“What’s the matter?” I say.
She mutters something under her breath and keeps walking. I guess the window for sharing secrets has officially slammed shut. Not that I’ve helped the matter, with my inability to explain my lies yesterday. I drift up to one of the lockers and tap it with my forefinger.
“First stop,” I say.
Sammie pulls up beside me, grinning goofily. “Your locker?”
“The one and only.”
She bounces on her heels. “Can I open it? Please!”
“Sure.” I step aside, then pause. “You know how to do it?”
She rolls her eyes. “Pssh. First thing they teach you in criminal training is how to open a lock.”
“Criminal training? They have that?”
“What’s the combination?”
“16, 34, 37.”
Her fingers dance over the lock. It strikes me how odd this is: Sammie, her hair falling in her face, leaning in toward my locker. It is as if the two separate universes of my life have collided.
Sammie yanks down the lock and pulls open the door. I can’t help but laugh at the glee on her face.
“What are you laughing at?” she says, turning to me.
“You.”
She crosses her arms. “Hey!”
“Sorry.” I wedge myself closer to the locker and begin to pull out a few of my notebooks. (If we’re going to my classes, I may as well take notes, right?)
“No, it’s okay,” she says. “I like it when you laugh. It doesn’t happen that often.”
Clutching the notebooks to my chest, I look up at her. “Really?”
She nods.
I push the locker shut. She’s right, I guess. I’m not really a happy-go-lucky sort of guy (even when I’m pretending to be that sort of guy). Still, I’m surprised that Sammie has noticed this about me. I thought I was the only one of us carefully observing the other.
“Where to now?” Sammie says, skipping ahead of me down the B-wing.
“Well, I have calculus first block.”
“Calculus. That’s a type of math, right?”
I jog to catch up with her. “Yep.”
She freezes and puts one hand to her ear. “What’s that?”
I stop and listen. We are in the intersection of the A- and B-wings. Strips of lockers stretch in front of us, but in the hall the cuts across us, many windows flood the school with natural light. From our left, voices drift, rising and falling in pitch.
“That must be the choir practicing,” I say. “The music department is in that wing.”
Sammie’s eyes light up. “Can we go?”
“To choir practice?”
“Please! I’ve...I’ve never actually seen a choir before.” She casts her eyes at the ground. Pity surges within me. I realize that this may be Sammie’s only chance to experience what it’s like to be a normal teenager who goes to class instead of doing mysterious work for criminals.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
Sammie does a little leap (staying in the air just a tad too long) and puts her arm through mine. She breaks into a run toward the A-wing, and I’m forced to jog to keep up. The voices grow louder as we approach two broad wooden doors. I squeeze the handle and open one of them.
The auditorium opens before us, an expanse of red seats before a vast wooden stage. Bright lights illuminate several rows of students on the stage, and their mouths gape open and shut as they sing. The music seems vaguely classical, a slow tune that I think I recognize. The conductor bounces in front of them, waving his arms around. “Ave Maria”—that’s the name of the song. I turn to whisper it to Sammie, but stop when I see that she is crying, her left hand pressed against her collarbone. Our arms still locked together, I pull her further into the auditorium and slide us into the last row. We sink into the seats, and Sammie folds her hands over her stomach and shuts her eyes. I put my notebooks under the seat and do the same.
The rehearsal lasts for the entire block. Afterwards, Sammie and I drift back out the doors. My head feels light and fuzzy. Sammie lopes toward one of the windows and stands in front of it, the flow of hallway traffic breaking around her.
“That was totally awesome,” she says, her eyes on the grassy field outside.
“It was.”
“You’re so lucky, getting to hear stuff like that every day.”
I blow out a breath. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard the choir perform. Thinking about it, I remember hearing announcements for their concerts in the morning news, and I definitely remember hearing the sounds of their rehearsals ringing in the hallways, but I have never bothered to go and see them before. I can’t help but wonder why.
“I am lucky,” I say.
Sammie turns to me. “Where to next? Sorry, I guess I made you miss calculus.”
“It’s okay.”
“Any other cool stuff going on?”
“Let’s wander around a little.”
I decide to return my notebooks to my locker, because after the tear-inducing choir rehearsal, taking Sammie to a physics class would just be cruel (not to mention deeply ironic). I stack my notebooks at the bottom of my locker as Sammie leans against the one next to me, her arms crossed over her chest. The hallway traffic is beginning to dwindle as students file into their next classes, but those who remain stare at Sammie. Even in my baggy sweatshirt, she is striking. I wonder what they think when they see me next to her, a loser who clearly does not belong. I pray that Joe Butt or any of his goons do not pass us.
“What’s this, Damien?” Sammie points to a flyer stuck with Scotch tape to one of the lockers. It has bold, black lettering and a large disco ball in the center.
“The Spring Shake,” I say, getting to my feet.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a dance they have every spring. I think it’s tonight, actually.”
“A dance?” Sammie’s eyes brighten. “Have you ever gone?”
I take a deep breath. Normally, this would be my turn to lie, to fabricate a fantastic experience and make myself sound well-liked. But I’m tired of lying. “No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I start walking down the hallway to avoid having to make eye contact. Sammie scurries along beside me. “I guess I’ve never really been interested?”
