Please, God, say it wasn’t him.

  He took a step closer.

  It was him.

  Garrett.

  Ruiner of Lives.

  Kisser extraordinaire.

  Also known as the ex-boyfriend who had cost her everything she loved when he had the nerve to dump her . . . and then the rest of the school had decided Garrett was the Cool One, as he had officially earned the status of the Only Guy to Ever Dump Ivy McWhellen.

  And Garrett hadn’t even been cool before that. He’d been, like, unseen. A nobody. But she had seen him, and gotten all of this Love Bullshit in her head, and he had ruined her entire life forever.

  “Are you okay under there?” he asked, kneeling down, his stupid hipster Chucks way too close to her head. His face appeared above her, and he looked ridiculous and pudgy from this angle—like her face did when she accidentally forgot to flip the camera lens around and she surprise-selfied herself.

  She wheezed throatily, and his eyes widened.

  “Wait here a minute, Ivy girl. I’ll save you. I promise.”

  He pushed himself up and she heard his Chucks tapping down the hall.

  On one hand, yay, Ivy was probably not going to die. On the other hand, being heroically saved by the boy who had ruined her entire life was basically the cruelest thing in the entire world. Maybe even crueler than death, if she really thought about it.

  “Don’t call me Ivy girl,” she tried to say, because what right did he have to use his adorable boyfriendy nicknames after basically pushing her off a social cliff? But all that came out was a strange whistling noise. The machine had probably punctured her lung.

  Thank God she hadn’t been caught under one of the big vending machines in the student foyer. It was just a half-size one that, until a week ago, when it was emptied for the summer, had been filled with all the healthy snacks no one ever bought anyway: $1.50 for some shitty rice crackers? No. Just no.

  A few moments later, Ivy heard a click-clicking—the light, careful tread of girls. A lot of them. A whole pack.

  She strained her neck around.

  Freshmen. The type of girls that Ivy McWhellen would grind underneath her Louboutin heels and eat for Bitch Brunch.

  They stared at her at first. At her dark hair with blond highlights tangled on the floor behind her. At her perfect little bag on the ground, with half its contents spilled out onto the dirty tile of the main lobby.

  And then the front freshman—the smallest one—put her hand to her mouth.

  That’s when the laughter started.

  Slow, at first, with a pathetic, high-pitched little giggle, and then evolving rapidly into heaving laughter as it swept through the group.

  Those stupid little freshpeople were laughing at Ivy McWhellen.

  One of them raised a smartphone and snapped a picture.

  This was not how the world was supposed to work.

  Ivy wanted to kill them. She would ruin her manicure to do it, and there was hardly anything she would ruin her manicure for. But this was definitely worth another set of forty-dollar gel tips.

  “Ivy!” Garrett’s stupid voice rang down the hallway. “Ivy, I found Janitor Epps. We’ll get you out of here.” He jogged up, like a Knight in Shining Lumberjack Clothes, and the old janitor lumbered a few steps behind, clearly not as concerned with Ivy’s well-being.

  The janitor knelt down close to her. “Better not have messed up my machine,” he muttered, so close to her ear that she could smell the chewing tobacco on his breath.

  Ivy wanted to punch him almost as bad as she wanted to get out, but not quite as bad as she wanted to kill the freshmen. Who cared about the machine? Ivy was dying here. The freshmen giggled louder, and Garrett turned to them.

  “A little help, please,” he said.

  Ivy didn’t have to crane her neck to know the girls were practically melting into puddles of goo just because Garrett, a senior, a cool, cute senior, spoke actual words to them. Suddenly, the little bitches were all Mother Teresa.

  With Garrett and the janitor at the front of the machine (and said janitor standing at an angle where Ivy could see a suspicious stain near his crotch), they all started counting.

  “One . . . two . . . three!” Garrett shouted, and together they all lifted until the machine was raised off of Ivy. She scrabbled frantically at the dirty tile until she was finally clear of th
e stupid machine, then continued to scuttle backward until her back was against the wall and she was clear across the room, breathing delicious lungfuls of air.

  Garrett sat down beside her and handed her the little handbag.

  “So,” he said. “Want to tell me who did this?”

  Ivy shook her head. “Machine wasn’t secured,” she said, her voice tight with bitterness. “So dangerous. I should sue.”

