by Diana Urban
“Or a ploy to kill one of us.” Sasha gripped her throat.
“Oh, stop it,” I said. “Even if it has nothing to do with the scholarship, it has to be a test or prank or something.”
“Well, that bomb over there sure as hell looks real to me,” said Sasha, pointing to the table with her invitation.
“Have you ever seen a real bomb before?” asked Diego.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Movies and TV don’t count,” I said.
Sasha crossed her arms. “Well, then, fine. I haven’t. But that thing’s got an awful lot of wires and . . . what are those brown things?” A few of us approached the table to examine the bomb. “Those.” Sasha pointed at the half a dozen brown logs wired to a small digital clock and stack of batteries.
“Are those . . . dynamite sticks?” said Robbie. “I dunno, guys, this looks pretty real to me.”
“I think so, too,” said Priya.
“Oh, please.” Scott bent over the table, squinting at the wires feeding into the dynamite sticks. “Anyone could Google what a homemade bomb looks like and rig something like this together.”
Priya scrunched her nose. “Have you Googled it?”
Scott shrugged. “Sure. I remember looking up how to make a pressure-cooker bomb after that bombing in Boston. I was curious how those psychos did it. There are instructions on how to make all sorts of homemade bombs.”
“Wait.” Robbie narrowed his eyes at Scott. “So you’re saying you know how to make one of those?”
Scott raised his hands. “No. I’m just saying there are all sorts of pictures of bombs online. Anyone can piece together a fake bomb based on those.”
“Or,” said Sasha, “they can piece together the real deal. Like you said, the instructions are out there.” Her eyes flicked to the poison on the tray. “And that syringe looks pretty real, too.”
“It could be fake, or a prop,” I said.
“No way,” said Priya, gripping her stomach as she leaned forward to examine the syringe. “It’s totally real. It’s exactly like the ones at my doctor’s office.”
“Well, of course they’d make it look real,” I said.
“Well”—Robbie pushed past Scott—“there’s only one way to find out for sure.” Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the syringe from the tray and pressed his thumb on the plunger.
1 Year Ago
FEBRUARY OF JUNIOR YEAR
I was going to be suspended. After all, that’s what happens when you walk into the winter ball with a bottle of tequila in your purse.
Why the hell did I agree to this? If I got busted, my parents would take away my laptop, and maybe even my phone, and all of my music was on there. Going through life without my music would be like breathing air without oxygen.
I pulled my bike over a block away from school and yanked out my earbuds. Maybe I should go back home. If I kept this up any longer, my parents would notice their old bottles going missing, even if they hadn’t touched them in years. After all, there’s no way the liquor cabinet could empty on its own.
But I was so close to getting to score the school play—I just had to get buy-in from the drama club. Sasha promised they’d be at the dance tonight, and that we’d corner them with tequila. I wasn’t sure why she seemed to think we needed to bribe them with booze, but she was the queen bee, so she must’ve known a thing or two about how to get her way.
I stuck in my earbuds again and blasted one of my favorite movie scores as I sped to the dimly lit commuter lot on a low hill behind the school. If I went in through the back entrance, I could avoid any security guards patrolling the front lobby.
The racks there were empty. I zipped past the tennis courts and glided into the first spot, closest to the dirt path winding down the hill to the back of the school. A street lamp flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows into the woods behind the lot. Humming to the fast-paced strings and percussion, I unclipped my helmet with shaking fingers and secured my lock to the rack.
A car door slammed behind me. “That’s from a battle scene in The Lord of the Rings, right?” someone asked. I whirled and gasped, and my helmet tumbled off my head. Oh, no. It was Diego Martin. He was tall and lithe, with warm, tawny skin, like a sunset on the sand, and these intense copper eyes.
As he approached, I clenched my tote bag under my arm, the tequila bottle digging into my rib cage. I couldn’t let him see what I was up to. Diego was a straightedge nerd. If loyalty were a family trait, he’d rat me out in a heartbeat.
Or would he?
