by Diana Urban
As he deepened the kiss, he pushed me back against the china cabinet. I dropped my plastic flute, spilling cider all over my peep-toe shoes. But I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around his neck, a small sigh escaping as he ran his tongue along my upper lip. I always thought French kissing would be gross, but somehow, it was electrifying and exhilarating—he wanted to explore all of me, and I wanted to let him.
Well, maybe I didn’t want to let him explore all of me. As his fingers started working their way down my thigh, I gently pushed him away. “Maybe we should get back to the party.”
“Alright.” He gave me one more long kiss, and I smiled sheepishly as he moved to open the door.
But the door was stuck.
“What the hell?” he said, rattling the doorknob.
“Did it lock?”
He ran his fingers over the door around the knob. “There’s a lock, but no key.” He pounded on the door. “Hey! The door’s stuck!” I face-palmed. Everyone would know we were hooking up in here. “Is anyone out there—”
The door flew open, revealing Maria and Priya on the other side. “Ha! Sorry about that.” Maria took a large brass key from the door and dangled it in front of my face. “Door locks on its own.” She inserted the key into the keyhole on the inside of the door and winked at me. “Just in case.” She grinned and fluttered back toward the bar.
I coughed awkwardly. “You go ahead,” I said to Robbie, desperate to tell Priya what just happened. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
He grinned at me before heading back into the main dining room. “Sorry I ditched you—” I started saying to Priya.
“Oh, please. Don’t apologize.” She grinned widely. “Did you guys make out?”
My face flushed. “Yeah.”
We both squealed, and she hugged me. “Oh my God, he’s so hot. You’re so lucky.”
I tried not to grin like a baboon. “What about you and Zane?”
Her smile dissolved. “The moment Sasha showed up, I turned into chopped liver.”
My heart twisted at the sadness in Priya’s eyes. “I can drag her away from Zane. But you can’t just stand there and look pretty.” I adjusted one of her curls over her shoulder. “You have to participate in the conversation a bit.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He wants nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true! You’re just being shy. Loosen up a bit.” I grabbed her arms and wiggled her around. “You’re so silly and fun. Let him see that.”
She laughed. “Okay, okay.”
“Good. So let’s get you back to Zane, shall we? Where are they?”
“Over by the bar—”
Before she could finish her sentence, I squeezed through the crowd toward the bar, dragging Priya behind me. I spotted Sasha giggling with Amy and Maria over something Zane said. “Sasha!”
“Hey, lady.” Sasha kissed the air on either side of my face. “I have news for you.”
Over Sasha’s shoulder, I spotted Becky Wallace standing with Phil Pratt and a couple of her friends, staring at me with a flabbergasted expression. She was the one who first warned me off Sasha back in eighth grade as we speculated about the new classmates we’d get next year. Maybe she was jealous of the popular girl she’d heard everyone adored.
When I didn’t reply, Sasha followed my gaze. “What on Earth is she staring at?” she said under her breath. “And what is she wearing? Didn’t she hear? This is a birthday party for a seventeen-year-old, not a seven-year-old.”
Becky wore a hot pink maxi dress with a tiny white unicorn print. As Amy and Maria burst out laughing, Becky’s eyes widened behind her thick glasses, and seeing everyone staring at her dress, she self-consciously wiped at it like she could brush off the unicorns. Phil, who was on crutches, glared at Sasha and tightened his jaw.
“And what the hell is Phil Pratt doing here?” said Priya a lot less quietly, glancing at Zane. Phil’s face reddened under his mop of greasy brown hair. “Don’t you need to shower to score an invite to these things?” My jaw dropped. That is not how I meant she participate in the conversation. How could she say something like that, even to impress Zane?
“Right?” Sasha looped her arm through Priya’s. “Maria,” she said in a low voice. “What were you thinking, inviting them?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “My mom made me invite everyone in our class. She didn’t want anyone to feel left out. But I figured, whatever, we don’t have to talk to them.”
