“Oh, you mean Mateo?” Coach Hutta asks, his brow furrowing over his beady eyes. “The new janitor? Dark-haired guy?”
“Yes,” I reply, my tense shoulders falling half an inch.
“Yeah, he just came into the equipment room,” Coach Hutta says, his hitchhiker thumb pointed over his shoulder at the open door. He steps toward me, his stride wobbly and wide. When he reaches me, he snatches the five-dollar bill out of my hand with a smirk and puts it in his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to him.”
Great. Out of my mind and five dollars.
The double doors to the gym fly open behind me and a group of freshmen come running inside, their chatter and giggles drowning out the buzz of the industrial overhead lights.
“Better get to your next class, Reagan,” Coach Hutta calls out over his shoulder as he makes his way toward half-court where his students are sprawled out on the floor.
I nod even though he’s no longer paying attention. Coach Hutta blows on the whistle that’s permanently draped around his thick neck, and the chatter dissipates. I turn around and head for the door.
“Aren’t you a lucky group of students? Today we will do your favorite thing in the world. A timed mile run,” Coach Hutta announces. The class groans in unison before erupting into a series of complaints and excuses.
It was nothing, my mind whispers. You’re worked up over nothing.
I pull the strap of my messenger bag tighter against my shoulder. I breathe in deep, trying to release my rigid muscles and untie the remaining knots in my stomach. But they won’t budge.
As I reach the double doors and put my hands on the cool steel bar, those hundred pins prick my back once again. I can feel eyes on me. I whip back around, my long ponytail smacking me in the face, in time to see the edge of a man’s silhouette slipping out the back door and disappearing from my sight.
THREE
Drop it, I tell myself as I walk down the nearly empty hallway. It was nothing.
I take another deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety I feel tingling up my fingertips and toes. But the daymare comes anyway. His dirty hand over my mouth. A serrated knife pressed to my throat. His humid breath whispering threats in my ear. I can almost feel the cold steel of his blade on my flesh; tiny, warm drops of his spit in the curve of my ear. I close my eyes and try to make it go away, but the horrific scene continues to play out in vivid detail. He pushes the knife harder against my neck, nicking my skin and drawing blood. I try to run, but my hands and feet are tied. I try to scream, but only a muffled cry echoes against steel walls.
Stop, stop, stop, my mind begs for it to be over. I put my right hand over my face and violently shake my head, trying to erase the scene, as if my brain is an Etch A Sketch that can be cleared with a few shakes. The daymare finally begins to break apart.
“Are you okay?” I hear a voice say, pulling me back into reality. Luke is standing in front of me, his eyes wide, his right arm reaching out to steady my shoulder. I lower my hand from my face and silently hope he hasn’t been watching me long.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly and return my fingers to my temples. “Just a migraine, I think.”
He squints and cocks his head slightly, examining my face. I force a smile that would satisfy most, but Luke knows me well. Probably too well. My Black Angel psychological training doesn’t always work on him.
“You sure you’re okay?” Luke asks again, moving his hand from my shoulder to my back, his fingertips slowly running along the curve of my spine.
“No, I’m totally fine,” I say and shake my head, my brain searching for a lie. “When I get stressed, I get a migraine.”
“What are you stressed about?” Luke asks.
“I guess I’m … uh, just … nervous about my interview at Templeton this weekend,” I stumble through my lie. With Luke, the lies don’t fall as easily off my tongue. It’s unnerving. He has a way of almost pulling the truth out of me. Almost.
“Ahhh … the dream school,” Luke repeats another lie I’ve told him. He returns his hand to my shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “You’ll do great, Mac.”
“Thanks. The premed program there is unbelievable,” I answer more confidently, sticking to the carefully crafted script of my cover. We begin slowly walking down the quiet hallway toward the biology lab. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about blowing the interview.”
“Come over Friday night and we’ll hang out and do some interview prep,” Luke replies, nodding.
“Okay,” I say, his invitation parting my lips. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Prepping helps. I was so nervous for all my interviews at West Point. The last interview for the nomination with the congressman was intense. I hope I didn’t sound like an idiot.”
