Even if that was not entirely true because she had abandoned her—she had left Salem crumpled on the ground with hoards of scared people tearing around her. Scared people with guns. Lucy took a deep breath and held her phone to her chest. She felt it apropos to pray, but specific requests eluded her, so she just repeated over and over inside her head: Help me, help me, help me, help me. Less like a prayer and more like a mantra.
“I have to get home,” Mrs. Johnston said. It was the first thing she had said in hours. Everyone turned to look at her and gawked, as if she had grown a tail and barked wildly. She looked at the students in the room, assessing their faces and then to the clock. Jumping up, her chair crashing backward behind her; she rushed to the window and pried it open—the bottom half was designed to open only an inch, and she ran her hands over the metal. Unless they could remove the entire pane of glass from the window, that was not a viable escape route. “Can’t. I can’t. I can’t!” Mrs. Johnston hit the metal radiator beneath the window in frustration and immediately cradled her hand. She spun around and leaned back, breathless.
Clayton, who had been slumped in the corner of the room, using his backpack as a pillow and drawing doodles in a notebook, sat up. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.
Grant had moved himself under the television and he turned his head. He’d been watching the news without saying a word for most of the time they were trapped in the room, but at one point he had sidled up to Lucy and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. She shrugged him off and then apologized. It was easier to think Grant had single-handedly stopped her from rescuing Salem than to accept that any course of action was futile.
“You have an idea?” Grant prodded and Clayton nodded.
Purse Girl, who also hadn’t said a word since they got to the room, raised her body off the floor, alert. They each stared at Clayton expectantly.
“You have a master key? You know, from coaching?”
Mrs. Johnston’s shoulders slumped as if she was already preparing for this plan to fail. “It doesn’t unlock the main doors. They have control for the locking mechanism in the security office and outside the main office. My keys are worthless,” she said. She took out a rubber band and tied her hair up into a high ponytail, her blonde hair cascading down her back. Lucy marveled that somehow throughout the entire day it had not lost its curl.
“No. I’m not interested in using them to get outside,” Clayton answered. He stood up and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “Does your key unlock the doors in the East wing?”
Mrs. Johnston clamped her mouth tight for a minute and peered at Clayton curiously, as if she were trying to guess what he had in mind. Then she reached into her pocket and produced her keys, turning them over in her hand. “Yes,” she nodded. “They do.”
Clayton broke out into a huge smile, and he flipped his long blonde hair forward over his shoulders. “If you can get me into the metal shop, then I think I can get you out of this school.”
“Wait!” Lucy popped up from her chair by the desk, forgetting she was holding her phone and it skittered away from her across the floor. “Can you get someone into the school the same way?” She bent over to retrieve her cell and admired a fresh crack across her screen. It seemed, even amid everything else, a tragedy worthy of tears, but she pushed them away and tried to keep her head clear and focused.
He nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “Trickier, but yes. But if we don’t want to get caught, we have to work in shifts. I’ve been plotting it since they trapped us here. Do you trust me?”
“What choice do we have?” Lucy answered and then realized it sounded harsh and unfair. She opened her mouth to add something softer, nicer, but Mrs. Johnston stepped forward—her open palm extended toward Clayton, handing him her keys.
“Just tell us what to do,” Mrs. Johnston said. “I’ll do anything.” Her eyes were supplicating and she walked right up to Clayton. Standing next to each other, she looked so tiny, fragile, and afraid and he towered above her, a man-child, with massive, calloused hands, broad shoulders, and a smattering of acne.
He turned to Lucy. “If you can get your friend on the roof, leave everything else to me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The East Wing was entirely its own entity. Separated from the rest of the school down a long and often forgotten-about hallway, the tiny square plot of school that held the metal and wood shops, the art studio, and the journalism lab, seemed to function as an independent school within Pacific Lake. Many students didn’t even know the wing existed—it was easy to miss the narrow hallway leading to the classrooms. The East Wing was so independent and often ignored that it took administrators two years to notice that the teachers had converted an abandoned storage room into a sitting lounge complete with couches and a coffee maker.
The metals kids were their own group; funneling in and out of the metals room at all times during the day, dressed in dark hooded sweatshirts and skinny jeans, sporting lip-rings and tattoos, half-inch ear gauges, and congenial dispositions. They made electric cars after school and entered robotics competitions and their skills with blowtorches, drills, and the foundry unparalleled in the entirety of East County. And often they were outcast, huddling at the periphery of the other social groups, always humming along toward escape. They smoked weed in their cars in the parking lot of the LDS church next door and respected their mothers.
Metals kids were different from those who took woodshop. That class attracted football players on the hunt for an easy elective and entire collections of skinny little Romeos who wanted to make velvet lined jewelry boxes for girls on their buses.
The art studios were brightly painted and cluttered with decades of abandoned projects. There were bookshelves shoved with forgotten pottery and closets stuffed with unfinished canvas portraits. Mobiles dangled from the ceiling and the desks were covered with a rainbow paint splatter. The art students were shy and unassuming with their own inside jokes and general disdain for those without appreciation for the French Impressionists.
