Shortly after dinner, Christina called Judy under the pretense of asking for a clarification on the Spanish homework, which they both knew perfectly well she had already completed during study hall.

"You could just say you want me to spill the beans on Sidney Prescott," said Judy.

"You're a perceptive one."

"I have to be if I'm going to be a police officer one day." Her tone lost its humor then, noticeably so, and she sighed. "You sure you wanna hear this now though? It's kind of a long story, and kind of a bummer."

"Yes. I was about to ambush you after study hall, but my mom was already waiting for me."

"Tell your mom I said thanks."

"So, tell me, what's the deal with Sidney?" She was almost ashamed to be so eager for what was built up to be very juicy gossip about a girl she didn't even know, and who had done nothing to her. But the mystery Judy had alluded to earlier that day had burned in Christina's brain with a curiosity so intense that she feared she would go mad if she wasn't made aware, like the plot of one of her favorite novels twisting and unfolding before her. How could a girl so pretty and innocent looking as Sidney Prescott have something dark in her past, something that others would only speak about in private whispers?

"Well, honestly, Christina," Judy began, "I'm surprised you don't already know. It was all over the news when it happened last year."

"When what happened?"

Her friend sighed again.

"Last fall…Sidney's mother…well, she was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"Yeah, right here in Woodsboro. In her own freaking house, too. It was awful. Like something out of a horror movie."

"Did they catch who did it?"

"Oh yeah, right away. This guy, Cotton Weary. They say he came onto her and she rejected him. He's on death row now. But…uh…some people think the situation was different."

"What do you mean?"

"That they were having an affair. One of those Top Story journalists even thinks that Cotton didn't do at all. She's been on TV saying she's writing a book about it, I think."

"Affair or no affair—that's really fucked up."

"It is. It's the worst crime Woodsboro has seen since…ever, really."

Suddenly, the conversation felt less like gossip and more like a perverse dissection that Christina should not be taking part in, and shame ripped through her body like the good Catholic girl she had once thought herself to be. She paused, trying to remember if she had seen anything on the news about such a horrid crime.

Prescott…Prescott…Maureen Prescott, yes, it had occurred to her on at least one occasion seeing the face of an attractive middle-aged woman smiling brightly from her television screen in Los Angeles. But in a city so much larger than Woodsboro, and where crime was much more frequent, it had never stood out to her. And never in a million years would she have thought…

"Hold on. You're telling me that this happened barely half a year ago and Sidney is still able to go to school and function? God forbid if anything happened to either of my parents, I'd have to drop out and check myself into twenty-four hour therapy."

"I don't know how she does it either," Judy agreed. "She played Tiger Lily in our production of Peter Pan too. She'd literally perform one night and then not be at school the next day because she had to be in court to testify. Isn't that crazy?"

"Insane."

"She's dedicated. Maybe it distracted her."

"I feel like shit for making you tell me this, Judy."

"Don't. You were going to hear it from someone eventually, and probably with less tact."

Christina licked her lips, the awful shame that had encompassed her heart unyielding.

"Well…thanks, Judy. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Sure!" her friend said, and her tone was bubbly again as if they had not previously been discussing a grisly murder. "And, hey, do you want me to pick you up? I pass by your block on the way to school anyway. You could let your mom sleep in."

"Would you mind?"

"If I did I wouldn't have asked, silly. I'll get you around a quarter to eight?"

"Sounds good!"

The rest of March continued uneventfully, with Christina quietly finding her place in Woodsboro High. And with Judy so loyally at her side, she continued to wonder what on earth her friend had been doing before she moved there. She had aced the Catcher in the Rye quiz from memory alone, impressing Mrs. Tate so thoroughly that the teacher promised, if she kept up the good work, that she'd be recommended for Advanced English the following year. She explored the town square and the shopping strips surrounding it, comprised of charming Mom-and-Pop businesses. But as picturesque as Woodsboro appeared during the day, at night, after writing a blurb in her diary, Christina often found herself gazing out her bedroom window facing the woodland trail, her mind wandering back to the tragedy Judy had informed her of, regardless of how much she tried not to think of it. At night, Woodsboro felt less like a town from a postcard and more like the setting for some scary movie.

In April, coinciding with Easter Sunday, Woodsboro High was to be off for a full week. The Friday prior most of the teenagers could barely keep still in their seats, buzzing with anticipation for whatever shenanigans they planned to get in to during their week of freedom. John, who still sat next to Christina every day in homeroom, as if it were indeed his assigned seat, did something he had never done before. During the announcements, he slipped her a note.

How have you been?

It was an innocent question. After ensuring Mr. Campbell was focused on his paperback, Christina scribbled back her answer: Good, thanks. And u?

Sad. :(

Why?

There's a really pretty girl I sort of asked out a while ago, but she never got back to me.

Christina remembered John's offer on her very first day to show her around town. She bit her lip and replied carefully: Maybe she didn't realize you were really asking her out.

Maybe. But my dad is going out of town this weekend to celebrate Easter with our family in Modesto. He isn't making me go. So I'm throwing a little party. Do u think I should ask her to that?

I think a big party might make her a little nervous, Christina teased.

It won't be anything too crazy. Intimate gathering. Intimate friends.

Could she bring her friend, Judy Hicks?

Judy Too Prudey? Sure. Might be good for her.

Cool. They'll both be there.

And just like that, she had a date. John certainly considered it to be such, shooting her one of his signature warm, eyes-alight smiles as he quickly wrote down his address and the time.

"Do you need a ride?" he quietly offered further, dropping the cutesy pretense of the note exchange.

"Judy will pick me up."

Truthfully, Christina was afraid of what Judy's reaction might be to the invitation, but to her relief, the bouncy blonde was beyond thrilled.

"John Carpenter wants you to come to his party?" she excitedly reiterated at lunch.

"Is it that big of a deal, Judy?"

"Oh no, he's only one of the most popular boys in our class, and the star of the football team," Judy replied sarcastically. "Even the seniors like him."

"I think…I think he likes me, Judy. He's been sort of playfully flirting with me ever since I got here."

"What? You never told me that!"

"I wasn't sure he was serious. I thought maybe he was just being nice. But now…"

"What if he tries to get you alone at his party?" Judy questioned, now even more excited. "What if he tries to kiss you?"

"I'm not going to do anything like that if that's what you mean," said Christina. "I still barely know him. But a kiss…a kiss is innocent, I guess."

Before lunch ended, Christina took a moment away from Judy's chattering to freshen up in the bathroom. She washed her hands and splashed some water on her face, staring into the dingy mirror at her reflection. Was this the first time she had really looked at herself since arriving in Woodsboro?

She considered John's invitation, and the butterflies it elicited within her. Surely there was no reason she should be surprised that a boy would take interest in her. There were things about her physical appearance she liked very much, most of which she could credit to looking like her mother. Her father had always said that his wife had been the prettiest girl in their village back in Mexico, though her mother's kind modesty would prevent her from ever vocally agreeing.

In Christina, her mother's beauty manifested in her warm, olive-hued skin, which tanned nicely in the summer, full lips, and deep brown eyes, occasionally concealed behind a pair of reading glasses when she was at home with a small-print paperback. She had a distinctive aguileña nose, and her wavy hair, which fell past her shoulder blades, could never decide if it was sable-brown or true black. She enjoyed a modest and feminine dress, another result of her Catholic upbringing. She liked how she looked. There was nothing wrong with that.

Why shouldn't a cute boy like it too?