Murder on a School Night


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 For Chloe Seager
 the actual best
 <3
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Epilogue
 
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Kate Weston
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
 1
 “Body positivity influencer Winona Philips says she recites this prayer to her vagina every morning!” Annie shouts across at me as the two of us cycle side by side.
 It wouldn’t be so weird that she was shouting the word “vagina” across the street if it weren’t for the fact that she’s riding her six-year-old sister’s bicycle. Complete with streamers, glitter, and an old Paw Patrol reflector. It’s our first day of junior year—where we’d committed to a more sophisticated way of life—and yet a broken chain on Annie’s bike hath shat upon all our poise.
 “If Winona Philips is so body positive, then why does she also say that she steams her vagina once a week over a pot of boiling chickpea water?” I question, rolling my eyes. “If you ask me, that sounds like a recipe for thrush.”
 Winona Philips brings both joy and confusion to our lives. Sometimes what she says is so spot-on (that you don’t have to have a vagina to be a woman) and other times it’s just confusingly wild (Chickpea vajacials? No thank you). The prayer is meant to attack taboos around vaginas and vulvas and make more people aware that the bit they think is the vagina is actually the vulva. Annie loves to howl it into the empty streets of Barbourough claiming she’s warding off shame.
 “I’ll admit that her logic is sometimes flawed, but I guess adulthood’s all about accepting that no one has all the answers. The vajacials were definitely wrong, though, and I don’t see anyone with a dick being told to steam it,” Annie says proudly, her sweet, heart-shaped face, big eyes, and rosy cheeks making the word “dick” seem adorable.
 As we ride around the quiet, tree-lined residential streets of Barbourough, the sun shines through the leaves, offering a feeling of peace and light. We fly past houses with their windows left open to let in the late-summer breeze, the occupants completely unaware of the words that Annie is about to spew into their early morning world.
 Like me, Annie’s five foot one. Small and mighty. She looks like a cherub but has a mouth like a dirty sewer, and I love her.
 I can’t wait until we’re two old ladies, hanging together in our rocking chairs, Annie reciting poetry to her vagina, me taking my teeth out so I won’t be expected to join in.
 I’m not a prude. Just, I guess, more of an introvert.
 “I’m starting the prayer right now, Kerry, and you can’t stop me!” she shouts, looking down at her crotch area while I focus on the road ahead.
 “Oh god.” I blush, trying to cycle into the wind so that the words get lost.
 As people in the houses and driveways around us get their kids ready for school, some of them taking pictures of first uniforms or waiting on porches for slower younger siblings, I doubt anyone’s bargained on Annie’s poetry joining the chatter of birdsong from the trees. We cycle past other Juniors getting into each other’s cars, and I keep my head down, focusing on getting past them ASAP, or at least before she gets to the last line.
 “I am strong and empowered, the patriarchy is but shit upon my shoe, good morning to all, and a very . . .”
 Annie strings this last bit out as we reach old Mrs. Robbins’s, who’s putting out the garbage in her hairnet, as she does every morning at this time.
 “GOOD VULVA TO YOU!” Annie screams into the wind as we pass, making poor Mrs. R drop her bag of trash to the floor. She starts shaking her fist wildly at us.
 This has become a daily ritual for the two of them, Annie shocking and appalling Mrs. Robbins with what she calls Annie’s “loose language.” It’s an experience that she definitely enjoys more than Mrs. R.
 “Annabel! I should tell your mother, the way you fling these dirty words around!”
 “Chill out, Mrs. R, babe. Vulva’s not a swear word. They exist and they matter. Go stick a mirror between your legs and free yourself from the ancient shame that binds you!” Annie tries to cycle away as fast as she can, her knees knocking into her elbows with every pedal rotation. She looks like a little Mario Kart character on speed, streamers dancing in the breeze behind her.
 “Sorry, Mrs. R,” I stop, and mutter.
 “I fronted women’s lib back in the day, you know! And I NEVER had to use such language!” She shakes her head as she shuffles back indoors, her dog, Herbert, giving me a final side-eye.
 I catch up with Annie in two casual pedal rotations, while she’s powering away furiously next to me. Her legs are racing around, trying to generate some kind of speed, but she’s getting nowhere. Those tiny wheels are in no rush.
 “Poor Mrs. R,” I say.
 “My sleuthing skills tell me that she wouldn’t come out here every day at the same time if she didn’t want me to shout ‘vulva’ at her. She must love it, really, or she’d just come out five minutes later,” Annie says, trying to keep up with me as I cycle next to her.
 I can’t fault her logic,