by Tracy Wolff
“We need to go,” Flint says as I start to take a second pic. “Class is starting.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” I glance around as I shove my phone back in my blazer pocket. “Which tunnel are we taking?”
“The third one to the left,” Lia says.
We head that way, but just as we’re about to reach it, a low-grade tremor rips through the room. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but as the bones in the chandelier start to clink together in the eeriest sound imaginable, I realize there’s nothing imaginary about it.
We’re standing in the middle of a musty, crumbling old tunnel just as the earth begins to shake for real this time.
30
You Make
the Earth Shake
Under My Feet…
and Everywhere Else, Too
Lia’s eyes go wide as the chandelier sways above us. “We need to get out of this room.”
“We need to get out of these tunnels!” I answer. “How sturdy do you think they are?”
“They won’t collapse,” she assures me, but she starts moving toward the tunnel that’s supposed to lead to the art studio pretty damn quickly.
Not that I blame her—Flint and I are moving fast, too.
It’s not a big earthquake, at least not the kind that Alaska is known for. But it’s not like the small tremors that I’ve felt since coming here, either. Based on what I’ve experienced back home, this one is an easy seven on the Richter scale.
Lia and Flint must realize that at the same time I do, because once we hit the new tunnel, our fast walk becomes a run.
“How far to the exit?” I demand. My phone is vibrating in my pocket, a series of texts coming in fast and furious. I ignore them as the ground continues to move.
“Maybe another couple hundred yards,” Flint tells me.
“Are we going to make it?”
“Absolutely. We—” He breaks off as a loud rumbling sound comes from the ground, followed closely by a violent shift that turns the quake from rolling to shaking.
My legs turn to rubber, and I start to stumble. Flint grabs me above the elbow to steady me, then uses his grip to propel me through the tunnel so fast that I’m not sure my feet are even touching the ground anymore. Unlike on the stairs a few days ago, this time I’m not complaining.
Lia’s in front of us, running even more quickly, though I don’t know how that’s possible, considering just how fast Flint has us moving.
Finally, the ground starts to slant upward, and relief sweeps through me. We’re almost there, almost out of this place, and so far the tunnels have held. Twenty more seconds and a door looms ahead of us. Unlike the one we originally came through, this one is covered in drawings of dragons and wolves and witches and what I’m pretty sure is a vampire on a snowboard.
It’s all done graffiti-style, using every color imaginable. And it is totally badass. Another day—when the earth isn’t literally moving under my feet—I’ll stop to admire the artwork. For now, I wait for Lia to punch in the code—59678 (I watch carefully this time)—and then the three of us burst through the door and into what is obviously a very large art supply closet.
The earthquake stops just as the door closes behind us. I exhale in relief as Flint drops my arm, then bend over and try to catch my breath. He might have been doing most of the work to get us here, but I was moving my legs as fast as I could.
Several seconds pass before I can breathe without feeling like my lungs are going to explode. When I can, I stand back up—and notice a few things all at the same time. One, this closet is really well stocked. Two, the door into the art classroom is wide open. And three, Jaxon is standing in the doorway, face wiped completely blank of expression.
My stomach drops at my first glimpse of his clenched fists and the wild fury burning in the depths of his eyes—not because I’m afraid but because it’s obvious that he was.
For long seconds, no one says or does anything, except for Lia, who glances between Jaxon and me with a look that seems just a little bit sly. Then she tells him, “Don’t worry, Jaxon darling; I’m fine.” She pats him on his unscarred cheek as she walks right by him into the art classroom and closes the door behind her.
He doesn’t even glance her way. His eyes, flat and black, are pinned to Flint. Who rolls his own eyes as he says, “They’re both fine. You’re welcome.”
For long seconds, Jaxon doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even make a sound. But it turns out I only thought Jaxon was pissed before. Because after Flint’s comment, he looks like he’s one very small step away from an aneurysm. Or mass murder.
“Get out of here,” he growls.
“I wasn’t planning on sticking around.” Flint doesn’t move, though. Instead, he stays in front of me, staring Jaxon down.
And that’s it. That’s just it. “Move,” I order, and when Flint doesn’t move fast enough, I shove past him.
For a second, it looks like he’s going to stop me, but a low snarl from Jaxon has him stepping back. Which only pisses me off more. I get that he was afraid for me, but that doesn’t give him the right to act like a psychopath.
“Are you really okay?” Jaxon demands as I step forward.
“I’m fine.” I try to shove past him, too, but unlike Flint, Jaxon doesn’t move. He just stands there, in my way, eyes dark and still filled with anger…and something I can’t quite put my finger on as he stares down at me. Whatever it is, it makes me feel all fizzy inside, like a carbonated drink that’s been shaken way too much. Or it would if I let it. Right now, I’m too busy concentrating on the anger to get sidetracked by the rest of it.
“I tell you to stay away from Flint, so you go into the tunnels with him?” he demands.