Becky glared at me like she thought I was making fun of her, too. But I’d never make fun of her. We used to be friends . . . until I couldn’t handle being her friend anymore. And that wasn’t her fault.
Eager to get everyone’s attention off of Becky, I tugged Sasha’s sleeve. “Robbie told me about the play!” I clapped my hands giddily.
She hugged me. “Yay! I’m so excited. When I listened to the ‘Drinking Poison’ track, I kid you not, I literally started crying. Like, ugly crying. You are severely talented.” She grabbed a pretzel from the bar and doused it in spinach dip. “I can’t wait to do this.”
My attempt at a response came out as a squeak.
“But we need to wait until next winter. I know you were pushing for May—”
“What? That’ll be too late!” My heart sank. “I wanted to send in the recording with my college applications.”
She reached for another pretzel. “It’s just that it takes a ton of work to put on a play with original music. And Romeo and Juliet will be a lot harder to pull off than Bye Bye Birdie.” She paused to chew. “We’ll have to finalize the script, nail down the stage direction, all of it. Besides, this’ll give the orchestra more time to learn your music.”
Panic bubbled in my gut. “But the winter play is always right before the holidays. That’ll be too late.”
“When are the application deadlines?”
“Mid-December, I think.”
She licked some dip off her thumb. “Well, we can make sure the first showing is before your deadlines. Don’t worry, we’ll work it out, I promise!”
But that meant we’d have to be lucky enough for the first showing to go perfectly. This was my entire future on the line. And I didn’t like depending on luck.
When you depend on luck, something’s bound to go wrong.
48 Minutes Left
“Scott!” Priya shrieked.
Scott landed on his back, and the chair toppled on top of him. He wheezed and gripped his stomach, the wind knocked out of him. Blood streaked down his face from a cut on his forehead.
I raced toward him. “Are you okay?” He grimaced and yelped. “What is it? What hurts?”
“Everything.” He propped himself on his elbows with a grunt. His right foot was pinned under his left leg. Diego raced around the table as I dragged the chair out of the way. We all crowded around Scott.
Priya crouched next to him, dabbing a long gash on his forehead with a red cloth napkin. “Ah, this is deep. Hang on, there’s some glass in there—”
“Wait. Stop.” He pushed her away. “My ankle.” He bent his left knee and yanked his right foot free with his hands, groaning in pain. He slid up his pant leg, revealing an ankle twisted at an unnatural angle.
My stomach clenched, and I looked away, covering my mouth. Robbie gripped my shoulders, and I clasped one of his hands. While I could handle blood, displaced body parts were more than I could take. Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening.
“Damn,” said Diego. “What do we do?”
Robbie brushed past me and knelt next to Scott. “Lemme take a look—” He reached for Scott’s foot, but Scott shrank back, howling in pain.
“Don’t touch it!”
“I want to see if it’s broken,” said Robbie.
“It’s obviously broken,” said Scott.
“It could be dislocated. See how the joint seems to be poking out?” He pointed to something that looked like a round knob pushing against the inside of Scott’s skin.
“Same thing happened to Zane during a game a couple years ago. If that’s it, I can try to pop it back—”
“No!” Scott dragged himself back against the wall, wincing as his palm slid over a shard of glass. “Ahh. Get away from me.” Priya crouched next to him, cupping her cheeks, staring in horror at Scott’s ankle. I reached for her shoulder, wanting to comfort her, but she noticed the movement and edged away from me. My fingers caught air and dropped limply by my side.
“C’mon, man,” said Robbie, kicking some of the glass away from Scott. “It won’t hurt as much if you let me pop it back in.”
“You’re no doctor.” Scott pressed back into the wall, sweat glistening on his forehead. He started wiping his hands on his jeans, brushing off the glass fragments, but froze when he noticed the maroon streak he left behind. One of his palms was bleeding. “Dammit.”
“Here, let me help.” Priya examined his hand, picking out a tiny glass shard.
“Have you ever popped a bone back into place?” Diego asked Robbie.
“No . . .” said Robbie. “But I watched Coach do it for Zane.”