Diego and I used to go to different schools, but when our fathers worked together at a consulting firm they’d co-founded, we’d see each other at client events and family barbecues next to Brewster Lake. We used to slip away to the fishing pier to escape the boring adult talk and Maggie’s mood swings. I’d sit dangling my legs over the splintered edge of the pier, my toes skimming the glassy water as I listened to music while Diego read next to me, wisps of black hair falling across his forehead. Those memories were hazy, but I did remember how his eyes gleamed in the sunlight, and the funny flutter in my stomach whenever he looked at me.
I guess you could say he was my first crush. But we hadn’t exchanged more than two words in years.
“Sorry,” he said as I clutched my chest, catching my breath. A few strands of his disheveled hair fell between his eyes. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I tugged out my earbuds and paused the track. “It’s fine. And . . . it’s not.”
“It’s not fine?”
“No, no. The song.” I huffed. “It’s when they’re running from the Balrog. You know, the fire demon thingy in the first movie.” I couldn’t help it—resentment bubbled in my stomach. If it weren’t for Diego’s stupid sponges, Dad could have afforded to fly me to USC auditions, and I wouldn’t be scrambling to score the school play.
Dad and I used to watch Bid or Bust every Friday night—until the night Diego and his dad appeared on our flat-screen. Mr. Martin had been shirking his responsibilities at my dad’s company for months. He doesn’t have a kid to mourn, Dad would say in an uproar, what the hell is his excuse? Suddenly, he had his answer—our jaws dropped as they pitched a sponge that changed colors when it got wet. Apparently it was Diego’s idea, and Mr. Martin handled manufacturing. The show producers obviously loved the adoptive teen and father angle—the camera panned across the teary investors when Diego recalled meeting his father as a four-year-old, knowing he was finally home.
After they landed their massive deal, I’d texted Diego with a gazillion scream emojis, congratulating him, and begging for details. But he never texted me back. The next day, his father quit Dad’s company, and when Dad couldn’t find anyone with the same skill set to replace him, the business collapsed. And Diego never talked to me again.
I guessed mediocrity was a potent repellent.
“Ah.” He scooped up my fallen helmet and looped the straps through my handlebars. “Well, it all kind of sounds the same, doesn’t it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” I hugged my arms to my chest, warding off a chill. Why did he suddenly think I was worth talking to again? Maybe he thought it would be more awkward to say nothing. “Those two scenes just share the same motif.”
He glanced up from my bike, his copper eyes piercing mine as a car’s headlights swiped across us. The main lot must’ve just filled up. “Motif, huh?” Under a flannel button-down, he wore a black T-shirt with the words “Expressions of Vader” over nine identical images of Darth Vader. Everything about him screamed über dork.
“It’s the theme.” My words came out terse, laced with bitterness. After Diego made it clear I was no longer worth talking to, I’d avoided him at school, skirting around him in the halls, and sitting on the opposite side of the room in any classes we shared. I was bleeding friends like a stab to the heart, and the flicker of a flame between us made Diego’s cut the deepest. And while I lost Diego, Dad lost everything. He had such a hard time landing freelance gigs now,
he spent his free time running food deliveries just to pay the bills. I hated seeing him so miserable. All thanks to some pathetic sponge.
“I know what a motif is.” Diego took an expensive-looking camera from his backpack and slung the strap over his head. He was a photographer for our school paper, and was probably covering the dance.
“Oh.” I fluffed up my side bangs, which my helmet had flattened, lost for words. Could he make out the shape of the tequila bottle in my purse? I edged it behind my torso. “Anyway, I need to get going.”
I set off down the dirt path, but Diego followed right behind. “So . . . The Lord of the Rings is your jam, huh?”
Frowning, I gave him a wary look. Sometimes when I passed him in the halls, I’d swear he was about to say something, but then he’d clam up, letting me pass without a word. Or maybe he never meant to say anything at all. After a while, resentment filled the hole in my heart where hope had dissolved. Maybe our friendship was a mere convenience to him when our fathers were close—and now that he was filthy rich, I wasn’t worth his time.
