Devin Rhodes is Dead Read online

  To my parents, with much love and gratitude

  Text copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Wolf Kam

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  A Mackinac Island Book

  Published by Charlesbridge

  85 Main Street

  Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.charlesbridge.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kam, Jennifer Wolf, author.

  Devin Rhodes is dead/Jennifer Wolf Kam.

  pages cm

  Summary: To most people Cassandra and Devin are teenage girls who are best friends—but Cassandra actually resents the arrogant and bossy Devin, and when Devin turns up dead in a ravine Cassandra is wracked by her guilty secret.

  ISBN 978-1-934133-59-0 (reinforced for library use)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-752-1 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-60734-706-4 (ebook pdf)

  1. Best friends—Juvenile fiction. 2. Murder—Juvenile fiction. 3. Guilt—Juvenile fiction. [1. Best friends—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Guilt—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K12658De 2014

  813.6—dc23 2013033435

  Printed in the United States of America

  (hc) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Display type set in FG Noel and Blue Century

  Text type set in Sabon

  Printed by Worzalla Publishing Company in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, USA

  Production supervision by Brian G. Walker

  Designed by Susan Mallory Sherman

  AFTER

  DEVIN RHODES, MY BEST FRIEND, is being buried in her parents’ garden, two feet beneath the agapanthus, in a green ceramic urn. Just her ashes, really: charred little flakes of humanity, which bear no resemblance to her thick honey curls, faded jeans, and shimmering brown lip gloss. But she loved flowers. And while her mother’s rows of budding shrubs are nothing compared to the lush gardens in Eastland Park—her favorite spot—this patch of moist, warm earth seems a fitting resting place.

  Devin died over the weekend. And here’s the thing: it’s my fault.

  Mrs. Rhodes lowers Devin’s ashes into the fertilized earth.

  “Good night, sweet girl,” she says softly. She covers her face with her hands. Mr. Rhodes kneels beside her and pulls her toward him. They sob together quietly.

  I stand slightly to the left of them. A warm sting settles into my eyes, and I feel a gorge in my stomach opening up wide. It seems impossible to imagine that the vast space Devin filled with her small, curvy body and much bigger personality is now empty. When we’re fifteen, the world is supposed to be opening up to us, like the flowers that will soon bloom above Devin. But Devin’s world is gone, and without Devin, mine has closed up and shrunk beneath me.

  Of course Devin’s parents don’t know it was my fault—my fault that her broken body was found at the bottom of Woodacre Ravine. If they knew, I wouldn’t be standing here with them, watching them lay their only child to rest. The Rhodeses don’t know, will never know. Only I can say for sure what happened between Devin and me—what led to all of this. Well, only Devin and I can say, which means that my secret is safe for as long as I can keep it. I grab onto the best-friend charm around my neck. It feels cool between my fingers, as it should.

  Mrs. Rhodes stands up and turns toward me, her face a patchwork of red splotches, her cheeks wet. She squeezes my shoulder but keeps her eyes on the tiny brown clumps of earth beneath us. “I’m glad you could be here with us, Cass,” she says.

  Inside of me a scream churns slowly and pushes its way toward the surface. But whatever force moves it that far, another stronger one silences it, catching it just shy of my throat, where it lies there—a large, sour lump.

  I bite on my lip. “Thanks.” Here I am, playing the loyal, grieving friend when really, really… Devin knew the truth. When they found her she wasn’t wearing the charm. She’d cast it off somewhere before it happened. I clasp my hands together and squeeze until I can see the white peaks of bone on my knuckles.

  “I don’t know about this, Susan,” says Mr. Rhodes, standing up. He chews on a fingernail. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  Of course not, I think. How can it? Everything about this yells wrongful death, which were actually the coroner’s words.

  “Please, Ben, stop.” says Mrs. Rhodes. “Don’t.”

  “Who does this, Susan?” asks Mr. Rhodes. “Who buries their daughter in their own yard?”

  Mrs. Rhodes shakes her head. “Devin loved gardens. What better garden than ours?”

  “Any garden, Susan,” says Mr. Rhodes, shaking his head. “Any garden but ours.”

