fat handful of crumpled bills. Missy had probably gone with him. Keith and Missy were practically married…and if they were back, there was a hard pack of Camel filters and a grape soda waiting for her, beer and barfy Winstons for Devon. No way that fag would come back for her before catching a smoke first; she was on her own.
God, grape soda and a cigarette. She ached for them suddenly, and she decided she would brave her stoned legs, find her coat—it was almost the middle of June (school out for one whole day now, hoo-fuckin’-rah!) but the nights were still way too cold to go without—and head out back, see if Devon had—
Somebody started to scream. Amanda froze, and the terrible, high-pitched shriek filled her ears, filled the room, went on and on like the end of the world. It was loud—or it seemed loud, but it was in her head, too, deafening, but she could still hear talking, heard someone laugh a few feet away from her. She looked at the TV, saw that the movie was still playing—and then a movie began to play out in her mind, like a vivid memory or dream. It overtook the room, the party, carrying her inside herself.
What the fuck?
There was a girl, running, screaming, and behind her a dark shape, a man in dark clothes; his hands were empty, but he was so much bigger than her, faster, and he grabbed her, caught her sleeve, and then pulled her close. The girl screamed again and he shook her, hard, and now Amanda could see her face—
That’s Lisa Meyer, what the fuck—
It was dark, and there were trees; they were outside somewhere, and Lisa stopped screaming because the man’s hands were on her throat now. She was making horrible choking sounds, her hands fluttering up, pulling uselessly at the thick fingers around her throat. Her eyes were bulging, her face red, drool running over her lower lip as the attacker squeezed and squeezed. He was breathing hard, fast, like he was excited, and as Amanda watched he leaned forward almost casually and bit Lisa’s face, high on her cheek.
Blood poured from the bite. Lisa’s entire body flailed and shook, but he was holding tight; her hands fluttered uselessly, and the attacker grinned, his teeth red, and Amanda saw that she knew who he was, it was the fucking shop teacher for fuck’s sake, Mr. Billings was killing Lisa Meyer; she was sagging now, and he was chewing on her fucking face—
Amanda screamed. She screamed, and for a few seconds it was the only sound in the room as the dark shapes around her fell silent, as someone snapped off the movie. Then there were hands on her, excited voices, someone telling her to calm down, someone else telling her to shut the fuck up. Somebody touched her spiky hair, and then the lights came on, a painful shock of light that illuminated the shabby carpet, the off-white walls, a dozen familiar faces looming over her, teenage and afraid and curious and surprised.
“’Manda?”
Devon, pushing through, crouching at her side. She started to cry then, too terrified to care that she was sobbing in front of everyone, that she was being a total freak. Devon put his arm around her, and she smelled smoke, smelled the product in his hair, and she cried harder into his itchy sweater.
“Is she dosed? ’Cause if it’s that shit that Mark Jacobsen got from Seattle, it’s supposed to be bad shit, and I heard—”
“Is that Amanda Young?”
“Jesus, that scared the shit out of me—”
Amanda closed her eyes, clutched Devon tightly. She wanted them to shut up; she wanted to be home in bed in her flannel nightshirt, warm and safe and sleepy. She wanted a fucking cigarette.
“What happened?” Devon asked, his voice low and close to her ear.
Amanda gasped a hitching breath. “I saw—I swear to God, I saw Lisa Meyer getting killed, I saw Mr. Billings killing Lisa fucking Meyer!”
She tried to say it softly but it was too difficult; her straining lungs pushed it out with force. A number of frowns now, the people closest—Doug and Sean from drama, Sean’s little sister, Ally—drawing back slightly.
“What?”
“What did she say?”
Devon pulled back to look at her. “OK, that’s cool,” he said, his voice smooth and relaxed, pitched to carry. “Not a fuckin’ show, people. She’s cool. Back off, OK?”