But maybe he missed me, and finally mustered the guts to say something now that he’d caught me alone.
“Yeah,” I finally said, curious. “I have a thing for movie soundtracks.” I’d never told him what I was really listening to when he asked years ago. I wasn’t embarrassed, per se. Listening to movie scores nonstop gave my mundane life its own vibrant soundtrack. But it wasn’t exactly mainstream.
“Really? What’s your favorite?” He sounded genuinely intrigued.
“Anything by Hans Zimmer, Howard Shore, or John Williams.”
He nodded appreciatively. “Nice.” Wow. Usually that answer got me nothing but blank stares and vacant frowns, so I’d started telling people my favorite musician was Taylor Swift. People liked her, right? He pushed his hair from his eyes again. “I listen to the Star Wars scores while I study. Original trilogy, mostly.”
My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
“Sometimes I throw in some Gladiator or Blade Runner, if I’m feeling adventurous.”
“I totally love you.” My stomach plummeted as Diego’s eyebrows shot up. “Those. I love those. It’s just, I didn’t know you listened . . . and, I don’t know anyone else who, you know, listens to soundtracks like I do . . .” Flustered, I clamped my lips shut to keep more word vomit from spewing out, while his lips curved into a smile.
“Trust me, you’re not the only person who likes movie soundtracks.”
“Right. Obviously.” Mortified, I watched for fallen branches in front of my feet as we descended the hill toward the back doors. But Mr. Turner, one of our school security guards, was standing outside the back door, smoking a cigarette. I gasped and froze. What if he asked to check my bag? I’d have to take my chances and go through the front lobby instead.
“What’s wrong?” asked Diego.
“I don’t want to go in through the back doors.” I turned to backtrack.
“Uh . . . why not?” His tone was annoyed. So much for thinking he’d missed me. False hope at its worst.
I swallowed hard. I couldn’t admit the truth about the booze. “It’s . . . it’s my first school dance” was all I could come up with.
“So?”
“I’ve never been to one before.”
He furrowed his brow. “So?”
“So! This is, like, a major milestone. I’m coming out of my shell. Putting myself out there. Going to . . . school dances!” I jabbed a finger toward the front of the building. “And I want to walk in through the front doors.” God, he probably thought I was even more pathetic than he realized.
Diego considered me, frowning. “Okay then.” He brushed past me to walk alongside the building. “To the front doors it is.”
Heaving a sigh, I jogged to catch up, and settled into stride beside him. When we reached the front doors, I started to push one open, but he blocked me with his arm.
“What is it?” My heart raced in my chest like a wild stallion escaping its captor. He spotted the tequila in my bag, didn’t he?
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “This is it.”
“What?”
“We’re about to cross the threshold onto the next stage of your life.”
I gave him a deadpan look. “Are you seriously mocking me right now?”
“Wait, wait . . . do you smell that?” He gave a big sniff.
The air smelled faintly of exhaust and evening dew. “No.”
“It’s the smell of new beginnings!”
“Oh, shut up.” I rolled my eyes and shoved his arm away.
“Alas!” He rushed after me as I sped through the door. “It’s the dawn of a new era!”
I shook my head and barreled across the vestibule, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Naturally, I collided with the other security guard, Mr. Garcia. My heart bypassed my stomach, dropping directly into my uterus.
“Whoa, slow down, Amber,” said Mr. Garcia, gripping my shoulders to steady me. “You’re gonna knock someone out.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I straightened myself out and swung my purse behind me, the strap cutting into my shirt between my boobs. Please don’t check my bag. Please don’t ask to check my bag.
“That’s okay.” A friendly smile spread under Mr. Garcia’s black mustache.
“You alright?” asked Diego. He touched the small of my back, and I adjusted my purse again, edging the bottle away from his hand. But now Mr. Garcia could probably see the weight of my purse as it sagged toward the floor, heavy with a thousand pounds of guilt.
“Yep. I’m fine.”