  He looks like Devin at that moment, his light hair the color of hers and his face creasing the way Devin’s did when she was irritated. I turn away—it’s too much.

  Mrs. Rhodes frowns and pushes away a stray hair from her forehead. “Let’s finish this, Ben,” she says. “Let’s please just finish this.”

  Mr. Rhodes sighs and kneels down again in front of the agapanthus. He covers the urn with dirt and smoothes the dirt with his spade. Mrs. Rhodes grabs my hand, squeezing my fingers, the ones that, only a few days ago, casually strummed a new song on my guitar. The ones that tremble now when I even think about playing my guitar. My hand rests limply in hers, hoping—no, praying—that she’ll let go soon.

  Mr. Rhodes puts down the spade and runs his hands over the newly replaced soil. He wipes his hands, stands up, and stares for a moment at his daughter’s grave. “I guess that’s it.” The creases gone, his face is empty, unreadable.

  “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it?” Mrs. Rhodes’s eyes are rimmed in red, making their pale gray-blue color jump out even more, the way Devin’s used to. She dabs at them with a tissue.

  It’s then that I feel something softly brushing up against my neck. Not a breeze, but something. Something cool and constant, like air, like breathing. The hair on the back of my neck rises and sways. I shrug and shake my head.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Rhodes is staring at me, her swollen eyes barely open.

  The feeling disappears, and I rub my neck with my hand. “Um, yeah,” I mumble, straightening up. “It’s nothing.” Weird, though, definitely weird.

  Mrs. Rhodes puts her arm around me, a gesture that under normal circumstances would bring comfort. Instead I prickle. Her touch shoots a dull, aching pain down my arm and back.

  “Thanks.” There’s nothing else I can say. Nothing except: I’m the reason we’re here, Mrs. Rhodes. But that’s not going to happen.

  Mrs. Rhodes runs her hand down the side of my head. “Such pretty, dark hair you have, Cass. You’re so lovely inside and out.” Her voice cracks and fades to a whisper.

  I want to push her hand away. But I let her stroke my hair as I clench my fists and wonder what she’s really seeing.

  She pats my cheek. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  We walk together toward the house. Mr. Rhodes drags the spade behind him, and it thuds against the flagstone walkway. Tell them; tell them, I hear with each clunk.

  No, no, no, my heart thumps back.

  “You’ll see, Ben,” says Mrs. Rhodes, momentarily drowning out the accusing spade. “It was the right thing to do. This way Devin’s always nearby, always close.”

  Mr. Rhodes doesn’t answer. He just keeps heaving air through his body.

  “You agree, don’t you, Cass?” Mrs. Rhodes looks at me, her eyes watering.

  She doesn’t wait for my reply, which is good, because my tongue has glued itself to the roof of my mouth. She turns away. “It’s wha
t Devin would’ve wanted.”

  “Devin would’ve wanted to be alive,” says Mr. Rhodes.

  Mrs. Rhodes grabs my hand again, and I choke on the scream that threatens to burst from my throat. I swallow again and again and again.

  Mr. Rhodes drops the spade and reaches for his wife. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He brings her toward him, and she finally lets go of my hand.

  Before

  “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT, CASS?” Devin was stretched out beside the large lilac bush in Eastland Park. Her shirt lifted up slightly, revealing her flattened, tanned stomach. A tiny naval ring reflected the sun.

  I adjusted my own shirt, aware that it betrayed the rolls of soft flesh beneath it. No navel ring for me—it would definitely drown. “Can you believe we’re almost sophomores?” I asked. “Only two weeks left as freshmen.” My guitar, worn but strong, rested next to me. I’d played since sixth grade. It was old when I got it and had seen better days.

  “Freshwomen, Cass.” Devin flipped over onto her stomach, her blue eyes wide. “Real high school—not the half-assed ninth-grade version where they keep us in a separate part of the school like we’re infants.” Devin’s new persona: high-school bad girl. She’d been perfecting it all summer.

