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bed was covered with desk supplies, pens in one pile, Post-?its in another, paper clips in another. She stood up, pulling various pads and notebooks out of the bottom desk drawer and tossing them near her pillows. Apparently she was reorganizing.
“Good. You're here,” she said. “What's the status report?”
“Status report?”
“On our little project,” Natasha said impatiently. “Or did our earlier conversation not get through to you? Because I can show you the slide show again right now if you need a refresher.” She started for her laptop, which was also on the bed.
Okay. So much for her conscience.
“No. That's not necessary,” I said grumpily.
I hefted my book bag over my head and tossed it on my own unmade bed. The socks I'd worn to bed last night lay crumpled and dirty on the floor, and soda cans littered my desk. One thing the fairy tale never talked about was Cinderella having the messiest room in the house.
“So? I know you've been cleaning ever since dinner,” Natasha said, crossing her arms over her Easton sweatshirt. “Anything?”
This was not going to be pretty. “No.”
Her eyes widened like a doll's. “Nothing? Reed, I'm starting to think you're not one hundred percent invested in this project.”
“Natasha, these are my friends,” I said, feeling desperate. “I don't want to do this.”
Natasha blinked. For a second I thought I had thrown her. “Well . . . you have to,” she said, sounding like a petulant five-?year-?old.
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Well. If that was her strongest argument I was home free.
“Isn't there some other way for you to deal with this?” I asked.
Natasha stepped to the center of the room and looked me in the eye. “You don't get it, do you? It's not like I can go up to them and ask them to confess. I say one word and they're going to take whatever loose ends they might still have out there and tie them right up. They're impenetrable unless we can take them by surprise. About the only weakness they have is their overconfidence. They would never even think that you would go behind their backs, which is why you're the perfect weapon.”
I stared at Natasha. She had really thought this through. Very thorough. And also very psychotic.
“No. If I'm going to confront them, I need proof,” Natasha said. “And I can't get proof without you.”
“Natasha--”
“Do I need to remind you of where you'll end up if you get kicked out of here?” she asked.
Everything inside of me stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I looked up your hometown on the Internet,” she said. “Very quaint. It has its own chamber of commerce and everything. Were you guys just so psyched when they opened the new Blimpie last year?”
My fingers automatically curled into fists.
“Apparently you have a community college there too,” Natasha said. “I bet people really go places with that degree.”
“You are seriously deranged,” I said through my teeth.
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“Wrong again,” Natasha said. “I'm the sane one around here. It's Noelle and her satellites who are deranged. Maybe if you did what I told you to do, you'd start figuring that out.” She turned and went back to her bed, flipping open her laptop. “Or, I could just send this little e-?mail. . . .”
“No!” I blurted. Natasha paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. “Don't,” I said, resigned. “Fine. I'll do it. But I don't think I'm going to find anything.”
Natasha closed her laptop with a click. “Sure you don't, honey,” she said condescendingly. “Sure you don't.”