  “Oh, right,” Garrett said. “Vending machines just randomly collapse on top of people. Happens all the time. Think it was haunted?”

  Ivy smiled a little, in spite of herself. Garrett was funny. That was why she’d liked him at first. “Something like that. I never should have played with that Ouija board.” She faked a shudder and pain lit up in her muscles. The machine had done more damage than she’d thought.

  “So,” Garrett said. “I’m here for a summer art course. And you decided to drop by the local high school because . . . it’s such a grand place?”

  Ivy didn’t want to tell him the truth: that her parents had forced her to take a stupid, stupid psych class for credit, just because they wanted her out of the house. That she hardly did anything since Garrett dumped her.

  That she’d lost every friend and follower she thought she had.

  “Signing up for the summer psych course,” she said. “I want to get a jump-start on college credit and they make you submit all this extra paperwork.” She smoothed her hair out of her face. It was half true. Really, it was probably the last thing she wanted to do with her summer.

  “Cool,” Garrett said. “Is that the one that Dr. Stratford is teaching at night?”

  Ivy nodded glumly. Stratford was supposed to basically be the devil incarnate. Exactly how she’d planned to spend her summer—being lectured by Satan himself. How fitting. Her whole life was going to hell anyway. Might as well get some face time with the boss.

  Garrett put his arms on his knees and started messing with his wristbands, which is what he did before he said something serious. Ivy would know. It was what he did before he broke up with her.

  Across the room, the freshmen watched, like eager little gossip vultures.

  “Ivy girl, listen—about us. I’m sorry. I know things haven’t been easy for you since we—since I—”

  “No.” The word cut through Garrett’s fumbling speech. “No, Garrett.” Ivy pushed herself up, wincing, and threw the bag over her shoulder. “Listen, it was great to talk to you, and thanks for saving my life, but really—I have to go.”

  He stared up at her with those pretty, soulful eyes he had, and for the first time, she turned her back on him.

  And with that, Ivy walked away from everything she wanted.

  Mattie

  Monday, June 1

  “Watch it!” Mrs. Byrne said, laughing, as Mattie dropped the very last box on her toe. “You’re lucky that’s just pillows. Otherwise you could have paralyzed me for life.”

  Mattie forced a smile. “Sorry, Mom.” He knew she was trying to cheer him up, but there was only one person who could do that right now—and he wasn’t here. He wasn’t answering Mattie’s phone calls. (Or his texts. Or his Facebook messages.)

  “Look,” Mrs. Byrne said, prancing to the huge window and throwing open the curtains dramatically. “The view! And you have your own balcony!”

  Mattie followed his mom to the huge window, which turned out to be a sliding door. It opened onto a gigantic veranda. Next to an actual trellis, practically choked with crawling ivy. This room was basically made for sneaking out. He had to admit it wasn’t totally bad.

  His mom unlocked the door and stepped outside. His aunt’s house was huge—the biggest in the neighborhood—and located on top of a hill, so it had a perfect view of the trees and other immaculate homes. In the distance, the lights of the city twinkled like weak stars. It was beautiful.

  “It’s great,” Mattie told his mother. She smiled and put her arm around him.

  “It’s not so bad, right, Mattie? I’m sure Derrick will visit.”

  Mattie wasn’t so sure. Things with Derrick hadn’t felt right. Not since . . . well. They just hadn’t felt right.

  “Or,” his mother continued, “at least he will when he sees some pictures of your aunt’s house. This place is great, right? Look at the pool!”

  Mattie grasped the stone railing and looked down. He was directly over the pool, which was beautiful. It was an infinity pool, so the edge just seemed to stop, and you could swim up and enjoy the view from anywhere. There was a small, trickling version of a waterfall in one corner, and a bubbling hot tub in the other.

  “Yeah,” Mattie admitted. “It’s pretty cool.”

  And it was. Mattie’s aunt Janice had all the money in the family. She’d won the lottery in the late nineties (and not just a puny million-dollar jackpot) and she’d invested it. No one guessed that a weirdo art teacher who lived in a three-hundred-square-foot studio downtown would be able to triple her winnings in just ten years, but Aunt Janice had taken to numbers, to investments, to palling around with men in sharp suits, and she’d done it. And now, she was enjoying it. Clearly. The house was incredible—a mix of ancient Rome and classic Southern style. Huge, but somehow not gaudy. It was pretty, actually. It was art.