“I’m sure you did amazing,” I say and place my hand on his strong, exposed forearm. And that’s all it takes. One little touch and that spark runs through my body. I keep hoping that this rush will disappear. But it doesn’t. That ache is always there, lingering below the surface of my skin, waiting to rise.
“Given any more thought about the kind of doctor you want to be?” Luke asks. We’ve talked about it a few times but I can never narrow it down. Probably because the dream for me isn’t real. My future is all but written.
“Maybe an ER doctor,” I answer, which is only half a lie. If I did choose to go to college instead of the Black Angel Training Academy, that’s the type of doctor I’d love to be.
Technically, I have a choice. When I turn eighteen, I must choose between college and a normal life or the training academy and the Black Angels. But for me, there’s really only one choice. My parents don’t just hope I’ll go to the training academy. They expect me to go. Everyone does. My name has been at the very top of the academy’s list since I was ten years old. Born to be a Black Angel. The words have been burned into my brain since before my first bra. Even if I wasn’t the academy’s golden child, the pressure to go would be high. The children of Black Angels become Black Angels. It’s a tradition that’s almost never broken. My parents are both first generation but they are the exception rather than the rule. Most Black Angels are third, even fourth generation. Children of Black Angels are trained by their parents from the moment they learn what Mommy and Daddy really do for a living and by the time they turn eighteen, they are more than ready for the academy. There’s no need for CIA training on The Farm when you’ve been practicing martial arts since you were four and shooting high-powered assault rifles since age ten.
There’s honor in what they do. I know there is. They save people’s lives, they rescue hostages, stop terror plots, take down the bad guys. They’re as close to superheroes as you can get. But there’s a list of cons that come with the admirable pros. And after Philadelphia, my secret con list is getting longer.
“Thank God,” Harper yells across the biology lab as we walk through the door. I raise my finger to my pursed lips in an effort to get Harper to zip it. Mr. Bajec is several lab tables away, his back turned to us. He hasn’t noticed we’re late. She gets my signal and presses her lips into an oh-crap smirk.
Luke and I take a few quick steps across the lab, throw our bags on the ground, and hop on our lab stools just in time.
“Don’t forget, test tomorrow afternoon, everybody,” Mr. Bajec says, turning around to face the class. I turn on my best I’ve-been-here-the-whole-time smile and nod. He turns his attention back to the lab.
“That was a close one,” Harper says, letting out a breath.
“What are you doing?” Luke asks with a laugh.
“Yeah, are you trying to get us detention?” I ask, pulling my blue biology notebook out of my messenger bag.
“Sorry, but it’s dissection day and if you think I’m touching that slimy frog, then we might as well take the F on this lab,” Harper exclaims, pointing down at our dead frog, his four legs pinned down, waiting to be cut open.
“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” I say, snapping on a pair of latex g
loves and grabbing the lab scissors out of her hands. Harper hops up on the metal stool next to Luke and neatly prints our names on the top of our lab sheet.
“Sorry I’m a pretty shitty lab partner,” Harper says, leaning her arms onto her notebook.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Luke says, watching as I begin to cut into the belly of the frog. “I think you add a certain something to these dissections.”
“Spunk,” she says and smiles.
“And vomit sound effects,” I say and point my gloved finger at her. “I couldn’t get through the lab without those.”
“Thank God you’re going to be a doctor or we’d be super screwed,” Harper says, and I have to stop my muscles from flinching. I’ve been lying my entire life. It’s scary how second nature it is to me but when my friends repeat my lies back to me, sometimes the guilt rises hot and prickly on my skin.
I open up the frog’s stomach to reveal thousands of tiny black eggs. “I guess this one is a female.”
Harper glances up from her notes and doubles over when she sees the glistening cluster of eggs. “Oh my God, that is so disgusting,” she shrieks, then chokes on something in her throat.
“Mac, would you rather have to eat all those frog eggs or…” Luke begins.
“Stop it, Luke. That’s so gross,” Harper says, smacking him hard on the arm with her notebook. “Do your stupid ‘Would You Rather’ game with Reagan later when I’m not wanting to die.”
Harper throws her hands over her eyes as I grab one of the scalpels and scrape out all the eggs.
“When I go to med school, I’ll have to dissect a person,” I say, staying on script. I cut a few inches more and open up the frog to reveal its heart, liver, and stomach.
