Gone Too Far by Natalie D. Richards

the oak trees behind our football field. I don’t need to check my phone to know I’m late. The bursts of trumpet and the smell of cotton candy tell me it’s getting close to game time.
    I don’t even care. I’ve spent the last two days jumping every time my phone rings, staring at the notebook night after night, picking up my phone to call Manny, and putting it right back down.
    There haven’t been any more texts. Part of me thinks it’s over, that whoever was behind the creepy Avenge Stella texts thought better of it. This should be the end of it. It really should.
    Except I can’t stop wondering who it was.
    I tried reverse searches on the phone number, but that got me nowhere. The phone is probably a throwaway. Since I’m pretty sure you can buy those at every freaking store in the Midwest, that’s as dead as an end can get.
    Which leaves me with the book. I’ve gone over those texts, and I’d bet money it’s the same person behind both. He knows I have it—I can’t think of any other reason I’d be involved. But other than the weird handwriting, there isn’t anything special to see in it.
    Well, there is the Latin title, but there are two separate Latin classes, and from what Hadley says, the first year doesn’t move past what you can figure out on Google translator. Of the people she mentioned in her group, no one stands out. Hadley might be able to offer a couple of suspects, but I’d have to tell her about the book. And I’m not going to do that.
    It would probably give her nightmares. And, worse, she might figure out the stuff about Manny. I don’t want her thinking badly of him if it isn’t even true.
    Which you could find out if you’d ask him.
    I wince, because I really can’t keep ignoring this conversation. Then again, he’s barely even answering texts right now, and this is definitely something I want to ask in person.
    But not right now. Right now the only thing I’m going to let myself think about is this light. It’s a rare thing in November, a sunset that turns everything the color of honey. Light like this doesn’t wait, so I can’t either.
    I adjust my neck strap and lift my camera. The sun is dipping low in the sky, lingering just above the roof of the school. My phone buzzes, and I’m sure it’s Tacey reminding me of the time and asking where the hell I am. I don’t answer. Right now, with my camera, I feel like I’m finally peeling off blinders. This is how I see the world best.
    I take a few shots before shifting to a wide angle lens. The band starts its first warm-up on the field. There’s still time. I focus on the line of trees behind the stadium. I snap a few shots of the leaves overhead before focusing in on the trunk. There are hundreds of initials on these trees, scars carved into the bark with pocketknives and ballpoint pens—hearts and plus signs and declarations of forever.
    Not that it means much. My parents’ names are on this tree and they sure don’t look like forever anymore. Still, it’s kind of beautiful.
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be getting the band?”
    I turn and take a few shots of Tacey. She’s one of the most photogenic people I know. She always argues with me on that, but that’s just because she’s too damn obsessed with the size of her jeans and the circumference of her waist to notice that the light always hits her face like it’s meant to be there.
    She holds her ever-present phone in front of her face and then lowers it down an inch, revealing narrowed eyes. “I’m serious, Piper!”
    â€œI know you’re serious. You don’t have any other gear.”
    â€œWould you stop being artsy and come on?”
    I sigh but follow her, pulling on my fingerless gloves that won’t do near enough to fight the chill I can feel the sunset bringing. Can’t take pictures with my fingers