Reading Level "One of Us" by Anne Schraff
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the writer'southward imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 past Karen M. McManus
Cover photographs © 2017 by Hero Images/Getty Images, Ollyy/Shutterstock, Henrik Sorenson/Getty Images, Cameron McNee/Gallery Stock
All rights reserved. Published in the Us past Delacorte Printing, an banner of Random Business firm Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random Firm LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random Firm LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McManus, Karen Yard., writer.
Title: One of u.s. is lying / Karen M. McManus.
Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2017] | Summary: "When the creator of a high school gossip app mysteriously dies in front of four loftier-profile students all four become suspects. Information technology's up to them to solve the example"— Provided past publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016032495 | ISBN 978-1-5247-1468-0 (hc) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1469-7 (glb) | ISBN 978-one-5247-1470-iii (ebook) | ISBN 978-i-5247-6472-2 (intl. tr. pbk.)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Murder—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M4637 On 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9781524714703
Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Encompass
Title Folio
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Simon Says
Chapter I
Affiliate Two
Chapter 3
Chapter Iv
Chapter Five
Chapter Half dozen
Chapter Seven
Chapter 8
Chapter Nine
Part Two: Hide-and-Seek
Chapter 10
Chapter Eleven
Affiliate Twelve
Chapter 13
Affiliate 14
Chapter 15
Chapter Sixteen
Affiliate Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three: Truth or Dare
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter 20
Chapter Xx-one
Affiliate Twenty-two
Chapter 20-three
Affiliate Twenty-4
Affiliate 20-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Xx-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Affiliate Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Jack, who always makes me laugh
Bronwyn
Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.
A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that'southward simply this week's update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher'southward gossip app, y'all'd wonder how anyone plant time to go to class.
"Old news, Bronwyn," says a vocalization over my shoulder. "Wait till you see tomorrow's post."
Damn. I detest getting caught reading Nearly That, peculiarly past its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. "Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?"
Simon falls into pace beside me every bit I movement confronting the catamenia of students heading for the go out. "It's a public service," he says with a dismissive wave. "You tutor Reggie Crawley, don't you? Wouldn't you rather know he has a camera in his sleeping room?"
I don't bother answering. Me getting anywhere virtually the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely every bit Simon growing a conscience.
"Anyway, they bring information technology on themselves. If people didn't lie and cheat, I'd be out of business organization." Simon'southward common cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. "Where are y'all rushing off to? Roofing yourself in extracurricular glory?"
I wish. As if to taunt me, an warning crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, three p.yard., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from 1 of my teammates: Evan's here.
Of grade he is. The cute Mathlete—less of an oxymoron than you might think—seems to only ever show upwards when I can't.
"Not exactly," I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as footling data as possible. Nosotros push through green metal doors to the dorsum stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come up 15 miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will purchase them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.
Simon's still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery's lab on the third flooring, and I half turn with my arms crossed. "Don't you have someplace to exist?"
"Yeah. Detention," Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. "You're kidding me. You too? What'southward your crime?"
"I'm wrongfully accused," I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to have them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except 1.
Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. "You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council."
He should know. Nate's been in trouble since fifth grade, which is correct around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he'due south on probation with Bayview'south finest for…something. It might be a DUI; information technology might be drug dealing. He'due south a notorious supplier, just my noesis is purely theoretical.
"Save the commentary." Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field backside the parking lot below.
I accept a seat equally Cooper Clay, who'south palming a crumpled slice of newspaper like a baseball, whispers "Heads up, Addy" and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball driblet to the floor.
The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn't even exist here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.
Mr. Avery is a requite-detention-outset, enquire-questions-never kind of guy, only maybe in that location's nevertheless fourth dimension to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I find Nate's smirk broadening. "Mr. Avery, that wasn't my phone yous found. I don't know how it got into my pocketbook. This is mine," I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.
Honestly, y'all'd have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery's lab. He has a strict no-telephone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every grade rooting through backpacks similar he's head of airline security and we're all on the watch list. My telephone was in my locker, like ever.
"You lot too?" Addy turns to me and so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her fellow in society to show up alone. "That wasn't my phone either."
"Me three," Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes information technology audio like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they're office of the aforementioned clique. Maybe überpopular peopl
e have ameliorate things to talk virtually than unfair detentions.
"Somebody punked u.s.!" Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking jump-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of usa, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. "Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with generally spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of matter that, oh, I don't know, a guy who'south here all the time might do for fun."
I look at Nate, but can't motion-picture show it. Rigging detention sounds similar piece of work, and everything most Nate—from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket—screams Tin can't be bothered. Or yawns information technology, peradventure. He meets my eyes but doesn't say a word, just tips his chair back fifty-fifty further. Another millimeter and he'll fall correct over.
Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face up. "Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-upwardly, merely if the aforementioned affair happened to all of us, it's somebody's stupid idea of a prank. And I'm missing baseball practice considering of it." He says it like he's a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.
Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. "Save the conspiracy theories for another instructor. I'm non ownership it. You all know the rules confronting bringing phones to class, and you broke them." He gives Simon an particularly sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, just in that location's non much they can practise to stop it. Simon only uses initials to place people and never talks openly near school. "Now mind up. Y'all're here until four. I want each of y'all to write a 5-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can't follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow."
"What exercise we write with?" Addy asks. "There aren't any computers here." About classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade agone, is a holdout.