It’s the way wrong thing to say to me right now, when adrenaline is still coursing through me from the quake. And the run. And the terror. But just because I was scared out of my mind a few minutes ago doesn’t mean I’m going to put up with Jaxon demanding anything from me. Any more than I’m going to put up with him telling me what to do.
“I’m not talking to you about this right now,” I answer. “I’m late for a class that I really didn’t want to be late for, and the last thing I have time for is all this bizarre posturing from the two of you.” I include Flint in my anger.
“There’s no posturing, Grace.” Jaxon reaches for me, but I yank my hand away before he can take hold of it.
“Whatever you want to call it. It’s boring and annoying and I’m over it. So get out of my way and let me go to class before I forget I’m a pacifist and punch you in the face.”
I’m not sure which word shocks him more—the “punch” or the “pacifist.” Before either of us can figure it out, though, Flint jumps in with a, “You go, Grace. Tell him to back the fuck off.”
This time, Jaxon’s snarl is terrifying as fuck. It’s also loud enough to have the class on the other side of this closet going completely silent—even the teacher. Which, terrific. Just freaking terrific.
I whirl on Flint. “You shut up, or I’ll think of something really terrible to do to you, too.” I turn back to Jaxon. “As for you, get the hell out of my way or I’m never talking to you again.”
At first, Jaxon doesn’t move. But I think that has more to do with complete and utter astonishment (if his face is anything to go by) rather than a deliberate attempt to push back at me.
In the end, though, he lifts his hands and steps out of my way, exactly as I’d demanded.
“Thank you,” I tell him much more quietly. “And I appreciate your concern. I really do. But this is my first day of school, and I just want to go to class.”
And then, without waiting for him to answer, I sweep past him and into a classroom where everyone—even Lia and the teacher—is staring at me.
Big. Freaking. Surprise.
31
Big Girls
Don’t Cry
(Unless They Want To)
“Grace! Look out!”
I turn toward my cousin’s voice—the first girl to speak to me since I went off on Jaxon and Flint five hours ago—just in time to see a basketball flying toward my head. I swat it away, then press my lips together to keep from crying out as pain radiates up my hand.
It’s ridiculous that the act of deflecting a basketball could hurt this much, but whoever threw it threw it hard. My whole arm aches from the jolt of coming into contact with it, and I didn’t even know that was possible.
“What the hell?” Macy asks the gym at large as she jogs over to me. “Who threw that?”
No one answers.
“Seriously?” My cousin puts her hands on her hips and glares at a group of girls standing by the locker room door. “Did you do this?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? I heard how hard that ball hit your hand. If it had gotten your head, you could have had a concussion!”
“But it didn’t. And I’m fine.” It’s a bit of a stretch, considering I’m still in pain, but I’ve made a big enough spectacle of myself today, thank you very much. No way am I going to start whining about a few mean girls.
Or a lot of mean girls, for that matter, one of whom apparently has a future in professional basketball.
I mean, yeah, I’m not denying it’s been a weird day. I haven’t seen Jaxon or Flint since I went off on them this morning. But even though Jaxon hasn’t shown up at any more of my classes, Byron was waiting outside my art class with an extra parka when it let out—so I wouldn’t have to go through the spooky-as-hell tunnels again, thank God. Rafael sat with Macy and me at lunch plus walked us to AP Spanish, the one class we share. And Liam walked me from Spanish to PE.
None of which went unnoticed by the other students and none of which has exactly worked in my favor. I mean, I wasn’t looking to make a bunch of friends here, but I also don’t want to have to dodge flying basketballs every second of the day, either.
“You sure you’re okay?” Macy asks, frowning at the way I’m wiggling my fingers and shaking my hand.
I stop immediately. “I’m sure. I’m fine.” The last thing I want is for Macy to make a big deal out of something that could have been a lot worse.
She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything else about the basketball. And if I catch her glaring at some of my classmates, I’m not going to call her out on it. I’d be pissed if someone was messing with her, too.
Still, it’s past time to change the subject, so I ask, “What’s all this?” gesturing to the black leotard, tights, and sequined skirt she’s wearing.
“Dance team,” she answers with a proud little grin. “I’ve got one of the solos at Friday’s pep rally.”
“Seriously? That’s amazing!” I squeal, even though I’ve never been a big dance team enthusiast. But Macy obviously loves it, and that’s enough for me.
“Yeah. I’m dancing to—” She breaks off as the coach blows a whistle.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means the period’s over. And since this is the last one, it also means you’re free.” Macy grins. “I’ve got practice for two hours after school, but I’ll find you when I’m done, and we can go to dinner together. If there’s not another earthquake, that is.”
“Right?” There have been several more tremors this afternoon—nothing big, just aftershocks, but they’ve definitely set most of the students, me included, on edge. “Who knew I’d experience more earthquakes in four days at the center of Alaska than I did my whole life living on the coast in California?”
