Turncoats

Chapter 1

“I didn't do it”. Words I'd probably have to say for years to come. On May 7th, 1985, Whitney Gray was murdered and found in the storage room next to my locker in Turncoat Bay high-school. She had fallen off the plaza with stab wounds. She was just 16 years old. This was a problem for me more than anyone. I hated her guts because of something I don't want to explain right now, too long, too stupid. But, because I hated her, and because my hatred was made known to the whole school by her friends, my ex gang, everyone thought that I did it. Now lucky for me, my mom was a lawyer and my dad was a cop, they got paid well, and paid to see that I didn't get expelled. So I was still attending the school where people think I'm a murderer. I sound pretty bad off, right? Well I was gonna be perfectly fine. I had a thing for solving cases, and as long as I'm here with Whitney's real murderer roaming around, I was going to get my answers before school was out for the summer.

Anywho's, it was a fresh year for me and the rotten class of 1986. After Whitney's death was made public I was put on a very serious suspension until the next school year. I honestly didn't think they were allowed to do that, but whatever. As I stepped up the stairs to the front doors of the school, I noticed it was oddly quiet. Nothing but the faint buzz of whispers. And I know for certain if there's whispers, it's gossip. I turn to see people staring and whispering. Some freshmen sped past me like I was a disease. I wonder what that's about?

I don't mind being alone, that's almost how it was before Whitty died. Like most people here, she had a clique, only it wasn't just a clique, it was a gang. The Red Ribbons. It sounds stupid right? The gang consisted of Whitney, who went by Whitty, Brittany Nichole Newman, who went by Bennie. Me and Bennie have a history, but like I said, too long, too stupid. Finally, Marcelene McCarthy, or Marcie for short. They all shortened their names to sound more tomboyish and tough. Unfortunately, it worked for them. They're signature was wearing a red hair tie -we called them ribbons- in their hair and black chokers. If anyone outside of the group wore a red ribbon, they'd get ruffled. If you don't know what that is, they'll either get their boyfriends to do something rude to the person like shoving them, locker break ins, all that jazz. Or, they'll take it upon themselves to threaten the non red ribbon girl. They were rough.

Whitty was a good name for her though, she had a short temper and went off like a bomb. She was also quick on her feet and annoyingly clever. Bennie acted like a dumb blonde, even though she was brunette, Whitty was the blonde of the group. Bennie was known for her looks. Ever since I knew her, it was like that. It was always between her and Whitty for who could go through the most boys, until eventually, they settled down with the Jocks. And no, jocks isn't what you think -not a type of boy or anything- It was actually a group name. Playing sports didn't make you a Jock, it made you sporty. Being a jock meant you hung out with Wynn Lawrence, Leo St. Louis, and Ronney Anderson. Those three were each dating a red ribbon. They were all pretty intimidating. You wouldn't wanna tick'em off, or their girls. I'm pretty sure they all hate me, so I'll have to watch my back this year. I made it to my locker, number 007. I hate the number seven. Wanna guess how many times Whitty was stabbed? Yeah.

I opened my locker to find hate letters and trash items scattered in there. That upset me more than it should've, likely because there were a few guys laughing. I threw the trash away and decided to look at a letter or two. I don't know why I chose to do that, there wasn't anything good to say about me anymore. The first one read

“Dear Blondie Killer,

We're gonna convince the principal to call the police over every cheer practice to guard the poor blondes from the likes of you. You might as well get rid of your knives now”

Blondie Killer? That's what they've chosen to call me? That's actually more insulting to Whitty than it is to me, but whatever these weirdos say.

My first class is history. I walk alone to room 5 and sit down in the back. Holy crap, even the teachers are weary of me. Throughout the class, people would blow spitballs at me behind the teacher's back. I hated it, but not enough to rat them all out. Would she even believe me? Most the students are part of other random clique gangs like the boozer losers and the golfer girls. I was what you call gangless. I wasn't part of a gang. I flew solo. I preferred it like that, who would want to be friends with a supposed murderer anyway? Two more classes to go, I hoped I didn't see anyone too familiar today, but that was wishful thinking-or…wishful hoping. I sat in the back of math class and refused to raise my hand, even though I love geometry. A kid came in late and sat by me. Marcie. She sees me and stares at me for minutes on end. Like she was trying to see if it was really me or not. Her face was never that expressionate, so she looked neutral yet strangely irritated at me. Not the reaction I'd expect from someone who's sitting with their best friend's supposed murderer.

Even though I didn't kill the girl, I had a strange feeling of guilt when I looked at Marcie. Like doing an exam I didn't study worth a darn for. I don't dare to say anything to her. She still wore her signature pigtails with two red ribbons on either one. I looked up one last time before the bell rings to see she was about to cry. I didn't know what to do. I was never a big empath. You could say I was pretty apathetic actually, and I wouldn't deny it. Once the bell rings, I quickly write my name on the assignment that I nearly forgot I had, and left. I went to my locker to grab my leather jacket. I always left it in my locker after school, so I wore it for emotional support, or if it was too cold in the cafeteria. I didn't appreciate her crying like that, I hope that doesn't happen again.

The final class went by quickly, it was physics, I hate physics, biology is way better. Occasional spitballs, paper planes with Blondie Killer slander written on them, blah,blah,blah. Then it was lunchtime, the most anxiety ridden part of my day. I hate crowds, sitting with them to eat is just as hated. I was in the cafeteria line, and some losers were stepping on the back of my chucks. I turn and say,

“Gee thanks, my shoes could stand to be a little dirtier.” My chucks were black, it didn't matter how dirty they got. I got served whatever slop they put on my plate and I went to sit at a table in the back corner. I look at my plate to find some kind of casserole and some peas that form a smiley face. Thanks, lunchlady. I usually use lunchtime to touch up my makeup like every other girl in the grade. I pull out my hand mirror and check my eyeshadow, my mom says I roll my eyes so much it makes it wear off. Funny joke, but it could be true, so I touch it up anyway. I look at my mirror and spot someone walking toward my table. I assume they're going to walk past me and sit at some table, most likely cringing from me as they go by. But this person instead taps me on the shoulder. I sigh, and turn to see those bright pale blue and green eyes and honey blonde hair. Gosh..not him. If he's tapping my shoulder, nothing good is about to happen.