RAZORBILL
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First published 2016
Copyright © Caroline Pignat, 2016
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover images: iStock.com/StonRohrer
Text design: Lisa Jager and Erin Cooper
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Pignat, Caroline, author
Shooter / Caroline Pignat.
ISBN 978-0-14-318757-8 (hard cover)
I. Title.
PS8631.I4777S56 2017 jC813’.6 C2015-907788-5
eBook ISBN 9780143196945
American Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data available
Visit the Penguin Canada website at www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
v4.1
a
For Liam and Marion
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Alice
Noah
Hogan
Isabelle
Alice
Xander
Hogan
Isabelle
Xander
Alice
Hogan
Noah
Isabelle
Alice
Isabelle
Alice
Isabelle
Hogan
Xander
Hogan
Noah
Alice
Isabelle
Xander
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Alice
Hogan
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Hogan
Isabelle
Alice
Hogan
Xander
Alice
Isabelle
Noah
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Hogan
Xander
Alice
Isabelle
Xander
Hogan
Xander
Xander
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Xander
Alice
Hogan
Noah
Alice
Isabelle
Hogan
Alice
Noah
Xander
Isabelle
Hogan
Alice
Isabelle
Hogan
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Isabelle
Isabelle
Noah
Alice
Hogan
Isabelle
Alice
Isabelle
Xander
Acknowledgements
We are all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
—ANDY, THE BREAKFAST CLUB
ALICE
“Hey…you okay?” The deep voice echoes as I come to, flat on my back on the cold tile. A huge rabbit leans over me. Yes, rabbit. Whiskers. Buck teeth and ears. Tartan vest—the works. My head aches. I don’t have to touch the lump pulsing on my brow to know it’s there.
“What happ—?”
“You came barreling in,” the rabbit says, but its wide smile never moves. Like it’s speaking inside my head. “You tripped and fell.”
Down the rabbit hole?
I always dreamed of that as a little girl. That one day I’d find a way into those books I loved. Has it finally happened?
I try to get my bearings as my eyes struggle to focus, but there is no magic beyond the rabbit. Only the white brick wall on which hang three oddly shaped sinks of some kind. My gaze drifts back to the stained ceiling tiles.
Where am I?
The rabbit stands and moves past me. Paper tears. Water runs. I glance over to see it standing at a wide marble semicircular sink.
The washroom?
It’s all wrong. And yet, so familiar. Flecked marble sink. Rusted paper-towel holder on the white brick wall. Two beige metal stalls in the far corner. Only everything is mirror opposite, as though I’m in some alternate reality.
One with giant, telepathic rabbits.
Its whiskered, furry face floats above me, going in and out of focus as it kneels beside me again.
My, what short ears you have for a rabbit.
Frowning, I blink a few times.
“You don’t look so good,” it says.
And that voice—it’s all wrong. Everyone knows a rabbit in a tartan vest has a British accent.
“Curiouser…” I mumble. The room spins and I groan.
“Here.” It presses the wet wad of paper on my forehead and some of the spinning slows.
A large, brown, shaggy paw grips my shoulder. “Do you think you can sit up—?”
“I’m coming in!” a girl’s voice calls. “Girl entering the boys’ washroom. So, like, stop…whatever you’re doing.”
I half expect to see Mrs. Rabbit come bounding in. Actually, I’m kind of disappointed it’s just a girl. In one hand, she clutches a stack of yellow flyers. The other shields her eyes from seeing whatever mysteries of the boys’ washroom she’d rather not know. Her hair is straight, long and glossy black. Her red lips, full and almost heart-shaped. Her skin, flawless. She’s Asian. A life-sized china doll? But no, she is real enough.
“Isabelle Parks?” The name floats up and out of me.
She uncovers her eyes, shrieking as she takes in the bizarre scene: me, flat on my back beneath this gigantic, looming animal.
“Ohmigod!” Isabelle drops her papers and runs at us. “Get off of her! Get off of her right now, you perv!” She thrusts her knee hard in the animal’s side and shoves it over with both hands. Grunting, the rabbit keels over and sprawls with a curse among the yellow flyers scattering across the floor.
“Are you okay?” Isabelle takes my arm and helps me sit.
The room whirls around me like the Mad Tea Party ride. I feel like I’m going to
throw up, just like I did ten years ago in that horrible teacup.
“You see it too?” I ask, relieved to know I’m not actually hallucinating. We glance at where the large creature now sits lounging against the far wall, long legs stretched out, huge feet splayed on either side. I eye it suspiciously, half expecting it to disappear in a poof of sparkles. “The rabbit—you can see it, right?”
