On Thursday night, I find out Brad killed Krista. The boy with the long eyelashes killed the girl with the frosty pink lips and powder blue eye shadow. She was blonde and thin and dizzy, the kind of girl who was fun to do shots with on Saturday night, but ignore in the halls on Monday.

It’s after seven, my algebra homework on the floor next to pencil shavings and lazy scribbles in a journal I’m working on. I’m on the cordless phone, bulky and beige, with a slightly bent antenna from throwing it at my mother last week. My aim is bad; it hit the wall instead.

“Brad killed Krista,” Faith whispers all low and slow-like, as if she’s playing a part, some sexed up actress on the stage of a smoky night club. I can hear her breathing, heavy and excited, waiting for a steady stream of words. But I’m silent. I’ve forgotten how to start a sentence.

“Did you hear me? Can you believe he did it?” Faith says. She’s one of my last friends left in Michigan and only calls me with scorching gossip, bold and bright words that pop like newspaper headlines. I can picture her on the other end of the phone, her lips sticky and full with lip gloss, her toenails painted hot pink and perfect. She’s blonde and big-boned, with a pretty round face and feathery eyelashes. Guys always say how she’s pretty, so pretty, if only she’d drop a few pounds.

“It wasn’t just Brad. Two other guys helped, too. They planned it all…” her words are fast and stumbling over one another: Dead. Boys. Stolen cars. Ditches. Dead. Over and over again, words tumble and trip, until her voice is just noise in constant motion, a slow shifting of sound waves.