We all know why she’s here. But there isn’t anything she can say to make us forget about what happened. At least half the seats are empty today. I look around and wait for someone to answer. I feel a little nauseous.
Garth Johnson shifts his massive upper torso in his seat. He looks like the dad in The Incredibles—not when he’s retired, but when he’s in good shape. “You’re here to get us to talk about what happened yesterday. Obviously.”
“You got it.” Paisley points her finger at him. She reminds me of that old-fashioned “I Want YOU for the U.S. Army” poster. “But I’m also here to talk about how to improve our school. Generally when something like this happens on a school campus, some students knew about it beforehand.”
I need water. I am definitely on my way to being sick.
This little pipsqueak kid, Simon or Steven or something, raises his hand. “You’re saying there are kids on campus who knew someone was going to try to blow up the school?” He sets his pencil on his desk and it rolls toward him. The sound of the pencil against the desk is louder than I would’ve thought. He stops it with his hand.
“I’m saying that when experts have studied incidents of school violence across the nation, they’ve tried to identify patterns. Often the aggressor has told his close friends or made threats.” She lets that thought hang over us for a moment. “Unfortunately, sometimes there’s a school climate that interferes with those friends coming forward and telling an administrator. We aim to fix that.”
“So you want us to rat on each other?” Garth calls out.
A bunch of kids laugh and someone mutters “Petey” in a low voice. Pete Plumber is this brilliant, socially inept kid who thinks he has to tattle about everything to make the world go round. “So-and-so’s chewing gum in class,” “So-and-so’s copying homework,” and yada, yada, yada. The other kids have a field day, just messing around with him. I think it’s mean, but honestly, it’s none of my beeswax.
“Not rat.” Paisley smooths back the loose wisps of hair around her face. “Let’s use another word.”
“Snitch?”
When Paisley smiles, she pulls her lips back too far, making it seem forced. I’m close enough to see one of those clear teeth straighteners over her pearly whites. There’s something creepy about adults with braces. Plus it makes her slur. “How about something with a more positive connotation? How about ‘share’?”
Exactly how long has it been since she was a teenager? Maybe she’s older than she looks. That hippie thing is working for her.
“Here’s the thing. If there really had been a live bomb, and if we hadn’t been able to defuse it, we would’ve been looking at massive casualties.” Pause.
I look around for a trash can just in case breakfast decides to resurface.
“And let’s say hypothetically some of you knew about this plan before it went down … Think of how you’d feel. Think of how it would be to go to one of your friends’ funerals.”
We all stare. Well, duh. We have been to other students’ funerals. Paisley has only been an administrator at our school for six months, so maybe she doesn’t know. But freshman year Alicia Benton died of bone cancer. Sophomore year Jo Moon hanged herself on a tree. Junior year a group of kids got their hands on some bad ecstasy. One died and another fried his brain.
This year, senior year, we’ve been tragedy free. So far.
Paisley moves around the side of the room and we all shift in our seats. “Here’s my point. We need to create a school culture in which people feel comfortable sharing their own observations with the administration. Where students can come to me and tell me their concerns with no fear of retribution from peers.”
There is a trash can by Paisley’s left knee. I might puke right here in front of everyone.
Paisley fingers her peace-sign earrings. “So we’ll be pulling every single student out of class for an individual interview. We’ll gather data about how you all feel about this school, what you think we can do to improve the school climate, and so on. If you know anything about yesterday’s incident, this will be a time when you can share. We promise to keep your comments confidential.”
Someone in the back row coughs. Loudly.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” someone else calls out.
Paisley ignores this. “I also want to commend you all for coming to school today. With all the support we have from the police at this time, school is the safest place on earth for you. Tell your friends. We’d like everyone back in their seats tomorrow.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” I whisper under my breath.
I text Beth that evening. FYI, Paisley says “school is the safest place on earth.”
She must have her phone in her hand, because she’s quick. No … that’d be Disneyland.
Disneyland is the happiest place.
Not for me. My happiest place is my bed.
If you’d ever had a boyfriend in your entire life, that’d sound dirty.
LOL! Your mind’s in the gutter!
Proudly. Hey, you coming back tomorrow?
Dad’s making me. Gotta keep my “eye on the prize.”
I’m impressed you stayed home today.
Yeah. Faked a fever.
Clever.
It’s okay. School’s my happy place too.
I know, you rocking genius.
Look who’s talking, Miss Straight A.
That’d be sweat and tears and zero social life.
Study groups are social. There’s conversation. And snacks.
Yes—but no kissable boys!
Boys are drama. No time for that. You’ve got too much to do.
Thanks for reminding me.
The story of my life.
Stranger’s Manifesto
Entry 3
Look at me
Writing in a journal
Like I’m Anne freaking Frank.
Like what I have to say matters. Like anyone will care.
But the only reason the world
Gave a shit about Anne Frank’s diary
Was because her words documented history.
Pain. Suffering. Strength.
Well, so the hell will mine.
The world just don’t know it yet.
