With another mountain lion scream, Marcy scrambled onto hands and feet and launched herself at Dahlia. For a long half-second Dahlia contemplated grabbing that knife; it was right there. But this was Marcy. Crazy, sure, maybe on something, and certainly no kind of friend. Still Marcy, though. Dahlia had known her since second grade. Hated her since then, but that didn’t make this a grab-a-knife-and-stab-her moment.
Did it?
Marcy slammed into her, but Dahlia was ready for it. She stepped into the rush and hip-checked the little blonde.
Marcy hit Dahlia. And Marcy rebounded. As if she’d hit a wall.
Any time before that moment, such a clash, such a demonstration of body weight and mass, would have crushed Dahlia. It would have meant a whole night of crying in her room and eating ice cream and writing hate letters to herself in her diary.
That was a moment ago. That was maybe yesterday. This morning.
Now, though, things were different.
Marcy hit the edge of a sink and fell. But it didn’t stop her. She got back to her feet as if pain didn’t matter. She rushed forward again.
So, Dahlia punched her again.
This time she put her whole heart and soul into it. Along with her entire body.
The impact was huge.
Marcy’s head stopped right at the end of that punch. Her body kept going, though, and it looked like someone had pulled a rug out from under her feet. They flew into the air and Marcy flipped backward and down.
Which is when a bad, bad moment got worse.
Marcy landed on the back of her head.
The sound was awful. A big, dropped-cantaloupe splat of a sound. The kind of sound that can never ever be something good.
Red splashed outward from the back of Marcy’s head. Her body flopped onto the ground, arms and legs wide, clothes going the wrong way, eyes wide.
And Marcy Van Der Meer did not move again.
Not then. And, Dahlia knew with sudden and total horror, not ever again.
She stood there, wide-legged, panting like she’d run up three flights of stairs, eyes bugging out, mouth agape, fist still clenched. Right there on the floor, still close enough to bend down and touch, was a dead person. A murdered person.
Right there was her victim.
Her lips mouthed a few words. Maybe curses, maybe prayers. Maybe nonsense. Didn’t matter. Nothing she could say was going to hit the reset button. Marcy was dead. Her brains were leaking out of her skull. Her blood was mixing with the dirty water on the bathroom floor.
Dahlia was frozen into the moment, as if she and Marcy were figures in a digital photo. In a strange way she could actually see this image. It was framed and hung on the wall of her mind.
This is when my life ended, she thought. Not just Marcy’s. Hers too.
She was thinking that, and the words kept replaying in her head, when she heard the screams from outside.
— 8 —
For a wild, irrational moment Dahlia thought someone had seen her kill Marcy and that’s what they were screaming about.
The moment passed.
The screams were too loud. And there were too many of them.
Plus, it wasn’t just girl screams. There were guys screaming too.
Dahlia tore herself out of the framed image of that moment and stepped back into the real world. There were no windows in the girls’ room, so she tottered over to the door, her feet unsteady beneath her. The ground seemed to tilt and rock.