by Cody Wagner
“What we need is a trap,” Roze said, just before we left for PE.
She was right, and we kicked off Operation: Siren Snag.
* * * * *
Over the next few weeks, the three of us brainstormed daily about Mrs. Cooke. Mostly, that meant pressing Cassie for information. But all she had were more horrifying stories that didn’t actually prove anything. We couldn’t connect her memories to any ideas that might expose Mrs. Cooke. How do you trick a woman into revealing she’s a Siren?
Just like all our other research, it became frustrating. But a couple positives came out of it. First, Cassie’s mood improved. Instead of being sullen and withdrawn, she insisted on being around us all the time. While she and Roze didn’t seem to be as close, it was nice having her back in the group.
Second, our efforts breathed some passion back into Roze, who walked into Geometry one morning wearing a red t-shirt. As soon as she sat down, she shoved a matching shirt against my chest.
I looked down. “I’m getting a déjà vu.”
She took my shirt and unfolded it. “These past couple weeks made me realize how important it is that we keep fighting for what’s right.”
“That’s deep. Or a line from a cheesy movie.”
Roze punched my arm. I grinned; it had been awhile since she’d done that.
The shirt was way too big, but I pulled it over my long-sleeved shirt. Then, I looked around and noticed that, unlike last time, we were the only two people wearing them. But I didn’t care; Roze was right. Ms. Meeks even smiled at us when she walked into the room.
As I pulled out my notebook, I absently wondered what would happen with the Red Shirt Brigade. Darrin and his group had been subdued since our inspection. Now that things had cooled with Zimmerman’s Zealots, I expected them to start their crap again. Graduation was in a couple months, and Darrin only had so much time left to bully students.
That got me wondering about what Darrin would do after he left Sanctuary. Would he join Luke at the army base? That would be awkward after their breakup.
I smiled at the idea of Darrin stalking Luke around tanks and missiles. Unfortunately, the thought dragged me back to Timothy Land. Now that life had returned to normal, I didn’t have any distractions. Whenever I saw Timothy and his boyfriend in the halls, I sometimes fell back into melancholy mode. It sucked being rejected, so my snide thoughts about Darrin vanished, and I sank into a daydream. In it, I told Timothy about the Siren and my Seeker power. After hearing the crazy news, he stared at me, star-struck, before pulling me into a hug and yelling, “You’re my superhero!”
“Mr. Trales?”
I jerked back to reality. “Huh?”
“What kind of triangle does this refer to?” Ms. Meeks gestured at the white board, where she’d written a problem.
The entire class looked at me. Darrin started laughing. Roze grinned, too.
Frantic, I said, “A love triangle?”
The entire class erupted into laughter.
Even Ms. Meeks couldn’t suppress a smile. “The answer is an isosceles triangle.” She pointed at the whiteboard again. “I suggest you pay attention if you want to pass the final.”
I nodded, but within minutes, my thoughts went back to Timothy and remained there until the bell rang.
There’s this thing that happens sometimes, where you think about someone so much, it somehow makes them appear. Well, right then, Ms. Meeks looked out the door and said, “Mr. Howeth!”
Timothy popped his head in. “Hey, Ms. Meeks.”
I think my entire body turned pink. He caught my eye, and I jerked down and pretended to gather my stuff.
The class began making its way to the door, but I stayed planted in my seat, like my butt had been super-glued to it. My brain raced for an idea on how I could get his attention without actually getting his attention.
“Can you still carry those boxes for me?” Ms. Meeks asked.
“Sure. When?”
“How about now?”
I could practically hear Timothy’s smile as he said, “Sure thing.”
I peeked up and saw Ms. Meeks lead him to the corner, where a handful of boxes sat.
“Actually, I may need another body,” she said.
Before I could stop myself, I jumped out of my desk. “I’ll help!”
The logical side of me screamed, What are you doing?! But I shoved it away, thinking, There’s nothing wrong with helping! Helping is good!
I raced to the corner, bouncing like I was the happiest kid alive.
Timothy nodded awkwardly at me.
Ms. Meeks looked from him to me. She must have noticed the tension, because she said, “Actually, I don’t want to make you late for your next class, Blaize.”
“It’s OK,” I sputtered. “I feel bad for not answering your question earlier.”
Ms. Meeks glanced at us one more time. “Thank you. Your help is appreciated.”
I went to the boxes, suddenly feeling stupid and nervous. That couldn’t come across, though. I needed to appear confident and muscular, so I picked up the biggest box. The stupid thing must have been full of books, and my arms started shaking.
“Need some help?” Timothy asked.
“No, I’ve got it.” Even if the box was filled with solid gold bricks, I was determined to carry it without assistance. Timothy shrugged and grabbed two smaller boxes, while Ms. Meeks picked up the remaining one.
Two minutes later, on our way down to the parking lot, I noticed a horribly awkward silence growing. I panicked; for all I knew, this was the last chance I’d get to hang out with Timothy. At least that’s what I told myself.
I refused to let our last moments end all weird, so I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Do you not have class first period?”
His tone was civil as he replied, “I work in the office.”
“What does that mean?”
“I run errands and stuff.”