Lucy was familiar with this area of the school from Salem, who, not surprisingly, had found a niche in journalism early in her high school career as she channeled her penchant for gossip into a career as the Living Editor for the Pacific Lake newspaper The Herald. She would go and collect Salem from the journalism lab after school hours, meandering into the dimly lit East Wing with trepidation. It was the only section of the school exempt from the last remodel: The roof was leaky, the linoleum flooring was tearing up at the seams and entire banks of florescent lights blinked on and off, which made the entire area feel like the set of a campy 1980’s horror film.
But despite its cosmetic deficiencies, there was something powerful about the East Wing. It was the only place in the school entirely dedicated to creation. A birdhouse. A watercolor. A ceramic vase. Key chains. A newspaper.
Immediately after the last round of security, the whole group left the confines of the English classroom and darted up the hall with Clayton leading them down the hallway, left toward the art studio, up to the woods workshop and the metals room. They twitched eagerly as Mrs. Johnston opened up the door and led the group inside, hushing them, and pushing them, until she could close the door without a sound. Then Clayton hit a switch and the room tumbled to life—overhead lights flickering, the room awash in a golden glow, illuminating shiny metal from one end of the room to the other.
The room was large, expansive. Row after row of long workbenches and tented workstations, each equipped with tubes and wires, stools, machinery. A staircase at the very end led to a narrow walkway where large sheets of metal were stored, each placed upright against the wall, reflective and bright. The entire room echoed as the group walked around inside, and when Lucy ran her hand over the nearest table, small shards of aluminum collected on her skin, and she brushed them off on her jeans.
“I’ve never been here,” Grant said, peeking his head into a work station, the large green plastic curtain crinkling loudly as he pulled it
back. “Four years in this place and I’ve never had a class back here. I didn’t even know it existed.” Lucy understood—she hadn’t known about the East Wing either until Salem joined journalism.
“I live here,” Clayton replied with pride. He walked over to a section of the room and pulled back on a white bed sheet, exposing a fiberglass body of a racing car. “I’ve been working on this for my electric car competition. Hours and hours,” he said with a touch of sadness. He ran a hand through his long hair and then shook away whatever was going through his head. After a prolonged glance at his handiwork, Clayton threw the sheet back over the car body and turned to the group.
Mrs. Johnston’s foot tapped by the door. “Get what you need and hurry!” she instructed.
Clayton pointed toward Grant. “In that closet, grab the ladder. You,” he pointed at Lucy, “help him carry it to the hallway.”
Then Clayton disappeared into the belly of the workshop, and after a moment he emerged carrying wire-cutters and a cordless blowtorch. He motioned for everyone to follow his lead back out into the hallway and Grant and Lucy lugged the full-sized ladder after him.
“Alright,” Clayton said as the door to Metals clinked closed. “Open up this room. Hurry,” he instructed, nodding toward the journalism lab.
Lucy raised her eyebrows, perplexed, but she followed them inside all the same, shuffling her feet along the tile, the ladder heavier than she had originally assumed it would be.
The lab used to be a drafting classroom. It was large with heavy cement walls, which the journalism students had painted pink and green. She had been in the room dozens of times, waiting aimlessly for Salem to finish a column or meet a deadline, and she had made a home of the dark blue couch in the corner and perused the journalism teacher’s books out of boredom on many occasions. And once, while Salem argued about her advice column with her adviser, when no one was looking, Lucy stole a book of Joan Didion essays. Her intent was to read it and return it, but the book was lost somewhere—it had wandered off and adopted a transitory lifestyle, which Lucy always thought was better for books anyway.
Trancelike, Mrs. Johnston walked inside and straight into the center of the room, not even bothering to flip on the lights. There was no need to engage the overheads because the room was bright enough from a giant skylight in the ceiling. Made of milky plastic, the skylight served an aesthetic rather than functional purpose, and Lucy remembered when it rained the sound of water hitting the material amplified the drops to an alarming degree, making conversation with someone right next to you nearly impossible.
“Of course,” Mrs. Johnston said as Clayton and Grant hoisted the ladder upright and stood it up on top of the long tables under the skylight. One leg on one table, the other leg on another table, and when it wobbled, Lucy sucked in a breath. Clayton climbed up onto the table and grabbed hold of the ladder, sliding it this way and that way, and testing its ability to hold someone’s weight as it towered to the ceiling.
“She didn’t even come to school today,” Mrs. Johnston said, crossing her arms over her chest, and wandering to the journalism teacher’s desk. “Yesterday we talked about starting herb gardens and taking the kids on a play date.” Mrs. Johnston trailed off. She sat down in a big squeaky black chair and leaned back, and she trained her eyes on a row of pictures in frames—smiling faces on the beach, a Pomeranian dog licking a little boy’s face.
Lucy remembered that Mrs. Johnston and the journalism teacher had been good friends, always huddling with their heads together at assemblies, sharing class adviser duties, bringing each other lattes in the morning.
