The Rivals Read Online Free PDF Page A

fire, the same drive, before she was cut. Or if the Amy I know now was forged by the crime. If she’s tougher than the Amy who existed before, and if somehow her complete determination to do the right thing was grafted onto her along with the letters on her back. I’ve never really talked to her about it, but I’ll have to the next time I see her.
    I put the cap back on the Sharpie and drop it in my pocket. That’s when I hear a noise, a door opening, then quick, determined heels clicking down the hallway toward me. A girl appears in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a thick black headband that sits right above her hairline. Her face is framed by square silver glasses with sparkly little rhinestones on the earpieces. She wears baby-pink plastic boots with massively high and thick heels, a white jean skirt with safety pins down one side, and a gray T-shirt that says Property of Detroit .
    “Alex,” she says. Her voice is raspy, but it’s a natural rasp—not the kind from crying, or from a cold, but from just having one of those husky, smoky voices. The effect of that voice—from only one word, my name —is like the scuffing of boots, the planting of feet, fists raised and ready to fight.
    I have a feeling I’m about to get my first case, only I have no idea what to say, what to ask, what to do.
    “Are you from Detroit?” I ask just to say something. Then I want to kick myself. Because why am I asking her where she’s from?
    “Yeah,” she says, tilting her chin up at me, as though I just insulted her on her turf or something. Like the next thing she’ll say is What of it? as she whips out a knife. “You don’t like Detroit or something?”
    “No,” I say quickly, realizing my skin is prickling and my heart’s beating a bit faster, like the way I feel in those tense few minutes before I step onstage and play the piano. I tell myself to calm down. Except this isn’t a piano recital where I know all the notes, all the music, when I sit down at the bench. Because there’s no checklist of questions to ask when someone tracks you down in the student-activities office. “I mean, it’s fine. I’ve never been there. I was just asking.”
    Then she’s fiddling with her headband, pulling it back farther. I notice her hair is mostly purple.
    “Cool hair,” I say, hoping I can deflect attention to her colorful locks.
    “I did it myself,” she says.
    “I thought about dyeing my hair blue a couple times. But it’s a lot of upkeep, right?” I ask. Sure, I have thought about it once or twice, but I mostly just want to keep the conversation on the innocuous.
    “It is, but it’s worth it. You have to bleach it out pretty regularly, but people notice it.”
    “Maybe I don’t want it blue, then,” I say.
    “You could just do a streak, then. Streaks are easy. I can help you. My mom does hair.”
    “Oh,” I say, wondering if this is what it feels like to visit a foreign country where you don’t even know how to say hello in the language. Because I have no freaking clue what to say to her or why we’re talking or why we’re discussing hair .
    “Seriously. You’d look awesome with a blue streak.”
    “Maybe,” I say, reaching a hand into my straight brown hair.
    “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here,” she says, and finally she’s speaking English. “I came here to find you,” she adds, but the gravel in her voice is suddenly softer as she glances around, making sure we’re alone. “To tell you something.”
    “How did you know I was here?” I ask cautiously, wondering if this is how my role with the Mockingbirds starts. Students coming up to me, knocking on my door, tracking me down, catching me after class. I picture throngs of them, stumbling over one another, tripping on the next person, grabbing shirts and backpacks, pulling fellow seniors, juniors, sophomores, freshmen down into a giant mosh pit.
    “I was sitting behind you at D-Day. I saw you leave.”
    “So you’re following