“Not interested?” She throws up her hands, incredulous. “Why would you not want to go to a dance? It seems so...fun, and magical, and normal.”
“I’ve always been very focused on my studies.”
“On getting into GLOBE.”
I nod.
Sammie remains silent, but I know what she is thinking: Are you insane? I wonder if I have been, if maybe there are wonderful things right here in Boorsville High, and I’ve just been too self-centered to see them.
We wander the halls long after everyone else has gone to class, swells of excitement and anxiety battling in my stomach. I have never, ever skipped class before, let alone wandered the halls like a juvenile delinquent. But Sammie wants to get a look at all of the wings, so we slink through the C-wing (math), where the windows in the doorways reveal students hunched over their desks. Then I lead Sammie through the D-wing (science!) and I whisper about all the great experiments I’ve done. Then Sammie spots some artwork on the walls of the E-wing and sprints toward it. I trot after her.
“What wing is this?” Sammie says, stopping in front of a gigantic piece of artwork on the wall. It’s made of many squares of paper, each one containing a small part of the larger, overall work. (I remember doing a project like this in middle school, when you couldn’t avoid taking art classes, and I recall that a different student makes each square.) All together, the piece depicts the knobby face of Abraham Lincoln.
“Art,” I say. “I’ve, uh, actually never been in this wing.”
Sammie turns to me, incredulous, before continuing down the hall. I follow her, walking slowly to admire the watercolor paintings on walls. Many of them are sloppy, but some of them are quit
e beautiful: moist-looking depictions of flowers, houses, and covered bridges. The smell of fresh paint and the rumble of conversation drift from the open doorways. I try to imagine taking one of these classes: staring at a photograph of a tree and trying to copy it with the wet strokes of my paintbrush, chatting with the person next to me. It seems alien. I am used to classes in which the teacher talks and you listen, because these are the sorts of classes you take to become someone important.
“Promise me you’ll take one of these classes,” Sammie says, keeping her eyes on the watercolor paintings as we slide past them.
“I think I will.”
The bell sounds, and students pour out of the rooms. Sammie presses her back against the wall to make room, and I move to stand next to her, watching her watch them. Her eyes contain curiosity, but also fear, like a person on safari who has stumbled into a lion’s den. Slowly, I cover her hand with mine. She stiffens, then exhales visibly and turns to me.
“Thank you,” she says. “For this.”
I do a little shrug. “No problem.”
“What happens next?”
Her question hangs in the air, her hand warm and smooth beneath mine. Does she mean what happens next with us, after this escapade in my high school is over? Does she feel the same overwhelming agony at the thought of never seeing each other again?
She tugs her hand out from under mine and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let me guess. Microbiology. Am I right?”
I force a smile and try to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest. “Yeah. Microbiology. Lunch first, though.”
We cross the school, making our way down the D-wing and then the C-wing, then finally emerging into the cafeteria. Sammie stands in the entrance and just stares. Students cram the long, rectangular tables that stretch across the large room, which has white walls and a high ceiling, with a skylight punched out. A line of people snakes up the middle of the cafeteria, then wrenches past the windows where the food is dispensed. The chatter of the students is a continuous roar.
Sammie turns to me with bulging eyes.
I laugh, then jerk my head toward the line. We make our way across the cafeteria, garnering the stares of just about everyone.
“I don’t have any money,” Sammie murmurs. She stands behind me, glancing around at the tables of students.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I have an account.”
“An account?”
“Yeah. Mom deposits a bunch of money at the beginning of the year, and all I have to do is punch a code and the money pays for my meals.”
“Fascinating.”
“I thought you’d like that.”
When we reach the food, Sammie puts two slices of greasy pizza on her tray, while I grab a bagel, an apple, and a Rice Krispy Treat. We check out and make our way toward the very back of the cafeteria, in the corner, where I usually sit and study. I slide into a chair, and Sammie slides in across from me. There are empty seats on both sides of us. (This table is not particularly popular, due to its location beneath the icy blast of the air conditioning vent.)
Sammie pulls down the sleeves of my sweatshirt and shivers. “Is this where you always sit?”
I shrug, slicing open my bagel with a plastic knife. “Yeah.”
“It’s freezing. Why don’t you go somewhere else?”
A variety of potential answers files through my brain, such as “I have no friends,” “The good tables get competed for by guys who enjoy causing me pain,” and “Seclusion makes it easier for me to read my physics book.” Before I can say any of them, Joe Butt and the Leslies strut toward our table.
“Savage!” Butt says, stopping behind Sammie.
She pushes her chair out a little and cranes her neck to see him. The Leslies parade past her and stop next to me, crossing their arms. My heartbeat quickens, and dread balloons inside me. Butt runs one hand through his red hair and drops his eyes to appraise Sammie, who regards him with curiosity.
“Who is your friend?” Butt says, his mouth pulling into a wolfish grin.
My nails dig into the table. “Go away.”
Butt’s eyes go wide dramatically, and his mouth falls open in mock surprise.
“What is this?” Butt says, as the Leslies chuckle behind me. “Savage, showing a backbone?”