I pretended to be more excited than I was. “Cool! Like what?”
“Honestly? I make lots of trips to the vending machines.”
I fake-laughed then looked at him. “Wait. There are vending machines?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “They’re right next to the stairs on the first floor. In plain sight.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve never seen them?”
“My mom never let me eat junk food.”
“Really?”
“OK, she did. That just sounds better than my not noticing vending machines in two years.”
Timothy laughed. For real.
I smiled and gave myself a mental high five.
“So, what’s your favorite snack?” I was desperate to keep the conversation going.
He played along, saying, “Guess?”
“I’m so good at guessing!”
And with that, I threw out about thirty snacks, all wrong.
Finally, I said, “Give me the first letter?”
He smiled. “M.”
“Marzipan?”
He looked at me. “What’s that?”
“No idea. Like a candy or something?”
He grinned. “I can make up words too: Miscaroney!”
I laughed. “OK, give me the second letter.”
“M.”
I squinted at him. “The first two letters are both Ms?”
He shrugged. “Think about it.”
Finally, it hit me. “M&Ms.”
“Bingo.”
The second bell rang.
I returned from my fantasy land and noticed we were standing at Ms. Meeks’s car. I had no idea how we’d gotten there. Just like that, Timothy and I had sunk back into our easy conversation. Embarrassed, I looked at Ms. Meeks. She studied the two of us, a tiny smile on her face.
I thought that was amazing; she was rooting for us. Part of me even thought fate had brought Timothy into the classroom right when I’d been thinking about him. My heart sang, It was meant to be!
Sa
dly, we can convince ourselves of anything if it makes us feel better.
Before I could think up another topic, Timothy said goodbye and headed toward the Admissions Building. I watched him for a minute then sighed. I had no choice but to get a hall pass from Ms. Meeks and proceed to Chemistry.
Timothy didn’t reappear that day, holding flowers like I imagined. In fact, I didn’t seem him at all that week.
It sucked.
I’d convinced myself a little slice of Blaize was all Timothy needed. But that wasn’t the case, and I beat myself up over it. Sure, a tiny part of me knew there was nothing I could have done. A winning lottery ticket wouldn’t have changed his mind. But I replayed every word of our conversation in my head, wondering what I’d done wrong. At one point, I even told myself he’d have wanted me if I’d guessed his favorite snack sooner.
To stop obsessing, I forced myself back to the land of Mrs. Cooke. Any time Timothy popped into my head, I made myself think of potential plans to reveal her. That was too much pressure, though, and I couldn’t come up with anything better than, “Maybe if I ask Mrs. Cooke her favorite Halloween costume, she’ll say ‘A Siren.’”
I think fate felt sorry for me, because in late April, something else happened that I could focus on. That night, Senator Randall—the jackass who’d taken Senator Joseph’s place—was set to make a speech. We didn’t think anything of it at first; he’d already made several speeches. But then Mrs. Cooke told Cassie to watch it, and that was all the coercion we needed.
At 6:45, the three of us sat on the foyer couch in front of the TV. A few other students joined, and we sat, chatting about what might happen. I didn’t say much, as my mind wandered from Zimmerman’s Zealots to Mrs. Cooke. What was she up to? Suddenly, Senator Randall appeared on the TV, and the room went silent.
For a few minutes, he talked about things we’d already heard: how Zimmerman’s Zealots were doing the right thing; how their inspections would root out evil; how they would return “traditional family values” to America.
It was all the same crap. On top of that, he wasn’t even glowing.
I was about to ask Cassie if she had the right date, when Randall cleared his throat—after a huge round of applause from his supporters—and said, “Now onto another matter. You may have noticed Senator Joseph’s continued absence.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the audience, and Randall said, “I’m sorry to say his daughter has been stricken ill. While the Senator was passionate about his work, he feels the need to take some time off to be with his family.” Randall held up his hands. “But don’t worry. We have a replacement who has vowed to continue Senator Joseph’s work. In fact, he’s been behind the Senator all year, playing an important role in everything the Zealots have accomplished.”
Without thinking, I covered my face with my hands and peeked at the screen through my fingers.
Randall smiled. “I know the gentleman well and am extremely impressed with his credentials and vision. After all, who can better lead Zimmerman’s Zealots in Senator Joseph’s absence than his own campaign manager? So, without further ado, please welcome Gabriel Cooke!”
Twenty-Two
A Siren Trap
Roze almost fell off the sofa. “What!?”
I looked at Cassie, who’d covered her mouth with her hands. Then I turned back to the TV and watched Mr. Cooke walk onstage and wave to the cheering audience. Like I expected, he was glowing purple.
Nodding at Senator Randall, he gave some quick thanks for the introduction then got right to business.
“I could talk to you about the successes of Zimmerman’s Zealots. Or about our dedication to preserving traditional family values. That might be the smart thing for the new guy. But I’m not going to do that. Something has come to my attention, something I believe everyone has a right to know. My goal as interim head of Zimmerman’s Zealots is to be up front and honest.” Mr. Cooke looked at the camera. It was like he stared right at me. I shifted on the couch and crossed my arms as he said, “The government is pushing on us to halt our inspections of conversion therapy camps.”