It was strange that people were lost instantaneously and their lives released from the world in a moment. Those people were held in memories and nothing more. Best friends absorbed into bedlam in a single breath and simply—poof—gone in one startling second. Lucy was most alarmed by the fact that so many people had died and not any of them could be properly mourned. She grieved for mankind and for herself, but she knew the individual people were already turning into a collective.
Clayton climbed up the first few rungs and held the blowtorch and wire-cutters in his hands. Grant and Purse Girl each held a side of the ladder while Lucy looked at the clock. She watched as Clayton reached his hand up until he could touch the plastic segments, and when he pushed up on them they gave slightly under the pressure. He put the wire cutters down and grabbed the blowtorch, turning it on so the blue flame sprouted up a few inches and hissed angrily. He began to work on the plastic around the edges of the first panel, melting away the sides—they curled under the heat—their edges turning black. The room began to reek of burning plastic, but if anyone cared, no one said anything.
“Are we going back to your room?” Lucy asked Mrs. Johnston. “We have three minutes.”
Mrs. Johnston stood up. The chair turned in lazy circles behind her. “Clayton?” He turned the blowtorch off and looked down.
“Five minutes?”
“Keep going,” she instructed and she sat back down.
Lucy took a tentative step forward. “Why risk it?” she said. “Let’s just go back. Then we’ve earned another ten minutes.”
No one answered her.
She hadn’t heard from Salem, but she had sent three texts about getting to the roof in the East Wing. Lucy hadn’t thought through the next stage of their plan. If they could get Salem inside, that would be fantastic, but what happened after that? One thing seemed clear: The entire plan would be easier if they didn’t already have security looking for them. The journalism lab didn’t have windows and the entire room was isolated, and while that worked to their benefit as they plugged along, burning the plastic ceiling away, it seemed to be a detriment if they couldn’t plot an escape.
Her tendency to overthink and dwell in restlessness was a trait inherited from her mother. But at least her mother was strong enough to transform anxiety into action. She wondered how her mom would have organized the troops if she were here and she couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Mama Maxine swooping in and taking charge, charting their course without room for error. Mama would have already set up camp somewhere, hunkered them down and have them eating an elaborate lunch. She would have found a way to help the people trapped outside while still protecting herself. She would have all the answers. But she was not there; Lucy had not heard from her since her frantic text. All the text messages sent to her mom and Ethan remained without reply.
Her apprehension grew as the second hand on the school’s wall clock made its rounds.
They were zeroing in on the point of no return.
Around. Around. Mrs. Johnston circled in the chair. Her face appearing and disappearing in even intervals. Then she threw her foot down and the chair stopped. “Are we close?” she asked and, from atop the ladder, Clayton said he only needed one more minute. He had burned around the perimeter of the whole first panel and now his hand was the only thing keeping it in the air. With impressive dexterity, he handed the blowtorch to Grant and then grabbed the piece with both hands and lowered it down.
Everyone looked up. They had a perfect view of the sky—blue, virtually cloudless.
A mesh of chicken wire covered the four-foot by three-foot hole, but in a moment, Clayton was snipping the metal into pieces, where it fell with small plinks on to the table below. He seemed to sense the question before anyone asked, and he turned to his audience. “Last year, I almost got suspended for climbing up onto the roof during metals class. We spent over an hour up here exploring,” he shrugged. “We could hear everything from this classroom on the roof and that’s when I realized it was just plastic. I kept thinking, if the wires weren’t there and I stepped wrong, I’d just fall right through. It was kind of a funny thought.” With a final snip, Clayton had created a large enough space for any of them to fit through.
If they stood on the very top of the ladder, it wouldn’t take much to grab the side of the roof and hoist themselves upward to freedom.
Clayton looked
down at everyone. “Well?” he asked. “Do we just…go?”
Grant looked at Lucy. She marched over and climbed up on the table, swinging her legs off the floor. She stood and stared up at the hole, frowning.
“Someone should go and check for Salem.” Lucy pulled out her phone and punched in Salem’s number.
The All Circuits Busy message beeped at her. Frustrated, she sat atop the table and felt the cool wind rustle down through the hole.
Then as loud as an air-raid siren, the two-tone announcement bell jolted them into attention.
They all froze.
The microphone clicked and Principal Spencer’s voice filled the room.
“Nikki, Nikki. Where’d you take your room of kids?” He cleared his throat, and the noise crackled through the temperamental sound system. “Either you defied my instructions or dead bodies just learned to get up and walk away. Whether you like it or not, you are still under my leadership. You have one minute to get back to your rooms…or…”
He paused, baiting them. Lucy stood up. Clayton remained motionless at the top of the ladder. Mrs. Johnston rose from her colleague’s chair and walked over to the room’s speaker. She stood directly beneath it with her hands on her hips. She looked up at the box expectantly as the intercom hummed.
Then Principal Spencer hiccupped, his words slurred together. “Never mind. Forget it. Forget you. You don’t want my protection? You don’t want my help? Then leave. Go ahead. Come to the front doors and I’ll let you out myself. I want everyone out of this building. DO YOU HEAR ME?” He screamed so loudly that the intercom clicked off, obscuring the end of his rant.
What Tomorrow May Bring Page 259