Except for playing cards, my locker is completely empty.
The bomber took everything out. All my books. All my scraps of paper and notes and crumpled-up lunch bags.
Instead, the walls are covered with playing cards. I tug one and realize they have been taped to the sides of the locker. They’re arranged in an orderly fashion, in neat little rows. Like they’re watching a show. And all queens, kings, and jacks. There’s got to be at least forty of them, staring at me.
“Holy shit,” Miguel curses from behind me.
I scan the cards, looking for some clue, some explanation. My eyes catch on one. A joker. The solitary joker in the bunch. Crossed out with a big, fat X. This bomber dude is getting too creepy for me.
I rip the cards off the walls of the locker, in a hurry. Miguel’s breath puffs against the back of my neck. “What the hell?” he whispers.
I notice black envelopes scattered all over the bottom of the locker. In the darkness they sort of blend in. There must be twenty of them. I gather them up in my arms and shove the playing cards in my sweatshirt pockets.
“Here. Help me carry them,” I hiss. I wonder if the bomber is here watching us, feeling betrayed that I brought someone with me. “We can’t look through them here.”
“This is crazy, Gabi. Did that guy put all this crap in your locker? Then he’s been watching you. Watching us!”
“Shut up,” I tell him, harsher than I mean to. I touch his arm to soften it, because I see the sting on his face. “We can’t talk now. We can’t, okay?”
He nods and helps me carry the envelopes back to the office.
Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing.
“It’s him again,” I tell Miguel. I am sure he is calling to chew me out for letting Miguel see the envelopes.
I’m only half right.
“Helpline—”
“Back-stabbing bitch!” He cuts me off, and I hear pain.
“Excuse me?”
“You traced my call?” His voice is shaking, probably with anger. “I thought you were different. I thought you cared. But no—you’re just like everyone else.”
I glare at Janae. She must’ve called my dad when I was searching my locker. Note to self: he was not watching me at the locker. He’s somewhere else, and he saw the cops show up. He hasn’t been captured.
He speaks again, and his voice is still shaking, but the quality has changed. It sounds tight, as though his throat has constricted, like maybe he is crying. “I thought you wanted to help me.”
“I do,” I protest, feeling desperate, as if he’s slipping away from me.
“Bullshit.”
35
There is no way to open the envelopes in private. Miguel is breathing down my neck like a gorilla bodyguard. He’s got his arms all crossed and huffy. I’m crouched in my bedroom, with the envelopes surrounding me.
The police traced the bomber’s calls to a cell phone discarded in a trash can at the library. The bomber had stolen it, used it, then dumped it. Dad texted my cell and informed us that he’d send a plainclothes officer to the helpline office to escort us to our cars. We were all going home early.
I drove Miguel home, only we made a detour—to my house. Dad was still at work, Mom was asleep. Now it’s ten thirty and there’s a boy in my room. Unsupervised. If Chloe was awake, she’d be proud of me.
“How do you know there isn’t anthrax on these envelopes?” Miguel is too close.
“I know.” I fight the urge to push him away from me.
“How do you know there isn’t some kind of bomb you’re going to trigger?” Too bad this particular boy is annoying the crap out of me.
“Look, Miguel. I know. If you’re worried about it, you don’t have to watch.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I can’t let you do something that might hurt yourself. I love you. I’m staying.” He pulls my desk chair up to my bed and sits down.
I freeze for a moment when I hear him drop the L word. I peek up at him, at the way his eyebrows bunch together when he’s worried. Then I get back to work, slipping my finger through the slit in the first envelope and ripping it open. A picture falls out. Black and white. I hold it by the edges and lay it right side up on the rug. It’s an action photo. A picture of a scrawny freshman, arms flailing and hair wet with sweat, being shoved into a trash can. The photographer blurred the freshman’s face somehow, swirling the image where his face should be, leaving an unsettling, haunted mirror-like face. The faces attached to the hands shoving him in the trash can, however, are crystal clear. I can even see a zit on one of their noses.
I open the next envelope. Same thing. A circle of girls laughing as another walks by, their faces screwed up with something ugly. The photo is taken directly in front of the girl who’s walking, and it captures how she hunches forward, how she holds her books to her chest, but her face is swirled, leaving her mostly unrecognizable. I gasp when I see my own face in the background, looking irritated and biting my lower lip. I seriously don’t even remember being there. How many times have I watched people be rude to other people and just minded my own business?
I pick up the next one. Kids snickering as a boy points and gestures. Even though the gesturing kid is swirled out, I can tell by his backpack and his stance that it’s Petey Plumber, our resident tattletale.
The next one looks oddly familiar. It’s from the other day, when I waited at Eric’s locker. When I saw those football types picking on a scrawny freshman. The photo must have been taken moments before I threw that apple. The scrawny kid’s face is swirled out, but I can see the boxy faces of the football players as they loom behind him.
It’s photo after photo of this. All black and white. All with the victim’s faces swirled, and all with the other faces in clear view.
Miguel sits next to me, picking up the photos by the edges. “This makes our school look really bad. Like nobody cares about anyone else.”