Mr. Garcia looked between us and winked. “You kids have a good time.” My cheeks were on fire, but Diego looked nonplussed.
We headed into the gym and hesitated near the doors, taking in the scene. I always thought the winter ball would be fancy like prom. But at Brewster High, there were no fancy dresses and no decorations save the balloons half-heartedly strewn about the gym, courtesy of the student council. The girls swayed to the thumping bass in form-fitting jeans and sparkly tank tops, and the boys looked the same as always: preppy jock or über dork.
As I scanned the crowd for Priya or Sasha, Diego motioned toward the DJ’s booth. “Sorry they’re not playing The Lord of the Rings soundtrack. Should I make a request?”
“I don’t think everyone else would be thrilled with that selection,” I said as he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a second camera. “Er . . . exactly how many cameras does it take to cover a school dance?”
He tapped the one dangling from his neck. “Just the one, but—”
“Oh, well look at you, being all fancy,” I said, trying to throw back some shade. “Too bad the rest of us have to settle for coin collections.”
A smile crept onto his lips, and I bit back a grin. “I just have two cameras, alright? This was my mom’s. It’s a Polaroid.”
“Oh, huh. I didn’t realize they made those anymore.”
“You can still order the film online. You can find anything online, really. C’mere, let’s memorialize this milestone of yours.” He raised the camera at arm’s length, aiming the lens toward us.
“Oh, no, I don’t think—”
“Say cheese.” Okay, so this was happening. I obliged, not wanting to look caught off guard, and flashed my biggest smile as the camera’s flash blinded us. A small white strip immediately ejected from the camera.
I blinked the violet flash dots from my view. He held out the strip, and we watched as the gray smudges morphed into grinning versions of us.
“Ha, I look like such a dork.” I hated seeing myself in pictures. The image staring back at me never quite matched how I pictured myself—the smattering of freckles on my cheeks was more pronounced than I thought, and my hair never sat quite right.
“You look great.” He shoved the camera back in his bag, but before I could read his expression, someone opened the door behind us, and a stream of light behind him obscured his face i
n shadow.
Priya poked her head inside the gym. “There you are!” She bolted over.
“There you are.”
“Why haven’t you been answering your texts?” Oh, crap. I always kept my phone on silent when I biked so I didn’t get distracted. “Come on!”
“Come where?”
Priya glanced at Diego warily. “Just . . . come on.”
“Okay. Well, see you.” I gave Diego a small wave and raced after Priya.
“Everyone’s this way.” She led me toward the band practice room, her eyes wide with anxiety. “I hate being so shy,” she said. “I never know what to talk to Sasha about.”
“Talk about cheerleading,” I suggested. “You have that in common now.” Emboldened by my small victory with Sasha, I’d convinced Priya to try out for the cheerleading squad, and to her utter shock and delight, she made it. But it hadn’t seemed to bolster her self-esteem.
“Yeah, I guess.”
After we slipped into the band room, Sasha rushed over. “Look who finally showed up!” She kissed the air beside my cheeks. Priya and I exchanged a tentative glance as I dug out the tequila. Sasha grabbed it. “Half a bottle? I hope it’s because you pre-gamed on your way over.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking or annoyed. Before I could reply, she dashed behind the drum set.
“Well, halle-fucking-lujah.” Zane peeked at us over the cymbals, his eyes shadowed under his baseball cap, and threw us a roguish grin. “Thirsty?”
Priya and I rounded the drum set and found a whole group huddled on the floor. Amy and Maria were hunched over one of their phones, giggling at something. Sasha sat back-to-back with Robbie, holding her phone at arm’s length for a selfie. And I recognized a few kids from drama club, including Asher and Dan, who watched Zane divvy the tequila into red plastic cups and pass them around. Sasha flicked my ankle and gave me a meaningful look, nodding toward them.
“Hey, guys,” Sasha called to them. “You know Amber, right?”
“Sure.” Dan waved, then stuck his hands in his pockets. He usually played the lead opposite Maria, who watched us with narrowed eyes. “You write music, huh?”