Stones and Spark by Sibella Giorello Page A

dark, and searched the classrooms—and the girls’ bathroom—because I can't find my friend.
    That doesn’t just sound weird—it sounds like I’m gay. Not that I care what he thinks, of course.
    "Raleigh." He tilts his head to the side. "I can see something's bothering you. What is it?"
    I glance over his shoulder. Ellis is thirty yards away. Parsnip stands across from him, big feet spread like a drill instructor. When I glance back at DeMott, his eyes seem as blue and calm as a clear summer sky.
    "I can't find her."
    "Who—your friend?"
    "Drew, her name's Drew." The rest of it tumbles out, not even in the right order, and I data-dump all over him: her stuff in Physics lab, her mom, dinner every Friday, and this bike, Exhibit A. "It wasn’t here when I came by earlier."
    I sound crazy.
    “I swear it wasn't here,” I add quickly. “There was a plumbing truck. Right here. Backed up to the bike rack and—”
    “I believe you.”
    “—her lock. See how—”
    “Raleigh. I believe you.”
    “You do?”
    “Yes. Something's not right.”
    But I can only stare at the ground. At his black shoes, so polished that the overhead light makes the tips appear white. Something's not right. His words both make me feel better, and worse.
    “I'll help you look for her,” he says.
    Every single thought inside my head starts to collide with its opposite.
    First I think: Wow, that would be great . Then: No, terrible . And then: Maybe it would work .
    And all that hesitation steals my one chance to invite DeMott Fielding into my life. Because here comes Satan herself:
    Tinsley Teager.
    Her long platinum hair curls just so from her flawless face. She seems to float over the pavement, her lemon yellow gown frothy and feminine.
    “I've been looking for you,” she says, batting her green eyes at DeMott.
    “Raleigh can't find her friend.”
    “Shame. One more picture, pretty please? The photographer promised he'd wait.”
    “I was going to help Raleigh.”
    Tinsley's neck looks rigid. “Help her . . . how?”
    “I told you, she can't find her friend.”
    “Are we talking about Drew Levinson? Wait. What am I saying?” She giggles at me. “You don't have any other friends.”
    “Tins, that's not—”
    "Missing.” Tinsley's smile grows large and white, a veritable glacier of perfect orthodontics. “DeMott, you should know something about Drew Levinson. First of all, she enjoys being the center of attention.”
    “That's a lie!” I say.
    Tinsley turns to him, not faltering for one icy second. “She just called me a liar.”
    “Raleigh's upset, that's all. I think we should—”
    “You're right, DeMott.” Her smile grows bigger. “Of course, Raleigh's upset, bless her heart.”
    Those three words, coming from Tinsley Teager, is like being stabbed in the back and then asked to admire the knife's handle.
    “DeMott,” she says. “Did Raleigh happen to mention that Drew's run away before?”
    He looks at me, questioning.
    “That was a long time ago,” I say.
    “Actually, no,” she says. “The whole school turned itself upside down and inside out trying to find that girl. Do you know where she was? Hiding. Hoping to get more attention. Bless her heart.”
    DeMott is frowning, taking in this new information. I wonder if he thinks I'm a liar.
    “Yo, Fielding!”
    He turns. In the parking lot, a guy leans from a limo's back window. His red bow tie is askew.
    “You and Tins coming?” the guy yells. “Drinks are melting!”
    Tinsley gasps. She is our student body president—or, as Drew says, “student busybody president.” She spins around, checking to see whether Parsnip and Ellis heard. But they're dealing with Harper Conneally, whose black shrug is way too small for her enormous new chest. In fact, a blanket might be too small, but that doesn't stop Parsnip from pinching the shoulders of the little shrug and tugging it down, as if this will change the fact that Harper, who last year was flat as an ironing