Scott shook his head; his face had a gray pallor. “No way.” He waved Robbie back. “That doesn’t count.”
Robbie stood and ran his palm over his hair. “Dammit,” he muttered, watching Priya tie a napkin around Scott’s hand. Then she got to work on the gash on his forehead, clamping her mouth shut like she was trying not to be sick. I passed her a glass of water from the table.
“Thanks.” She dipped the napkin in the water and gave me a look that said, How is this happening?
“You guys,” cried Sasha. “We need to get out of here. Now.” I glanced at the bomb’s timer. We had about forty-five minutes left. Forty-five minutes . . . until what? Until everyone settled on one person to kill? Or until one of us attempted murder singlehandedly? Would we work together to find a way out of this? Or would we chance the bomb being fake, and wait it out? Scott’s fall made this all seem terribly real. And if it got much hotter in here, could we suffocate before the hour ran out? Was that even possible?
Either way, we couldn’t just stand around waiting for something to happen. Someone had to do something. I dragged the chair Scott had been standing on closer to the window, stepping over the largest glass shards. Clambering onto the chair, I leaned against the wall, peering out. Rusted iron bars crisscrossed the window, making it impossible to slide anything larger than a fist outside, let alone a person. As I searched for a lock or lever to open the bars, Sasha poked my leg. “C’mon. You’re skinny as a pencil. Try climbing out.”
I ran my fingers along the iron bars where they met the outer bricks of the window frame, feeling for a hinge. “It’s useless, Sasha,” I said. “These bars are cemented into the wall . . . I don’t see any way to open them.”
“Dammit,” she said. “Is anyone out there?”
All I could see were sheets of rain in the narrow alley between the Chesterfield and the long brick building across from us. A large blue garbage bin stood to the left, blocking my view of the side street. To the right, there was nothing but brick wall and pavement—the building across the way had no windows facing us.
“Help!” I leaned as close to the jagged edges of the window as I dared. “Help us!” But my voice didn’t carry over the pouring rain. Another clap of thunder rattled the alley. I screamed for help once more, but my cries went unanswered.
I turned to Robbie. “No one’s out there. No one.” He took my hand and helped me step down from the chair, and wrapped me in a bear hug. I didn’t know if he wanted to comfort himself or me. But his body heat smothered me, and I backed away from his embrace. “God, it’s so hot in here.” I never thought it could get this hot this fast, but the room was small, and the body heat from six panicked people probably wasn’t helping. “It’s so muggy and gross out, none of the hot air is escaping.”
“It is,” said Diego. “Just not fast enough.”
Sasha leapt onto the chair and gripped the crisscrossed iron bars, as though she could shake them loose. Sweat coiled the hair at the nape of her neck. When her efforts proved fruitless, she shrieked at the top of her lungs, cupping her mouth to direct the sound out the window. Priya sat beside Scott, absentmindedly tracing the scar on her upper lip as she watched Sasha rage.
“Sasha, it’s no use.” I nudged her calf. “There’s nobody there.”
“My phone.” She hopped down from the chair, out of breath, and leaned across the table to grab her phone. After climbing back onto the chair, she stuck her arm out the window, waving her phone around. Hope and dread mingled in my gut. Would that really work? Maybe we weren’t getting reception because we were underground. Would Sasha be able to call for help?
“Anything?” asked Robbie, his hands on his hips. I fidgeted with my amethyst bracelet as we waited.
Finally, she pulled her arm back, her hand and phone glistening from the rain. “No. Still no signal. It’s a dead spot.” She climbed down and gripped my arm, her eyes brimming with tears. “My parents . . . Zane . . . what if I can never say goodbye?” Her lower lip quivered. Priya briefly narrowed her eyes at Zane’s name, but said nothing.
I pulled Sasha into a hug, trying to ignore the unease seeping through my veins. We were less than fifteen minutes in, and despite the rising temperature, it chilled me to the bone that someone so headstrong was already crumbling. “Listen, you’re going to see them again. There’s no need to say goodbye. We’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t so sure anymore. Her whole body trembled as she nodded.