“Yeah, but think about it.” I touch one of the swirled faces with my fingertip. “Do any one of these pictures surprise you?”
“No one single shot surprises me. Seeing them all together surprises me. I guess I didn’t realize how often people do shitty things.”
“Wait a sec.” I feel like the pieces of the puzzle are coming together for me.
I spread out all the taped-up cards from my locker. I place the crossed-out joker in the center, where he’d placed himself before.
“What does this look like?” I ask Miguel.
He snorts. “Like somebody built a house of cards and it crumbled.”
“No, be serious. If this kid is trying to recreate a scene to give me a clue, what does it look like?” I pause while Miguel thinks. “Here, imagine them the way they were in my locker, with some of them placed above each other in rows. Where in our school would kids be sitting in rows like that?”
“The football bleachers or the school theater?”
My thoughts exactly. “Maybe he’s at a school assembly.”
He repeats that slowly, the words rolling off his tongue. “A school assembly?” He turns to me, his eyes wide. He curses in Spanish with words I don’t recognize.
“And maybe the joker’s dead,” I add. “But no one else appears to be. He’d have x’d out everyone else if he intended to hurt everyone. Right?” I say this partly to reassure myself.
I think back to all the other cards he’s planted. I’m pretty sure the joker has always represented him … leaving the queens and kings to represent others. All the joker cards held threats, saying things like I hold a thousand lives in my hands. I am invisible. I can obliterate an entire school. Comprende, amigo? The joker drawn to look dead. Like a skeleton. Would anyone care? Granted, I’m a jaded piece of shit, but I sure as hell wouldn’t.
Everything’s pointing to the moment of silence. Something will happen then. I’m sure of it. That means I have two days to figure this out.
The bomber, this joker, he asked me to help him. To share the photos. I play back his words in my mind:
“Doesn’t matter, does it? If it will get me to call this game off?” I know he’s pissed that his call got traced. But can I earn his trust back?
I have the power to stop this.
If I play by his rules.
If I gain his trust.
I can save everyone.
Including him.
Stranger’s Manifesto
Entry 20
Enough with hearts.
Enough with rummy, spades, and even pathetic pinochle.
Enough with goddamn solitaire.
I say it’s about time for some freaking 52 pickup!
Just watch the cards scatter …
Watch the imbeciles scramble to pick them up.
Watch me bring this school to its goddamn knees.
Teach it a lesson.
Trust me … I will leave lives changed forever.
This moment of silence
Is like putting a Band-Aid
On a gushing wound.
Everyone’s rushing around
Trying to get that Band-Aid to stick
When what they really need
Is a tourniquet.
36
Eric is sitting on my front steps when I pull up to the curb after sneaking back out to take Miguel home. Normally I park in the driveway if there’s a space, but I don’t want to take the chance of waking Mom up. The porch light is on, but I’m still a tiny bit creeped out. Like, why couldn’t Eric wait until morning to come say whatever he has to say? It’s got to be at least eleven thirty.
I sit in the car for a moment, engine off, deciding what to say. I know why he’s here.
It turns out I don’t have to say much.
“Gabi.” He stands up. His face is tight and I know he is at least ten times more uncomfortable than I am. “I want to apologize.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
“No, it’s not.” His voice comes back strong, and I step back. “But it’s also not cool to lie to me.”
Big lump in throat.
“If you’re not into someone, you should just tell them that.”
He’s in my way. I want to walk around him, but that would be rude. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“I gave you lots of opportunities to tell me. But you didn’t and I wound up looking like an idiot in front of half the school. Thank you for that.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say again.
“Well, if that was your goal, you failed royally.” His tone is hard, and I’m tempted to cover my ears, like if I don’t hear it, he’s not saying it.
I close my eyes, listening to his voice and pretending it’s on the other end of a phone receiver. He sounds nothing like my mystery caller.
“I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean for it to play out that way,” I tell him, and I mean it. But I’m not sure he cares.
“Mom’s been acting weird all day.” Chloe is lying on the floor of my bedroom with her butt against my closet door and her feet in the air. I’d thought she was already asleep, but I guess not.
“Apparently she’s not the only one.” I step over her, thankful for two things. One, that Eric turned away and walked home. Two, that I piled up those pictures and hid them in my underwear drawer before I left to take Miguel home. “What are you doing in here? It’s late. You should be asleep.”
“It’s got to be the end of the world.” Chloe taps her feet against the closet door, and the whole thing shakes.
“Nice. That’s just what I wanted to hear.” I fling myself on my bed and consider falling asleep right here, fully clothed. “What’s she doing that’s so strange?”
“I don’t know. Asking me to order in for dinner because she’s too busy to cook. Or order it herself, apparently.” Chloe flexes her feet.
“Whoa.” I unsnap my bra. I hate sleeping with my bra on. “She’s really letting loose.”
“I’m serious. I ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and about a gallon of Mountain Dew. She didn’t say a word.”
“Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s, and she’s forgotten that fried food and high-fructose corn syrup will make you fat.” I pull my arms through the straps and slip the bra off one arm at a time, leaving my shirt on. I’m talented that way.
Just then Mom pokes her head into my room. “Oh good. You’re both here.” Now I feel supremely lucky that Mom didn’t see me bringing Miguel up to my room. I’d assumed she was asleep.
Chloe’s right. It is the end of the world. Mom hasn’t sat us down together for a girl talk in years. And it’s nearly midnight. Maybe they’re getting a divorce. But wouldn’t they tell us that together? Maybe she’s got cancer or something. Maybe she’s having an affair and wants us to know. Maybe she’s decided to ship us off to a boarding school in England.
Mom must be anxious because she starts to drop the bomb before she even gets all the way into the room. “I have something important to tell you.” I look at Chloe, lying on her back on the carpet, and I can see her stiffening. Bracing herself.
Mom takes a deep breath. “I’m going back to school. I’ve only got a few classes to finish up my bachelor’s degree, but then I have a graduate program I’m considering.”
That’s it?
“I know you guys like having me home to support you …” she starts, not seeming to notice that Chloe’s trying not to laugh. “But I’ve decided that I put my own life on hold for the last seventeen years, and now it’s time for me to refocus on my education and career.”
“That’s good, Mom,” I tell her. “We’ll be okay.”
But it’s as if she doesn’t hear me. She keeps talking. “I’m sorry if I’ve been trying to sculpt you into perfect little people. I’m sorry if I’ve been living vicariously through you. I just wanted you to have good lives.” Her voice cracks. “Your dad’s been telling me for years to loosen the leash, to let you make your own mistakes, but I just couldn’t let go.” She taps her finger against the door frame. “I guess I imagined you to be an extension of me. I didn’t count on you two being your own people. I’m sorry for not allowing you to be whoever you are.”
Neither of us says anything at first. What are we supposed to do, say, “Apology accepted?” Finally Chloe bursts out, “So does this mean you’re cutting us loose? We can eat ice cream for breakfast and tattoo our tongues if we want?”
“Very funny.” Mom snorts, and somehow this is reassuring. “It means I’m giving you my word that I’m going to back off. I’ll be too busy to micromanage your lives. You might be on your own for dinner a couple nights a week, but you’re responsible girls. I know you can handle it.”
When Mom finally leaves, I lean over the side of my bed and stare at Chloe on the floor. “What the hell just happened?”
“It’s all because of you,” Chloe tells me like it’s a compliment. “You standing up to her about Georgetown. Dating the maid’s son.” I make a face at that. “You coming home in a cop car, and with new friends with crazy hair and piercings. You’re rocking her world.”
“All I know is this day could not get any stranger.” I kick off my shoes. “Why are you lying on my floor, by the way?”
“I’m decorating. You know you’re going to have to redo this room so it matches your updated identity.” She turns her attention to the walls. “I can brainstorm better from this angle.”
“Enjoy.” I can’t even see straight anymore. I want to tell Chloe all about the cards and pictures in my locker, but I can’t even keep my eyes open. “I’m going to bed right this minute. I’m not even going to get up to brush my teeth.”
“Gross. Now I know we’re in a twilight zone.”
I’m not sure if I even smile at that one. All I know is I feel the heaviness of sleep sucking at me, pulling me down, down, down. I don’t have the energy to fight it.
Stranger’s Manifesto
Entry 21
When I say I’m watching her,
Leaving things for her,
I’m not trying to be a creep. Honest.
/> When you’re invisible like me,
A dust parachute,
A particle in the sky,
You’re watching all the time.
She just happened to catch my eye.
But things happen for a reason. At least that’s what people say.
Granted, I’ve made a reason,
Because now she’s an integral part of my plan.
Of course, she helped matters a bit
By being one of those people who types her locker combo
Into her cell phone
Just in case she forgets.
The thing that bugs me
Is my parents.
You know they’ll blame them after it’s over.
They’ll say they screwed me up
Because it’s way easier than seeing the truth.
But you know what they say—
When you point a finger at someone else,
There are four more fingers pointing back at you.
37
I let Chloe and Janae walk ahead. Are we being cruel to bother these people after all this time? Miguel is by my side, half a step ahead, but he keeps slowing down to match my pace. The yard is overgrown. The grass has grown in all directions, sprouting left and right, and it’s at least as tall as my knees. The trees are dropping fruit that lies rotting on the ground. The flies buzz around, diving in and out, having a feast.
Janae is the first up the steps. Pressing her finger on the doorbell, ringing it once, twice. I cringe. What exactly are we going to say? Chloe looks back at me now, and I see a glimmer of what I’m feeling in her face. Miguel moves closer to me, protective-like, as if he can sense my hesitation.
A woman lumbers up to the door, her steps heavy on the floor, making it creak and groan in anticipation. I want to leave. I don’t recognize her at first. Her hair is greasy, thinning on top, and her body is bloated, like what’s inside her has swollen up and stretched out her skin. She pushes her face up to the screen door, and I can see her irritation.
Are You Still There Page 18