  Mrs. Byrne put both her arms around her son and pulled him tight. “I’m going to miss you, kid,” she said, her voice suddenly misty and soft. Her blond curls tickled his nose.

  “Then don’t make me stay,” Mattie pleaded. When his mother pulled away, she half smiled at him and rustled his hair, the same way she’d done when he was a little boy. “I wish I didn’t have to, but you made a deal with your dad. You can’t have an F on your report card.”

  Mattie grimaced. In a serious lapse in character, and for the very first time, he’d cheated on a psych test. Him. Perfect Mattie Byrne. His teacher had caught him with the notes in his lap and, well, in less than an hour, both his parents had been in the assistant principal’s office for an emergency meeting, and Mattie was receiving two things he’d never received before: suspension and a failing grade.

  Fortunately, Mattie’s dad was good friends with the football coach, who was good friends with the principal, and, since Mattie had a perfect record, they’d agreed to let him retake the course during the summer. If he got a B, they’d pass him, and the F would be wiped from his record.

  Unfortunately, in Mattie’s tiny little town, summer courses weren’t offered. (But three hours away? Of course!)

  “Three hours isn’t that far,” his mother said. “And this will be good for you. To learn from an actual college professor? It’s pretty cool.” She grinned.

  “Um, sure.” Mattie tried to be positive. He did. But how was he supposed to? Everyone he knew was at home, spending their summer on the lake. Including Derrick. Who was to say Derrick wouldn’t just forget him? Who was to say he hadn’t already?

  Who was to say Mattie didn’t deserve it?

  Mattie swallowed hard. He knew was kind of being a jerk. Sure, he had to take another stupid psych course, but he got to spend his summer in a mansion so big, it had actual wings. And there was a butler to open the door, and a whole team of maids came three times a week.

  Things could be worse.

  But still . . .

  Mattie’s shoulders tensed.

  His mom gave him a little squeeze on the arm and disappeared into the bedroom.

  In his pocket, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out. A text from his dad: Have fun!

  Mattie texted him back, and noticed a red 1 notification on his Facebook app. He opened it, and the first thing he saw was Derrick. As in his boyfriend, Derrick.

  The next thing he saw was Aaron Rodriguez. (Who happened to be Derrick’s ex.) Derrick’s ex who definitely wanted him back. It was obvious, the way he was always following him around and sending him Snapchats of his stupid bull terrier (but hopefully nothing else).

  The third thing he saw was Aaron’s arm. Which was firmly around Derrick’s should
ers.

  We’re just friends, Derrick had promised. Aaron’s totally harmless.

  Mattie sucked in his breath, and suddenly his chest hurt. If he’d never cheated on that test, he’d be home. And he’d know.

  Kinley

  Friday, June 5

  Week one.

  Third class.

  Professor: tough, but fair. But really, really tough.

  Chances of me getting an A: 100%

  “What are you writing?”

  Kinley jumped, just slightly. Tyler Green—who everyone he had ever met knew was bad news—was talking to her.

  People didn’t talk to her. They just . . . didn’t.

  Especially boy people.

  She covered her paper with her hand, and she felt her face heat up. “Um. Nothing.”

  Tyler winked. “Let me see. I won’t tell.”

  “I would,” she said, “but see . . . you’d have to be able to read to understand.” She shrugged and shut her notebook. “Sorry.”

  Tyler laughed. “You’re sort of funny for a narc.”

  Kinley lifted a shoulder. Everyone said she was a narc, ever since the time she ratted on the middle school point guard for smoking weed on school grounds. But she didn’t care. Kinley just did what everyone else was scared to do, and what was wrong with that?

  She was always prepared to go further than everyone else. Always.

  That was why she was here early. She wanted to get some face time with Dr. Stratford before class started again. The first couple of classes . . . well, Dr. Stratford clearly didn’t understand who she was. He treated her like everyone else—with disdain, stopping just short of pure hatred.

  He needed to realize.

  She was the best student. Always. In every class.

  She was Kinley Phillips. She had a reputation. A good reputation.

  But Dr. Stratford was nowhere to be found. The only person she was getting face time with was Tyler Green, resident burnout. The kind of guy who did not give girls good reputations.

  “Why are you in this class, anyway?”