The crowd started booing, and Mr. Cooke let them carry on for almost a minute. “Yes, that’s clearly detrimental to our cause, but it’s only temporary. They can’t stop us forever. In fact, I don’t think they can stop us at all. We’re well within our rights to conduct our visits.”
The audience yelled in agreement. Mr. Cooke didn’t smile or nod with them. The effect was striking; he reeked of confidence. The audience went silent and watched, mesmerized.
Mr. Cooke cleared his throat. “What concerns me is the group that’s gotten involved.”
He stared at the camera—and me—again. “I’m speaking about the Advisory Council on Lighthouses.”
I gasped so loud, the other students shushed me. Roze gripped my arm. I looked over and saw she had a hold of Cassie, too. Together, we watched, stunned, as Mr. Cooke said, “This government group is only responsible for lighthouse preservation, yet our sources say they interfered in our business and managed to halt our work.”
The audience remained quiet. I think they were so confused, they didn’t know whether to applaud or boo or wet their pants. I knew which of the three I wanted to do.
“The Siren knows about the lighthouse committee,” Roze whispered.
I couldn’t even nod. The Siren must have recently learned about the committee. Otherwise, she would have brought it up sooner. The question was, how much did she know? I peeked over at Cassie, who’d pulled her knees up to her chest.
“That alone is suspicious,” continued Mr. Cooke. “But further investigation has uncovered another interesting fact.” He pulled out a piece of paper and began reading. “Last year, the government allocated three hundred and eighty-five million dollars to the Advisory Council on Lighthouses.”
He stopped to look at the audience, who roared in protest. Mr. Cooke cracked a hint of a smile. “Three hundred and eighty-five million dollars to a group that preserves lighthouses. Or should I say a group that pretends to preserve lighthouses, when they’re really interfering in our efforts to heal troubled people.” He let a dramatic pause linger then shook his head. “I don’t know what that committee is up to, but I guarantee we will find out!”
The crowd went berserk. For a second, I thought they were going to raise Mr. Cooke up on their shoulders and carry him out of the building. He’d clearly made a good first impression.
Roze, Cassie, and I sat in silence for a long time after the broadcast ended. I could feel a noose tightening around my neck. We’d had a few precious weeks of quiet. Now things were exploding again. I realized that, over the course of the year, I’d gone from feeling safe—confused, but safe—to increasingly cornered.
“It’s my fault.” Cassie whispered.
Roze shook her head. “It’s no one’s fault.”
“You don’t understand.” Cassie let her knees go, but she didn’t look at us. “My adoptive mom went through my computer.”
“So?” Roze said.
I sat up as recognition hit. “Our search history.”
Roze put her head in her hands. “We searched for the lighthouse committee. A lot.”
Cassie nodded and pulled her knees back up.
“What happened when she saw it?” I said.
“She asked what it was, and I told her I was just doing research for a history paper.”
“Did she buy it?” Roze said.
“I thought so.” Cassie’s voice cracked as she added, “She didn’t say anything after that.”
Roze and I scrunched in, so the three of us were in a huddle.
“You really think the lighthouse committee got involved?” I said.
Cassie nodded.
I let out a long breath. “What do we do?”
Roze leaned in. “We have to catch her. And I have an idea.”
That caught me so off guard, I kicked the coffee table while trying to sit up. “What!? Since when?”
She looked at her hands. “Since days ago.”
I jumped up. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“Because I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Why?” Cassie said.
Roze looked at her. “Because for it to work, Mrs. Cooke has to control me.”
Twenty-Three
The Color Purple
I swore Roze spoke in a foreign language. All I managed to say was, “Huh?”
Cassie immediately shook her head.
Roze stood up. “Before you shut it down, hear me out. And then tell me if you can think of a better idea.”
I reluctantly sat down, but my head screamed No, no, no, no, no! as Roze started talking.
“The only way we’re going to prove Mrs. Cooke is the Siren is if she controls someone. Right?”
Neither of us said anything, but Cassie and I knew that was a true statement. How could you catch the Siren without proof? And what proof existed other than her power?
Roze took our silence as confirmation and continued. “One option would be to set someone else up. But how wrong would that be?”
Another true statement. I peeked over at Cassie. She had entered her debate mode, surely looking for a flaw in Roze’s reasoning.
When we remained silent, Roze said, “Blaize won’t work because he’s immune. And we can’t make her control her own adoptive daughter.” She shrugged. “That leaves me.”
I was still thinking No way! but I said, “Just to humor you, how would you even get her to control you?”
Roze turned around. “Curfew’s in a half hour. Walk me to my dorm, and I’ll explain on the way.”
After stepping outside, the three of us huddled up again. “Mrs. Cooke is all about control, right?” Roze said. “I just have to threaten that control.”
“But—” I said.
“Hear me out.” Roze grabbed my arm. “She controlled Tracey just because she made a rude comment. I can do worse. Way worse.”
That statement brought Debate Cassie out. “She needed someone to rat out Sanctuary. If she didn’t have that need, I don’t think she would have controlled Tracey.”