  I laughed but only on the outside. “It wasn’t that bad.” I sat up and drew my knees to my chest, against my breasts, which continued to grow despite my nightly prayers to the contrary. “Tenth grade means more homework. I can wait for that.” I uncurled and reached for the guitar. I’d just had it restrung. I strummed a little, plucking out a few notes to test the sound.

  “Homework?” she said. “That’s what you’re thinking about?” She shook her head and laughed. “Rest up, Cass. This year we’re going to have some real fun.”

  I continued to pick at my guitar. I’m pretty sure that whatever she had in mind was not my idea of fun.

  “Are you listening to me?” asked Devin.

  “Of course,” I said, continuing to pick at the guitar. I loved the way it felt, the tautness of the strings, the way its curve fit perfectly onto my lap. “Listening but not agreeing,” I responded.

  The truth was I liked ninth grade. I liked being in the ninth-grade hall, wrapped in all that was familiar. I liked not being allowed in the student commons, where the older kids smoked. I liked not having to worry about who I might run into in the girls’ room. Devin was my best friend, but there were some things I couldn’t tell her. Not anymore.

  “Cassandra Lorraine Kirschner,” she said, sitting up. She studied me with those blue eyes. They were so light, so pale; they were almost like mirrors, too reflective. She shifted her weight to the side and leaned on her palm. “Are you scared of being in the big, grown-up halls?”

  I looked up from the guitar. “No.” I practically spat out the word. “Of course not.” I hated the way she did that sometimes. The way she made me shrink into this tiny person she could shove into a box and stick into her jeans pocket, if her jeans weren’t so tight.

  “Don’t be so sensitive.” She smiled, her teeth white and straight and perfect. “Gotta grow up sometime, right, Cass-girl?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, tugging out a few blades of grass. “I saw the puberty movie in fifth grade, too.”

  She laughed, tilting back her head as if she were in a shampoo commercial. Her newest move. “You’re funny,” she said. “That’s why I keep you around.”

  “Ha, ha.” I smiled back, but I thought something very bad. I thought, or more, I wondered, what it would be like if Devin weren’t around anymore. I didn’t wish for it; I just thought about it. Thinking it was bad enough.

  Devin didn’t know this. I would never have told her, and lately, she hadn’t been too interested in my thoughts. Sure, she asked me things, told me stuff, but it was just conversation. Small talk. Snippets of invisible nothings. It wasn’t the way it used to be with us—when we told each other everything, stayed up late, lolled on the dry summer grass, stared up at the stars, shared our diaries. We were filling space—that’s all. It didn’t mean anything anymore.

  “Lighten up, Cass. It’ll be great.” She pushed some blond hair behind her ears.

  I tugged on more blades of grass. “I never said it wouldn’t be.”

  She got up and plucked a lilac from the bush, then sniffed it and twirled it in her hand. “God, I love the way these smell.”

  Devin went on and on about tenth grade, as if I hadn’t already made it clear that I didn’t want to talk about it. I nodded a lot and raised my eyebrows and said, “Um-hmm.” I threw in a few knowing smiles, too. It was like how our seventh-grade chorus teacher once told us that if we were too nervous to sing in the concert, we could mouth “watermelon” over and over again and it would look like we were singing even if our stomachs were tied in shoestring knots and our mouths tasted like cotton.

  “And the guys in high school,” Devin said, and whistled, which finally got my attention. I liked boys but hadn’t dated yet, although I’d definitely thought about it. Devin had dated, if you could call what Devin did dating, though I didn’t think anyone would. The ample rolls under my shirt might have been part of the reason I didn’t date. Another reason might also have been Devin. It wasn’t easy being her best friend, especially when guys were around.

  “Guys, Cass, not boys,” she continued, her pale eyes darting around like flecks of light. “Men almost. Can you imagine?” She chewed on her lip, the way she did when she talked about the opposite sex. I knew that look well—she’d been boy crazy since the fifth grade. Since Jared Tomassi kissed her in the woods behind school. It had been manageable for a while, but each year it had gotten worse. A string of wrong choices, bad boys, or “practice,” as Devin called them. Stepping-stones until she reached Prince Charming or something like that. Devin went after boys with the same intensity she did everything. They loved it—and I got dragged along like an overweight pull toy.

