Page 86 of SNOB

It’s hard to stop the tremble in my voice when I ask, the meeting with my mom still eating my insides.

“How do you think?” Hannah asks, her glittering nails wrapped around the phone like a prize. Her white dress is fit for a celebration, short and frilly. “Let’s cut the nonsense, I’ve seen the rest of the video. I know you were there when Beau died.” Hannah steps forward, but hearing those words makes me step back.

“We-we don’t know he’s dead,” I hate that I stutter.

“They found his body,” she says. “And I know you had Greta's scrunchie."

Her accusations make my stomach twist and the feeling to hurl gets stronger. “Then you also saw the end of that video. You know how it ends. You know?—”

“I knew you were trouble when you showed up here,” Hannah cuts me off. “And now I have the evidence to prove it. If I release this thing, I promise you’ll be the one to blame. So what I suggest is you turn yourself in. Better yet, just fucking leave.”

She doesn’t let me say another word before she flips her hair and saunters into the building, that phone still in her hand. My back hits the cold brick as Hannah’s words echo.

How the hell did she get his phone?

Don’t be stupid.

My body tenses and my knees buckle. My hand on the wall, I try not to pass out from the weight of what’s hitting me.

We’re a team.

That’s bullshit.

Because Malcolm McKinsley has a team of his own.

And I’m not on it.

Focus.

Focus.

Focus!

Keeping my eyes on my canvas is impossible as I tap the end of my brush against my face. Glancing at my phone again, I grab it, checking if the volume is on. It is. I swipe up on the screen anyway. No new notifications.

I texted Mac the minute I left Sun House. Told him it was an emergency but I’ve yet to hear back from him. Almost twenty-four hours later.

I hoped Riviera’s classroom would bring some solace but I’ve stared at this stroke of red on this canvas all evening. I can’t get into my groove. I can’t get that conversation out of my head. Both of them. My mom. Hannah.

The person I need the most right now, my “teammate,” isn’t around when I need him. But that’s the usual.

The stool beside me gets the brunt of my anger when I slam my phone on it. Gray hasn’t been around either. Another thing I want answers to but Mac is as avoidant as my mother.

“Fuck this.” Grabbing the phone, I sling my tote over my shoulder and move towards the door, sketchpad in hand. If I want answers, I’ll get them. I’m tired of waiting.

If Mac won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.

Leaving the classroom, Ryung is the first person I bump into. I don’t hesitate before asking, “What are you doing right now?”

He stops in his path, duffel bag on his shoulder, stick in his hand. “Isn't it obvious?” Then he continues on his path down the shiny SBU hall.

“Wait!” I call. He stops but he doesn’t turn around. “Can you give me a ride before practice? It’ll be quick.”

He looks over his shoulder, his long black hair falling over it. “You? No.”

My brows furrow, Hannah’s conversation still whirling my brain. “Ryung, do you think I did it?”

He turns around, sighing. “Did what?”

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