But when they do—and they will—
I want them to understand. Because if they don’t
Then all this—that I’ve done
And all this—that I’m planning to do next
Will be for nothing.
This journal is my record.
When they find it—and they will—
They’ll care what I have to say too.
What a crying shame
That they don’t have the goddamn common sense
To care now. When it could make a difference.
Before the world goes to shit …
And it’s too late.
4
I get my blue slip in fifth period the next day. AP government. Since blue slips have been floating around like snowflakes, no one bats an eye when I pack up my backpack and walk out of class, waving my pass in the air.
I push open the door to the front office, but it bangs against something. “Ouch!” I hear. I poke my head around and realize why I couldn’t open the door. It’s because the school is breaking safety code by cramming the room way over capacity. Some guy in a black cotton hoodie and purple Vans scoots over. They haven’t timed these blue slips right.
I wedge my way into the waiting area. When the boy in the black hoodie tries to make more room for me, I can smell his gum. Cinnamon.
I swear it’s ninety degrees in here. The air’s heavy and stale.
“I think I’ll just wait outside,” I say out loud, but to no one.
I back through the door. The air in the hallway feels cool in comparison. I slide down the wall to the floor. It’s gonna take them hours to interview all the people they have in there. If they get to me before the end of the school day, I’ll be surprised. I pull my knees to my chest and res
t my head.
The door opens. Someone steps out and sits down next to me.
“You’ve got the right idea,” he says with a light accent. His voice is husky.
I lift my head. Black hoodie boy leans back against the stucco. “Might as well take a little siesta.” He makes a pillow out of his backpack and arranges himself against it. I can still smell the cinnamon, but now I also get a whiff of fabric softener. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes.
I’ve never seen him before in my life.
“Miguel? Miguel Gomez?”
My black hoodie friend lifts his head, looking like he doesn’t know where he is. He really did knock out there on the hard hallway floor. His breathing went all heavy and I heard a couple snores.
“Qué?”
“Your turn, buddy.” It’s a cop, but not one I know.
Miguel hoists himself up with sudden energy. He slings the backpack over his shoulder and salutes me. “Later. Nice sleeping with you.”
I almost choke on my air. Did he really just say that? My cheeks get sunburned hot and I want to crawl into my own backpack, but instead I check him out. Maybe he doesn’t get the double meaning of those words. He’s pretty obviously an ESL student, which explains why I’ve never had a class with him.
He glances back as he heads through the door, and I catch a sparkle in his eye. No way. He totally knows what he just said.
Ten minutes later, the cop’s back for me. “All right, Gabriella, follow me.” He leads me into the administration wing, past the row of offices for our assistant principals and school counselors. Most of the doors are closed for other interviews.
The cop steps into Principal Bowen’s office. I’ve never been inside before. The walls are covered with certificates and awards, evenly spaced. Principal Bowen and his big, bulbous nose are nowhere to be seen. At his desk sits Officer Williams, who looks like she’s outgrown her uniform. She’s been working with my dad for as long as I can remember.
“Take a seat, Gabi.” She smiles at me, but her eyes look tired.
I sit down slowly. It’s so quiet that I can hear the ticking of Officer Williams’s watch.
“I am going to ask you a series of questions. Please tell us everything, however irrelevant it may seem. We will use our discretion and protect your privacy as much as possible.” She takes a sip of her soda. “First, please tell me your experience from Tuesday. What you saw and heard before, during, and after the incident.”
I tell her everything. Except for the peeing-in-my-pants part. I keep that to myself.
Then she jumps into a rolling list of questions, scribbling notes with her free hand. The questions blend into each other—“Have you ever heard anyone make a threat against another person? Have you ever made a threat against another person? Have you ever seen a gun or knife on campus …” Have you, have you, have you. “If you ever needed to talk, do you know who your assigned school counselor is?” Well, duh. Of course. But the question is does he know who I am? There are three counselors total, and we get like five and a half minutes with them in the spring to plan next year’s classes. I’ve never sat down with a counselor just to chat.
“We’ll have extra counselors here at school for the next two days, so please utilize them. Situations like this can be very traumatic, and trauma can interfere with your ability to function—you know, sleeping, eating, concentrating, that kind of thing.”
I nod. By the time she reaches her final question, I feel like she’s taken a big spoon and stirred my brains around.
“Is there anyone you know personally—or have heard of—that might have orchestrated this threat?”
I hadn’t really allowed myself to consider that thought. Faces flash before me. The grungy custodial assistant who talks to himself while he mops the floors and who looks like he stepped off an America’s Most Wanted poster. The dropouts who set up shop selling drugs from a rundown rental across from the school. The loner kids who sulk by the band room and get shoved into trash cans. Anyone who’s ever been expelled from the school. They should put Petey Plumber on reporting duty. Like a neighborhood watch, only in the school halls. He’d love it.
“No.” I can hardly hear my own voice, and when I glance up, I can see Officer Williams looking at me expectantly. “No,” I repeat, this time louder.