“It’s weird,” she agrees, looking baffled. “Sure, we have a quake every once in a while, but we haven’t had this many in a row in a long time. Maybe ever. You must have brought them with you.”
“Sorry about that,” I joke. “I’ll try to tone it down.”
“You do that,” she answers with a grin. “See you after practice.”
“See you.”
I shoot her a little wave before heading back toward the locker room. No one bothers me as I change, but no one talks to me, either. And I gave up trying to talk to people somewhere around lunchtime. I can only take so many cold shoulders before I get the message.
I get dressed in record time, then grab my backpack and head out. I probably should go back to my room and get started on my homework, but I’m not used to being cooped up in one room all the time.
Back home, I was always outside—in the pool, at the beach, running through the park. I even did my homework on the front porch swing, watching the sun set over the water.
Going from that to being stuck inside almost all the time is more than a little rough.
I think about heading to my room and changing into all those outdoor clothes so I can go for a walk. But nothing about me is particularly thrilled at the idea of putting on half my closet just to brave the subfreezing temperatures, either, so in the end, I decide on a compromise. I’ll wander around the castle, getting to know it better, since there are huge portions I haven’t set foot in yet, even with my classes taking me all over the place today.
For a second, Jaxon’s warning from the first night flits through my head, but that was for late at night. Just because the sun outside the castle has been down for a couple of hours already doesn’t mean the halls aren’t safe now, while everyone is awake and going from one activity to another. Also, I’m not going to spend the next year and a half afraid of the people I go to school with. Those guys the other night were assholes, no doubt about it, but they caught me unprepared. No way am I going to let it happen again. And no way am I going to become a prisoner in my own school.
Thoughts of Jaxon have me pulling out my phone and opening my message app. There are six text messages waiting for me from Jaxon—all sent during the earthquake. I haven’t opened them yet because at first I was too mad to want to know what he had to say. Then I didn’t want to be around anyone when I opened them. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and the last thing I want is for someone watching me to see how I feel about Jaxon—especially when I currently have no idea what, if anything, is going to happen between us.
The first message came in a few minutes after Brit Lit got out.
Jaxon: Hey, thought I’d catch you at art, but you aren’t here. Are you lost? ;)
A few more minutes had passed before the second message came in.
Jaxon: Need a search and rescue? o_O
The third message came in pretty fast after the second one, followed in quick succession by the next three.
Jaxon: Sorry to bug you, just want to make sure you aren’t in any trouble. Quinn and Marc aren’t bothering you, are they?
Jaxon: Hey, you okay?
Jaxon: Getting worried over here. Just looking for a heads-up that those jerks haven’t found you again. You good?
Jaxon: Grace?
I remember the messages coming in during the earthquake and not paying any attention to them. But now that I’ve read them, I feel like a total jerk. Not for not answering them right away, because—earthquake!
And yeah, I definitely don’t have to answer him just because he wants me to. But I do feel guilty for laying into him the way I did in the art studio when he was obviously just worried about me. And for not answering him for so long when he actually apologized in his texts—something—like please—I’m pretty sure the great Jaxon Vega almost never does.
All I was thinking about in that art closet was how embarrassed I was that he was there, arguing with Flint and making a spectacle of me. I didn’t think about the fact that he was there because he was concerned about me and that the fight with Flint happened because he was so on edge.
In my old school, it would be absurd, and probably even a little freaky, to have a guy get so worr
ied about me. But I can’t really blame Jaxon for being legitimately concerned, not when he’s already had to rescue me twice. And not when his last texts came in the middle of a freaking earthquake, which got people so worked up that every teacher I had for the rest of the day took ten minutes out of class time to go over earthquake safety.
If everyone else is freaked out by the quake, it’s hard to be upset at Jaxon for feeling the same way.
Because I feel bad for making him wait so long for a response, I fire off a couple of texts in quick succession.
Me: Sorry, been busy and haven’t checked my phone
Me: You busy? Want to explore the castle with me?
Me: And hey, you never told me the punch line to the joke
When he doesn’t answer right away, I shove my phone in my blazer pocket and wander into one of the side hallways with no real destination in mind for my exploration.
I pass a room where two people are fencing, complete with white uniforms and head masks, and pause to watch for a little while. Then I wander down to the music hall, where a curly-haired boy is playing the saxophone. I recognize the tune as “Autumn Leaves,” and just the sound of it nearly brings me to my knees.
Cannonball Adderley cut an album in 1958 called Somethin’ Else. Miles Davis and Art Blakey played on it, and it was my father’s favorite—especially the song “Autumn Leaves.” He used to play it over and over when he was working around the house, and he made me listen to it with him at least a hundred times, where he described every single note, explaining over and over how and why Adderley was such a genius.
The last month since my parents died is probably the longest I’ve gone without hearing that song in my entire life, and to run across it here, now, feels like a sign. Not to mention a punch to the gut.
Tears flood my eyes, and all I can think about is getting away. I turn and run, not caring where I’m going, knowing only that I need to escape.