“There has to be another way out of here.” Diego scanned the room as I released Sasha, raking his fingers through his hair. “An emergency exit or something.”
Scott shook his head. “I checked. There’s nothing.”
“There has to be something!” My voice came out high and scratchy. Leaning against the edge of the fireplace, I peered behind one cabinet, then the other. The air was thick with heat, and I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder to breathe.
“I told you, there’s nothing,” said Scott, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “There aren’t any secret doors.”
“No trap panels?” Robbie kicked at the corner of the Oriental rug.
“We’re already in the basement,” said Diego.
“And we’re not in some old mansion,” said Sasha. “We’re in the fucking Chesterfield. And we’re totally trapped in here.”
“Oh my God,” Priya whined, tugging at the collar of her dress. “It’s so freaking hot.”
“Let’s try to break down the door again,” Robbie suggested.
“No way.” Diego rubbed his forehead. “It’s too heavy-duty—”
“Try again!” Sasha cried. “We have to do something!”
As they argued about the door, I slid down the wall next to the fireplace, gripping the sides of my head, damp with sweat. I scanned the room—there were no drop ceiling panels or gratings or closets or anything. Panic crept over me, and the sweltering room spun as the rising temperature made my cheeks pulsate with heat. How long did it take for heatstroke to set in? How hot would it have to get? As Robbie pounded on the door, I pressed my hands over my ears. The walls were closing in, the hot air rank with sweat and roasted meat and eggs suffocating me, and there was nothing I could do to stop drowning in my own panic. No way to claw myself free. No way to escape.
9 Months Ago
APRIL OF JUNIOR YEAR
My stomach gnawed at itself as I peeled off my raincoat and lifted it toward the hook inside my locker. I missed, the soggy jacket flopping onto my books and binders. So much for thinking I could function off three hours of sleep.
Staying up until four in the morning to finish the track for Tybalt and Mercutio’s duel in Romeo and Juliet seemed like a brilliant idea . . . until I hit snooze on my alarm clock seven times this morning. By the time I stumbled out of bed, I didn’t have time to shove a Pop-Tart down my throat, let alone apply mak
eup. I dared a glance at my reflection in the locker mirror.
Yep. Whoever invented the snooze button should rot and die. In that order.
As I plodded toward the girls’ bathroom to attempt damage control, Sasha barreled toward me, her eyes bugging out, nearly knocking over Phil Pratt. “Watch out!”
Phil scowled at her as he trudged away.
“Ugh. Doesn’t that kid ever shower?” Sasha dumped a thick stack of papers in my arms. “Take this.” She opened her tote bag, fished out a stapler and Scotch tape, and dropped them onto the stack. “And this and this.”
“What’re these?”
“I need your help putting up flyers . . . I don’t have time—oh geez, who punched you in the face?” She narrowed her eyes at the purple rings under mine. I wiped at them self-consciously.
“I, uh, didn’t get much sleep.”
“Story of my life.” She dug through her tote bag again and unwrapped a piece of gum. “Here. Caffeinated gum.” Since my hands were full, she edged it into my mouth. “It’ll help.” She tapped on the stack of papers. “And then put these up? Please?”
“Why should I?” I mumbled, chewing on the sour peppermint chemical-laced gum. “You insulted my face.”
“You look fresh-faced and fabulous, okay?” she said, eyes wide. “Just do it, please? I have to cram for our bio test during every free moment today.” She clasped her chest over her heart, pleading. “I have cheer practice tonight and like zero free time ever.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Just stressed.” She clutched my arm. “Please, pretty, pretty, please, help me out. You’ll be my hero forever.”
Laughing, I shoved her off. “Alright, alright.” I scooted the stapler with my chin and read the top sheet. The words Sasha Harris for Class President formed an arc over Sasha’s headshot, her loose brown waves cascading around her shoulder, her smile so white it looked Photoshopped. “You sure you have time to be class president?”
“I need to beef up my résumé. I’m getting into Harvard if it’s the last thing I do.” As if her résumé wasn’t jam-packed already.