Mr. Avery crosses to Addy's desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have i. "Explore the magic of longhand writing. It's a lost art."
Addy's pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. "But how do we know when we've reached 5 hundred words?"
"Count," Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the telephone I'm nevertheless holding. "And mitt that over, Miss Rojas."
"Doesn't the fact that you're confiscating my phone twice give yous pause? Who has two phones?" I ask. Nate grins, then quick I virtually miss information technology. "Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us."
Mr. Avery'southward snowy mustache twitches in badgerer, and he extends his manus with a beckoning motion. "Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a render visit." I give information technology over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. "The phones I took from the rest of you lot earlier are in my desk. Yous'll get them dorsum later detention." Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safety in their backpacks.
Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the instructor's desk, opening a book equally he prepares to ignore u.s. for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap information technology against my yellowish notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe engineering science is ruining schools? That's a pretty sweeping statement to brand over a few contraband phones. Perchance information technology's a trap and he's looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.
I glance at Nate, who'south aptitude over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.
It'south possible I'yard overthinking this.
Cooper
Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.
My hand hurts within minutes. It's pathetic, I guess, merely I can't remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I'm using my right hand, which never feels natural no affair how many years I've washed it. My begetter insisted I learn to write correct-handed in 2d grade later he first saw me pitch. Your left arm'southward gold, he told me. Don't waste it on crap that don't matter. Which is anything but pitching as far every bit he'south concerned.
That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Null like putting a little pressure level on an eight-year-old.
Simon reaches for his haversack and roots around, unzipping every department. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. "Where the hell's my h2o bottle?"
"No talking, Mr. Kelleher," Mr. Avery says without looking up.
"I know, but—my water bottle'southward missing. And I'm thirsty."
Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the dorsum of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. "Become yourself a beverage. Quietly."
Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, just seems distracted by Nate'south methodical writing. "Dude," he says, kick his sneaker confronting the leg of Nate'southward desk. "Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?"
Now Mr. Avery looks upwards, frowning. "I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher."
Nate leans back and crosses his arms. "Why would I practice that?"
Simon shrugs. "Why do you do annihilation? So y'all'll have visitor for whatever your spiral-up of the day was?"
"One more discussion out of either of you and it'southward detention tomorrow," Mr. Avery warns.
Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he tin speak there's the sound of tires squealing and and then the crash of two cars hit each other. Addy gasps and I caryatid myself confronting my desk-bound like somebody but rear-concluded me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his anxiety toward the window. "Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?" he asks.
Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery similar she's request for permission, and when he gets up from his desk-bound she heads for the window besides. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well encounter what's going on. I lean against the ledge to expect outside, and Simon comes upwards beside me with a disparaging laugh every bit he surveys the scene beneath.
Two cars, an old ruddy one and a nondescript gray 1, are smashed into each other at a correct angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. "I'd better make sure no one was hurt." He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the virtually responsible of the bunch. "Miss Rojas, keep this room independent until I become back."
"Okay," Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, merely earlier Mr. Avery or some other instructor appears outside, both cars commencement their engines and drive out of the parking lot.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," Simon says. He heads dorsum to his desk and picks upwardly his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic tabular array of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he'south virtually to exit, simply so he turns and raises his cup like he's toasting us. "Anyone else desire some water?"
"I do," Addy says, slipping into her chair.
"Go it yourself, princess." Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans confronting Mr. Avery's desk. "Literally, huh? What'll yous do with yourself now that homecoming's over? Big gap between now and senior prom."
Addy looks at me without answering. I don't blame her. Simon's railroad train of thought nearly never goes anywhere proficient when it comes to our friends. He acts like he'south to a higher place caring whether he's popular, only he was pretty smug when he wound upwards on the inferior prom courtroom last leap. I'm nonetheless not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.
Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I'm next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he's doing.
"What's your signal, Simon?" I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren't close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She's been dating my all-time friend since freshman yr, and she's a sweet girl. Also non the kind of person who knows how to stand up up to a guy like Simon who just won't quit.
"She'southward a princess a
nd you lot're a jock," he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. "And you lot're a encephalon. And yous're a criminal. Y'all're all walking teen-movie stereotypes."
"What about y'all?" Bronwyn asks. She's been hovering near the window, just now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her nighttime ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this yr. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? Suddenly, she's kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.
"I'one thousand the all-seeing narrator," Simon says.
Bronwyn's brows ascent to a higher place her black frames. "There's no such thing in teen movies."
"Ah, but Bronwyn." Simon winks and chugs his water in 1 long gulp. "In that location is such a affair in life."
He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he'due south got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that affair. Nigh all my friends have been on information technology at one point or another, and sometimes it causes existent problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke upwardly considering of something Simon wrote. Though it was a truthful story about Luis hooking upwardly with his girlfriend'due south cousin. But still. That stuff doesn't have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad plenty.
And if I'1000 being honest, I'm pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his listen to information technology.
Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. "This tastes like crap." He drops the cup, and I curlicue my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still call up he'due south messing effectually. But then the wheezing starts.
Bronwyn's on her feet first, so kneeling beside him. "Simon," she says, shaking his shoulder. "Are yous okay? What happened? Can you talk?" Her voice goes from concerned to panicky, and that's enough to get me moving. But Nate's faster, shoving past me and crouching next to Bronwyn.
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