Kill the Lax Bro

A fresh and darkly funny 90s murder mystery about one high school''s net of lies that begin to unravel when a star lacrosse player winds up dead. The night before graduation, all of Hancock;High celebrates at their school’s annual lock-in. But what starts out as a fun night turns horribly wrong when a body is found--and the victim is none other than Troy Richards, the school’s star lacrosse player.; Everyone is acting totally clueless. As for suspects? There’s Jennifer (the dream girl), Lydia (the geek), Sassi (the overachiever), and Tatum (the rebel). At a glance, it seems like they couldn’t be more unalike, except for the fact that they all hated Troy (the lax bro) . . . but who wanted him dead?; From debut author Charlotte Lillie Balogh comes a;wickedly sharp take on high school stereotypes, including the boys we love and love to hate: lax bros.

Autorentext

Charlotte Balogh

Klappentext

For fans of the sports backdrop and queer cast of Heated Rivalry comes a fresh and darkly funny 90s murder mystery about one high school's net of lies that begin to unravel when a star lacrosse player winds up dead.

The night before graduation, all of Hancock High celebrates at their school’s annual lock-in. But what starts out as a fun night turns horribly wrong when a body is found—and the victim is none other than Troy Richards, the school’s star lacrosse player.

Everyone is acting totally clueless. As for suspects? There’s Jennifer (the dream girl), Naomi (the geek), Sassi (the overachiever), and Tatum (the rebel). At a glance, it seems like they couldn’t be more unalike, except for the fact that they all hated Troy (the lax bro) . . . but who wanted him dead?

From debut author Charlotte Lillie Balogh comes a wickedly sharp take on high school stereotypes, including the boys we love and love to hate: lax bros.

Leseprobe
1

. . . baby one more time

JENNIFER LEE

The bravest couples slow dance—­but right now, there aren’t many.

Not this early in the night.

The cafeteria is dotted with denim jackets, denim overalls, and brightly colored slap bracelets, and parent chaperones stand guard at the exits. I don’t know why they bother. Hancock High held its first lock-­in nearly a decade ago, right after a group of seniors died in a drunk driving accident. Now, in their memory—­and in an effort to protect the current students from their own bad decisions—­the night before graduation all students, teachers, and overly involved parents are—­you guessed it—­locked into the school overnight. It’s part dance, part fundraiser, part theater, and every lock-­in begins with the drama club staging a car accident involving real cars and fake blood. Just to really send the message home.

That said, with the entire student body packed in like sardines, and someone—­somewhere—­guaranteed to sneak in cheap booze, everyone knows it will be a night to remember.

Like the Stanford prison experiment—­but hornier.

Who’d be caught dead anywhere else?

The music warps to a synthy Ace of Base bop, and the makeshift dance floor swells with bodies. In the daytime, the cafeteria is crowded from wall to wall with circular plastic tables. But in honor of tonight’s festivities, the tables have been folded up against the windows to make space. Careful to dodge elbows, I hustle across the room and shimmy between two halved tables—­where I’m startled to find I’m not the only one looking for a hiding place.

“Oops! Hi, Naomi.”

Naomi King blinks at me from behind an oversized pair of granny glasses. Silent. Although that’s not unusual for her. Usually, I’ll see Naomi in the hallway between classes, alone and walking alarmingly fast, with her face buried in an Anne Rice novel. Her thick hair is box-­braided into pigtails, and her baby-­pink overalls have a telltale smudge of sugar at the knee, most likely from when she was working the bake sale earlier tonight. I don’t know a ton of freshmen by name, but Naomi’s older sister, Melissa King, was an icon—­homecoming queen, student senate vice president, Most Likely to Change the World, Best Smile—­and Mel is currently on a full ride at Boston University.

“Scram, dweeb!”

I turn to see the Stern twins standing behind me protectively, each one a carbon copy of the other. The three of us are dressed in matching tube tops—­Chloe in blue, Zoey in pink. I’m in black. Naomi disappears with a literal squeak, and even I’ll admit that I’m grateful for the rescue. The twins beckon for me to follow, and I realize they’ve managed to crack a window without our chaperones noticing. No small feat. They pass a joint from one manicured hand to the next, and we take turns exhaling through the gap.

“Don’t be such a hog, Chloe!”

“Hog? As if!”

I giggle and take a hit when Chloe offers it—­and Zoey gives me her watermelon lip gloss to apply when I’m done. The twins are in the grade above me, but this year I effectively became the leader of our little trio. Although it could just be due to the fact that I’m three inches taller.

“Look who it is!”

We turn in unison, the motion just as synchronized as our outfits.

Andrew Garcia is as classically handsome as a guy can be. Tall and lean, long hair, thick eyebrows—­one with his trademark scar down the center—­and a smile that has curved many a final exam grade. Like the twins, Andrew is a junior. But he’s also one of those old-­soul types who was held back after kindergarten and now gets along with everyone as a result. Like me, Andrew avoids the dance floor—­shy, but on a mission.

“Andrew! Can’t believe you came.”

“Me neither.” He smiles that smile. “Although I hear getting out is the hard part.”

Chloe offers Andrew a hit, but he declines. Despite what you might expect, Andrew’s never been one for the party scene, and I’ve always liked that about him.

Even after everything that happened this semester.

“Relax, stud.” Zoey nudges him with her Keds. “It’s not like you’re on the team anymore. Live a little, yeah?”

Instead of responding, Andrew looks away—­but this time I don’t copy him. I don’t need to, to know what he’s looking for: his team.

The team.

Here at Hancock, people only go to the football games to watch the cheerleaders drop other cheerleaders. Track and field had a bit of a renaissance, sure, but don’t get me started on soccer. Because for us, it’s always been the boys varsity lacrosse team at the center of our small-­town universe. Each spring, the boys make headlines in the school, town, and state papers, and tonight, like always, they are wearing their electric-­blue practice jerseys—­plus a girl on each arm.

“Zoey, be nice,” Chloe chides. She flicks her twin on the boob.

“What? He’s not. Troy Richards saw to that—­”

“Zoey!”

Andrew settles for a shrug. Suddenly, he reaches for the blunt, his hand lingering in mine. “Have you seen Sassi?” he asks.

“I thought I saw her drinking with the seniors,” Chloe offers. “Moose snuck in a keg.”

“Ha! Sassi DeLuca? I seriously doubt that—­”

“Why? Is everything okay?”

Andrew nods and steps closer, his mouth brushing my ear. The music changes again, and I only catch a few words. But it’s e…