“What?” Isabelle’s dark eyes narrow. She looks at me like I am crazy then goes over to it and kicks the rabbit’s foot. “Did you, like, drug her?” she demands. “Is that it, Hogan? Like roofies or something?”
“Ya, Izzy. That’s exactly it,” the rabbit says. “I have this thing for dressing up like a loser and molesting helpless nerds in the boys’ bathroom.”
Wait—what? Molesting?!
It raises its furry arms in mock-defeat. “My secret’s out. You caught me.” Then it shoves its paws up against its puffy cheeks. “Just shut up and help me.”
Sighing, Isabelle grabs its face in both hands and cranks hard, ripping head from body in one fierce twist like some kind of psycho vampire killer. The head falls to the floor and rolls to a stop beside me, where it vacantly stares at me with its google-eyes. I don’t know whether to scream or laugh or vomit—or maybe all three.
“It’s hotter than hell in there.” The rabbit’s deep voice is coming from its body, still resting against the wall. Headless, yes, but not decapitated, exactly. More like cracked open, like one of Gran’s rosy-cheeked nesting figurines. A doll in a doll in a doll. The furry costume ends at the thick neck and sweaty head of some guy. Some huge guy. He’s rubbing his face with his paw, swiping it up his red-faced scowl and over his head as his blond hair juts out in angry spikes. My stomach lurches again—only this time, it’s in recognition.
Hogan King. As in, the Hulk.
How did I end up in here with that guy?
The Hulk yanks off his furry mitt and plucks the smoking cigarette left balanced on the edge of the porcelain urinal. Even in a bunny suit and plaid vest he scares me. Anger radiates off of him like distorting heat waves—burning fierce from his cold, blue eyes as they meet mine. I look away.
Did he follow me?
Hit me?
The tremor in my stomach ripples up my back and down to my fingertips as I reach for my forehead.
Did he drag me in here…to molest me?
I can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop imagining the story that might have happened if Isabelle hadn’t come in and saved me.
“No smoking.” Isabelle points up at the small metal sign.
Is she crazy? Surely she knows better than to rile the Hulk.
He glowers at her, but she only shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”
“And I don’t follow them.” He takes a long drag and blows in our direction. It smells strange. But everything in here has that mystery man-tang. I glance at the filthy floor, the graffitied stall, the stained urinal, the smeared mirror. Some things are better left a mystery.
“Still the badass, Hogan?” Isabelle pulls a slim silver phone from her jean shorts’ pocket. She eyes the floor, the stall, and, disgusted, eventually shifts over to lean against the wall. “I don’t know why Wilson insisted we use you. You’re, like, not even part of Student Council.”
The muscles in his jaw clench.
“I mean, seriously.” She texts as she talks, like we aren’t worth her time or attention. “You’ve missed every Spirit Club meeting. You’re always late to class—when you come. You have, like, zero enthusiasm.” She glances up momentarily. “No offense.”
It always surprises me how she can do that, add “no offense” to any statement and assume none is taken. Yet not once has anyone, ever, in all our years together at school, once told her, “You’re really mean sometimes. No offense.”
Isabelle continues, “You quit sports and skip most classes—you basically hate school.” She looks up at him once more. “And now you’re stoned.”
I wave in front of my face and try to stand but stagger into the garbage can and spill trash at Isabelle’s feet.
I must be stoned too! Drugged, definitely.
I felt like this before—when I had my wisdom teeth out and Gran had to practically carry me to the truck to go home. No, it’s okay, I protested, I can fly, Gran. I can fly! Hand on the wall for stability, I look into the cracked mirror, searching for a portal out of here—but I see only my pale face, the welt, angry and red on my forehead, my pupils wide and black in the blue iris. But, thankfully, they are the same.
No, no concussion at least.
I’ve had them before. In part because I’m a klutz, in part because of Noah. People who have mild traumatic brain injuries are more susceptible to having another.
Where did I read that? Dr. Schmidt’s office, maybe?
It’s only when they both look at me that I realize I’m speaking aloud.
“It’s okay…I’m good,” I say awkwardly. “Well, back to normal anyway.” Neither speaks. Their expressions clearly tell me they think I am anything but normal. “So…yeah.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, unsure of what to say next.
Fortunately they just dismiss me and return to their conversation.
The Hulk turns back to Isabelle. “It would take a lot more than a few drags to get me stoned. I just needed some pep before the pep rally.” He says it in a girly voice, like the very concept of pep rallies is ludicrous.
“Like I said,” Isabelle scoffs, “perfect choice for school mascot.”