“If you think of someone, we’ll have an anonymous-tip call line. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Something to add? Besides the fact that my brain is spinning in dizzy circles like that teacup ride that makes me barf? Uh … that’d be a big, fat no.
5
LATE OCTOBER
Funny how quickly things slide back to normal. Except for the three officers milling around campus at all times, and the hand-held metal detector as we walk through the front gates, school is school. Teachers teach, students sleep, I take compulsive color-coded notes.
At lunch Beth waves at me from our table outside the cafeteria. She saves me and Bruce a space every day. Bruce is our “special friend,” and I mean that in the kindest way possible. Beth and I volunteered in one of the special ed rooms at summer school after freshman year. Maybe we were overly friendly or something, because after that he wanted to sit with us at lunch. What were we going to say … “No”? We thought it’d be a phase.
Bruce has a crush on Beth, but he’s so innocent that it’s cute. He sits with us. Or rather, he sits with Beth. Sometimes on her shiny, black hair because, yes, it’s that long. She shares her Oreos with him and he listens to her nonstop brain-numbing gab. True love.
“You know, Bruce”—she hands him his first Oreo of the day—“this relationship totally works for me.”
He crunches in response.
“There’s no drama. No interruption of study time. No late-night texts. Plus you’re adorable.”
He nods politely. And crunches.
“Beth,” I say, sighing. “I don’t do drama either. But don’t you think you’re taking advantage of him? Maybe he’d crush on a girl from his class if he wasn’t crushing on you. It’s not fair.”
“What? This is a mutually beneficial relationship. Plus it’s the topic of my college admissions essay. And my first novel. Possibly a dissertation.”
“You’re too much.”
“Seriously, Gabi. Neither you nor I have time for a real boyfriend. This is as close as I’m gonna get until I finish my double doctorate. Plus I know all my secrets are safe with you two.” She offers me an Oreo. I turn it down.
I pretend to be insulted. But she’s right. I don’t have time to hang out with anyone but Beth, so who would I tell? So I crunch my organic kale salad and listen to her social commentary. As soon as she starts whispering, I know I’m gonna hear something juicy.
“Did you see the way Kikki Todd was all over that guy by the lockers? No shame, I tell you, no shame! That’s why nice girls like us get zero male attention. No offense, Bruce.” She doesn’t expect any response, so I can just zone out.
“Are you even listening?” Beth’s voice breaks in. Not sure how long I’ve been zoning, but the kale salad is nearly gone.
“No.” I’m honest. “I’m conserving my brain cells for study group.”
“Looks like your sister and her fellow cult followers are trying to get your attention.”
I check out Chloe’s spot on the grass. Right smack in the center, totally exposed. Her group wasn’t lucky enough to nab a nook by the portables or a locker cranny. Most of the fringe groups position themselves in the crevices of campus, so they can people watch while securing their own perimeter.
“No offense, Gabi, but why does your sister hang with the rejects? It’s weird.”
I never know how to respond to Beth. It seems mean to talk this way, but I kind of agree. Chloe’s cronies include this funky mismatch of kids that don’t fit anywhere else. Two of them are meditating. Pretty soon they’re gonna be weaving anklets out of straw or making their own clothes out of hemp or something equally strange. I usually just say not
hing.
“Is she even taking any honors classes?” Beth whispers, then flashes a huge smile at Chloe and wiggles her fingers in a “hi.”
“Thanks a lot, Beth. Now I can’t even pretend I don’t see her,” I say. Chloe waves wildly, gesturing me over.
“Bruce and I always got your back, sis.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I groan and head over to Chloe’s “alternative” faction. Because I’m an AP kid and a cross-country kid and a leadership kid, I have special powers to circumvent Central’s social clique boundaries. It’s like being Superwoman, only I don’t let it go to my head. I glance over at the football meatheads. I get distracted by looking though, and my shoulder bumps into someone.
“Oh, sorry,” I apologize.
It’s that kid Miguel. I see him everywhere now. He’s like a leprechaun or something, popping up at random times. Miguel gives me a curt little wave and moves on, running to catch up to someone.
Chloe spots me and pops up from her cross-legged spot. “Gabi!” She’s usually not that excited to see me. “Did you hear that they arrested the shop teacher?”
“Mr. Marks? Seriously?” I look around. Besides the random pieces of fruit that are being tossed, I can practically see rumors flying from table to table like sparks, catching on everything and igniting. He was the mastermind behind the bomb threat.
“Yep! The reporters are saying that the cops analyzed all the computer records after the bomb threat, and it turns out Mr. Marks has been giving ‘extra credit’ to certain unnamed female students for ‘extracurricular activities.’” Being able to give me the scoop is making her unusually gleeful.
“Gross!” I try to imagine someone making out with Mr. Marks. He’s so hairy that it’d be like kissing Cousin It.
“I know!” Chloe bounces a little.
“You are cheerful. I haven’t seen you this happy since you got your last T-shirt off Woot,” I point out. “Mel”—I nudge Chloe’s friend Mel with my foot—“can you believe her?”
Are You Still There Page 2