Page 49 of The Players

He smiled at me before answering Savannah. “Lowell needed a little social lubricant. We had some in his locker. Are you gonna snitch on us, Savannah? You don’t seem like the snitching type, but you can never be too sure.”

Her blue eyes narrowed into hard glass shards. “Sounds like you fellas might have a drinking problem. Watch out for this one,” she tilted her head toward me. “I know for a fact she can’t handle her liquor.”

Hector lifted one corner of his mouth. “I make sure to keep a close eye on her.” He leaned close, the smell of his cologne intoxicating.

Savannah knew she was beaten. She whirled on her heel and cut a path toward Easton muttering something about, “lame party.”

I spun toward Hector. “She’s going to leave. We need to hurry up the plan. Did you get them?”

Hector ran a soothing hand down my arm. “We have them, and something else. Don’t worry.”

I inhaled deeply. Everything was going according to plan.

Hector tilted our bodies slightly so we could see what was happening. On the other side of the dance floor, Easton was carrying something in a white napkin. He handed it to Savannah.

This was it. With the number of laxatives in that brownie, it would only take a few minutes to have the desired effect. Savannah would get a taste of her own medicine and then we’d be free of her.

I watched, barely breathing, as Savannah took the brownie and examined it.

Then she balled up the napkin and threw the whole thing in the trash.

“What? Oh no! She isn’t going to eat it,” I said, my chest deflating like a balloon losing air. “All that work for nothing.”

I started to walk toward Randy to tell her the plan had failed, and we could leave whenever she wanted to, but then Hector grabbed my wrist.

“Wait,” he said.

“It’s over. It was a mean prank anyway. We can think of something else. Or not. We can survive her harassment until January.” I wasn’t so sure, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Hector gently squeezed my hand. “Wait.”

I gave him a questioning look, but movement near the stage drew my attention. The large projector screen was lowering from the ceiling as the band ended their song.

“Hey, party people,” the lead singer with a blue bob haircut said into the mic. “We’re being told we have a special presentation just for you. So, projector man, roll it.” She pointed to the projector hanging from the ceiling as a video began to play.

The video started by focusing on an attractive, female news reporter standing in front of a highway at night time. She had a serious expression and the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. The bottom third of the screen read, “Hit-and-run leads to child’s death on the East Side.”

“Thank you, Tom. Tragedy on the East Side today where a hit-and-run accident occurred on the corner of Madison Road and M-37. The boy, twelve-year-old Harris Sutterberg, was struck as he walked home from school, and we’ve just received word that he has since died of his injuries. Officials say a young woman was spotted driving away. She was behind the wheel of a white Range Rover matching the image seen here. If anyone has any information regarding this incident please call the County Police.”

I stood frozen, not sure what to do as the information washed over me. A hit-and-run accident? What did this have to do with homecoming or our crummy school football team? Did they do something to cause that poor boy’s death?

Then the next video began to play.

It showed a teenage girl with a coat draped over her head as she hurried past a sea of reporters who all shouted questions at her. The bottom portion of the screen read, “Hit-and-run defendant pleads not guilty. FBI investigates family business.”

On the screen, the girl turned toward the camera and finally showed her face. Savannah stared out at us from the screen, her blue eyes as heartless on video as in real life.

“She’s the suspect?” I whispered as the hairs on my arms stood up.

Hector dipped his head almost imperceptibly.

I wanted to ask more questions, but a final video began to play.

It showed two talking heads in a setting that seemed to be a recording of someone’s podcast. The giant microphones in front of the two twenty-something men captured every word they were saying as they broke down the case.

“She got off,” the blond host said. “Can you believe it? That rich princess got off. And with the evidence against her, I just have to say our judicial system is broken.”

“What’s broken is that victim’s mother’s heart,” the other podcaster began. “Can you imagine a seventeen-year-old driving drunk in the middle of the day, everyone saw her hit the kid, no alibi, and the jury finds hernot guilty? I mean, how does that even happen?!”

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