  Devin nodded and closed her eyes. “The guys are the best part of high school.”

  I placed the guitar gently back down on the grass. Then I rolled over onto my stomach and faced her. My shirt had ridden up again, and the grass scratched at my skin. I didn’t bother to fix it this time. “That’s really all you think about, Devin, isn’t it? Guys?”

  Devin lay down again on her stomach and stretched out across from me. Our faces were close, and a soft spring breeze moved between us. Devin’s lips curled into a smile.

  “Mostly,” she said. Her teeth were even whiter in the sun.

  AFTER

  DEVIN'S PARENTS SIT SHIVAH at their yellow and white colonial a few blocks away from my own yellow and white colonial. Mrs. Rhodes isn’t Jewish, but the Rhodeses were Rosenbergs once upon a time in Austria (says Mr. Rhodes), and shivah is how Jewish people mourn. The mourners tear their clothes, cover their mirrors, sit on boxes, and, well, eat. Usually there’s smoked fish and babka. I know this because I’m a quarter Jewish, thanks to my grandfather.

  My mother opts out with a migraine. “Send Susan my condolences,” she says.

  “Sure you don’t want to come?”

  She sighs, and there’s a definite hint of melodrama. “I’m sure. I feel bad, of course, but she was your friend. I don’t belong there.”

  Everyone belongs there, I think. Who doesn’t pay respects when a fifteen-year-old girl dies? But then that’s my mother. Since the divorce she avoids social obligations.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’m sure Susan Rhodes will have plenty of company.” She hands me a bakery box with a chocolate babka in it, and I leave.

  Even though Devin was my best friend, our mothers never had much to do with each other. My mom’s life trajectory went south—her Perfect Life Mission failed. She hates happily married people. My father left the state almost two years ago, which nixed any opportunities for male bonding between our dads. Susan Rhodes’s life will now never be anything close to perfect. My mother should realize that.

  I glanc
e at the garden, at the disturbed patch of dirt. Underneath is what’s left of my best friend. I suck in some air and rub my hand on my pants. I ring the doorbell. It takes a moment, a long moment during which I almost turn around and run back home. But then Mrs. Rhodes greets me at the door. Her eyes are rimmed in smudged dark mascara. She’s dressed entirely in black.

  “Oh, Cass,” she says, her voice strained into almost a whisper. “You’re here.” She puts her arm around me and leads me into the living room, as though I’ve arrived at a macabre dinner party.

  I play with the bakery box string. It’s the closest I’ve been in the past few days to a guitar string, which isn’t close at all. I can’t even think about playing— every time I try, it takes me back to that day. To the last time I played and what happened next. I tuck the bakery box under my arm.

  Mrs. Rhodes turns me toward her guests. She clears her throat and says, “Cass Kirschner.” Her voice doesn’t carry; it’s too drained, too hoarse. So only a few nearby hear her say, “Devin’s best friend.”

  Devin’s best friend. My ears burn, and I stand there, numb, as the guests murmur greetings. I thrust the babka at Mrs. Rhodes.

  She tries to smile and licks a tear that’s dribbled down her face onto her lips. Her eyes are tired. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She removes the string and peeks inside the bakery box.

  “It’s a Jewish cake,” I say.

  “Yes, it is.” She nods and clears her throat again. “Send my thanks to your mother.”

  “Sure.”

  She gently pushes the box toward me. “Please. Just leave it on the table.” She swallows and dabs at her eye with a finger. “I’ll be right back with a cake plate.”

  I place the babka on a nearby coffee table. Now what? My feet are planted to the dark chestnut floor. The house is filled with Sylvias and Morrises and smells like the fragrance department at Macy’s.

  A woman I don’t recognize brushes past me. “Sit—have something to eat.” She hurries off into the kitchen.

  I walk a few feet and find myself staring at a tray of smoked fish, the centerpiece to a large assortment of food carefully arranged on a long table that’s not usually there. For once the abyss in my stomach isn’t looking to be filled with food, but I take a plate and a fork and obediently lift a few slivers of sable off the tray.