My cheeks grow hot. I look down at my tray, unable to speak. The laughter of the Leslies booms.
“Hey!” Sammie says.
I jerk my head up. Butt has snatched her pink visitor’s pass off the table and is reading it with a large smile on his face.
“Your cousin?” He eyes Sammie in a way that sends murderous feelings blazing through me. “Does that mean I can call dibs?”
He grabs Sammie’s wrist, and she explodes out of the chair and bashes him in the mouth with the back of her head. The movement is so swift, so quiet, that no one around us even notices. Butt reels backwards, clutching his face. I leap out of my chair, only to have both my arms grabbed by the Leslies. Butt regains his balance and glares at Sammie. Blood gushes from his teeth and drips down his chin. Sammie stands in place, looking confused, glancing back and forth between me and Butt.
“What the hell?” Butt says. “Savage, you’re going to get it.”
Butt stomps toward me, clenching his fists at his sides. The Leslies grip my arms tighter. Sammie steps into Butt’s path, her expression hard.
“Out of the way,” Butt spits.
He stomps forward one more step, and Sammie smashes him in the nose with her open palm. Butt cries out, grabbing his face. Blood streams between the cracks of his fingers. He lurches toward her, swinging his arms, but she ducks out of the way and sweeps him off his feet with a kick to the legs. He hits the ground with a thwack! At this point, the entire cafeteria turns to watch us. A ring of people stand up and begin to chant. The Leslies release me and rush toward Sammie. When the first one reaches her, she swerves out of the way and grabs his arm, twisting him to the ground. The other Leslie grabs her from behind, but she cracks him in the face with the back of her head, and he staggers backwards. Lightning fast, she kicks him in the chest and sends him to the ground.
In under a minute, Sammie has taken out Joe Butt and both of the Leslies.
The crowd roars around us. Sammie stands above the groaning bullies, her fists clenched at her sides. The lights of the cafeteria blink, and the sound of teachers screaming to move out of the way thunders above the students’ catcalls. I rush to Sammie.
“We need to get out of here!” I shout.
Sammie lifts her eyes to me, but her expression remains blank.
“Sammie!” I bellow, waving my arms around. “Let’s move!”
She shakes out of her trance. I hold out my hand, and she grabs it. We take off into the crowd. By the time the teachers reach the fallen Butt and the Leslies, we are bursting out of the cafeteria.
The moment we are back in the hallway, Sammie freezes. She pulls her hand from mine and stares at her palms. I follow her gaze and see that they are bright red.
I rush toward her. “Are you okay?”
She back away, her features contorting with rage. “They beat you up all the time, don’t they?”
My stomach twists. I cast my eyes at the ground.
“That’s why you had to lie about being on the baseball team,” she says. “All those bruises and cuts. I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me it was like this?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?” she yells, shocking me. “You made me...you made me think there was a better life. But I guess it’s all the same.”
She takes off down the hallway at a fast walk. I don’t know whether to follow her or not. This is it: she knows who I really am, a loser who gets beat up. Of course she’s leaving. It’s what I have always feared: she could never sink low enough to hang around with the real me.
Despite my embarrassment, I trot after her. I’m afraid she will fly out of the school, only to be shot down by Michael Thorne and his men. She rounds a corne
r into the C-wing and lopes down the hallway. I run faster to catch up.
“Sammie!” I call.
She freezes in place.
I sprint to her side. “Where are you going?”
“I’m trying to find a bathroom. I need to wash the blood off my hands.”
Sinking my head toward the floor, I begin walking. Sammie follows me, her footsteps barely audible. I stop outside of a bathroom door, and she pushes inside without saying a word.
I press my back against the wall and sink to the ground. I knew this was going to happen. When have I ever had a smooth day at Boorsville High? I shut my eyes and replay the scene in the cafeteria in my mind: Sammie thrusting her palm into Joe Butt’s nose, blood spurting everywhere. Me standing there helplessly. Though part of me is glad Butt finally met his match, I’m sorry that it had to be Sammie, sorry I couldn’t preserve for her the illusion of a better life. Sorry I’m too weak to defend myself.
But the absolute worst part is that now Sammie will have nothing to do with me, that she will leave Boorsville knowing I’m spineless. I cannot think of anything more awful.
Strong hands grip both my shoulders and drag me to my feet. Two men in black suits have me by the arms. Michael Thorne stands before me, grinning.
CHAPTER 7
Sammie
I pull up in front of the bathroom sink and twist on the water, filling the room with its hiss. Without looking at my hands, I thrust them under the faucet and scrub. I don’t want to see the pink water swirling in the basin, don’t want to be reminded of smacking the red-haired kid in the nose, the tiny pop of his bone snapping. I clench my eyes shut. I don’t want to think about anything.
When my hands begin to feel raw, I twist off the water and shake my fingertips, sending droplets flying. I stare into the mirror. My hair is a mess, a scraggly-looking cloud of blond that I can never manage to keep from tangling. My mouth has a hardness to it. My eyes are cold. What will Damien think of me now, after he’s seen me in action? Will he think I’m a freak? I’m angry at him for lying to me about his school. I don’t understand why he did it.
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