“We have a mascot?” I blurt. I’ve attended St. Francis Xavier High School since grade 7, and in the six years I’ve been here we’ve never had a mascot—unless you count those weird comic book characters this year, Professor somebody, and that other one with the helmet. But that’s just kids messing around. They aren’t real mascots. Mind you, neither is this mangy character smoking up on the bathroom floor.
Isabelle glances at me. “See? No one even knew we had one. And I’m, like, every school should have a mascot. So I was going to get us one, something really cool like a Viking. Then Wilson tells me we already have a mascot assigned. A fisher. I’m, like, seriously? A fisher? What brilliant school board official came up with that? Anyway, I figured promoting it, you know, having it lead the cheering at games and pep rallies would be good for school spirit, even if it wasn’t as cool as a Viking. The mascot was my idea.” She turns back to the Hulk. “He was not.”
He shrugs. “Talk to Wilson.”
“ ‘Fitting the suit,’ ” she says, with dramatically mimed air quotations, “does not make you mascot material.”
And a mascot who smokes? That’s even worse.
The Hulk glares at me and I realize, once again, I’ve blurted my thoughts. But it’s true. Grampa smoked cigarettes his whole life and it cost him. “It really wrecks your cardiovascular system,” I add. The Hulk’s breathing grows louder and I cringe. “I mean…if you’re planning on cheering…or doing cartwheels…and mascot stuff…”
Cartwheels? Why in God’s name do I keep talking to the Hulk? Even I know the gossip about his suspensions, his arrests—his infamous temper. Rumor is he killed his brother, but that can’t be true. They’d never let a murderer loose in a high school. Right? Unless…unless it’s some kind of high-school-halfway-house thing.
I look back at him to find his eyes drilling into mine. And then it happens.
The babble.
Any time I find myself at the center of unwanted attention, usually thanks to my brother’s behavior, I go on autopilot. Other trapped creatures spray ink, quills, or stink as a defense. Apparently, I spew words.
Babble, then bolt. That’s my strategy. Only this time, there’s nowhere to run.
“Yeah…cartwheels,” I continue, feeling the panic rise hot around my chest and neck, “or jumping. Because you do kind of look like a rabbit with the floppy ears and all. Still, your ears are a bit short for a rabbit’s. Unless you are a short-eared rabbit? Like an American Fuzzy Lop? Or maybe a Mini Lop?”
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His scowl darkens.
“But, clearly, you’re a fisher. Vicious. Mean. You’ve got that down. We get fishers on the farm.” I fiddle with my fanny pack. “Fun fact: a fisher is one of the few animals that’ll eat a porcupine—”
Isabelle raises her eyebrows—but not in that that’s-amazing kind of way, more in that are-you-freaking-kidding-me-right-now look. She waits for me to stop. I wish she’d just interrupt me all together.
“—but I don’t know why we even call them fun facts, really,” I say, “because they’re facts, of course, but if you think about it, they’re not really—”
“Oh. My. God,” she snaps. “Do you, like, ever shut up?”
“—fun.” I breathe, glad to finally let someone else take the spotlight.
“Still the bitch, Izzy?” The Hulk exhales a gray halo over his head and smirks. “Some things never change.”
HOGAN
Nerd Girl finally shuts up, but she’s still swaying a bit as she backs up to the door. “So, uh, I’m gonna go now,” she mutters. “I really should get to class…”
“What are you talking about?” Izzy looks at her like she’s crazy. “Hello? We’re in lockdown.”
“Lockdown?” Nerd Girl frowns. I guess she hit her head harder than I thought.
“Well, duh.” Izzy rolls her eyes and goes back to her texting. “Mr. Wilson just called it, and this was the only unlocked door. Why else would we be in this stinkhole? Maybe you like to hang here, but being stuck in here with you guys is, like, the last place I wanna be. No offense.”
“It’s just…” Nerd Girl is shaking. Her big blue eyes get all watery. She looks at me. At the door. Back at me. “I don’t remember…”
Izzy stops texting and gives me that look again. Like I did something wrong.
“What?” I snap. Do they seriously think I had something to do with it? “Look.” I speak loud and slow so they hear it. So they get it. “I was in here getting this stupid costume on when Wilson announces we’re in lockdown. Someone starts banging on the girls’ door and next thing she comes flying in here, trips over that,” I wave at the red gym bag by the door, “and hits her head on the sink. End. Of. Story.”
“So why were you holding her down?” Izzy asks, with that accusing eyebrow raised.
“I was helping her up.”
The two of them look at me like I’m speaking bull. Screw it. Screw them. I take a drag.
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