“Seriously? Oh my God, no lie, I feel runny mashed potatoes coming up my throat. This isn’t fake throw-up. This is real. Please change the stomach.”
“The stomach?”
“The subject. Please change the subject,” Harper says, squeezing her eyes shut and grabbing on to her midsection.
“You are so dramatic, I love you,” I reply and giggle.
“Mr. Weixel, can I see you for a moment, please?” Mr. Bajec says, adjusting his dark-rim glasses and motioning with two quick flicks of his fingers for Luke to meet him at his desk.
An uh-oh look flashes into Luke’s eyes for a moment, but with a quick shrug of his shoulders, it’s gone. “Last name plus the worst words a teacher can possibly utter, all in one sentence,” he says with a smile. Luke hops off his stool, his hands smoothing the front of his uniform. “Lucky me.”
I watch Luke for a beat too long as he walks away. I know it’s too long because I can feel Harper’s eyes on me, a small smile creeping up her face.
I break my stare, remove my frog-slime-covered gloves and take the lab sheet out of Harper’s hand to start working on our notes.
“Why is Mal so into going to Mark Ricardi’s party?” I ask quickly before Harper can start in on me. “She practically burst into tears when she found out I didn’t want to go. There’s got to be more in it for her than spiked cider.”
Harper sighs, probably disappointed that she missed her window of opportunity to bust me on my Luke-induced staring problem. “The real deal on Mal is that she heard Peter Paras is bringing some hot Australian guys from his soccer travel league to the party.”
“I should have known,” I say and smile. Mal’s continent goal. She’s got Africa and Europe crossed off the list after making out with a South African swimmer in town for a competition and a French boy while on vacation. She’s been saying that Australia and South America are her next big gets.
“Well, Luke certainly got you to change your mind. No surprise there,” Harper says, her voice teasing, her eyes on my face, careful not to look down at the frog.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my eyes back on our lab notes. I scribble down the location of the heart and lungs.
“Oh, stop trying to BS me,” Harper says, cocking her head to the side. “It’s me you’re talking to. Seriously, what’s going on with you guys?”
“Nothing. We’re RGFs,” I reply, staring hard at my notes and instinctively pushing my lips into a disinterested pout. I refuse to give Harper a reaction. But I can feel my heart beating in my ears. Not fluttering either. Pounding.
“RGF? What?” Harper’s nose, eyes, and brow squish together as she tries to decode my abbreviation.
“RGFs. Really. Good. Friends,” I say and look up at her. Her eyebrows arch sharply over her hazel eyes as she shakes her head slightly, not believing a word I’m saying.
That’s not a lie. Luke and I are really good friends. He’s probably the first real close friend I’ve ever had. Granted, I haven’t been in one place long enough to make too many close friends. We’ve been in New Albany just over a year and that’s our longest run in a new city since I started high school. But it’s not just the length of our post. From day one, we just sort of fit together.
I love Malika and Harper. They make me happy. They really do. But there’s something about being with them that makes me feel lonely too. I can never really be myself with them. I can’t really be myself with anybody. It’s ingrained in me to lie, to stick to the cover story and blend in no matter what. And I feel guilty about that. Because they think they know me so well. They think because they can finish my sentences they know everything about me. But they only know Reagan MacMillan; the quick-talking, tough girl I created. Sometimes I wonder which parts of my personality are really me and which ones belong to the pretender.
But with Luke, it’s different. There’s nothing forced or strategic about our friendship. He’s gotten to see glimpses of the real Reagan. And that scares the shit out of me. Because I know how quickly it could all be torn away from me. How quickly I could be torn away from him. There’s no such thing as a happy ending for a girl like me.
“Come on, Reagan,” Harper says quietly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Luke is still out of earshot. “You guys are so cute together. He broke up with Hannah months ago. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. I can just tell by the way he looks at you he—”
“Harper,” I interrupt as her words compress my lungs, making each breath labored and painful. I don’t want to hear this. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“You know some things are worth ruining,” Harper replies, reaching out to touch my arm with her fingertips, her nails painted a shade darker than my gray cardigan. “You can’t tell me you haven’t at least thought about starting a relationship with him or maybe—”
“There is no relationship,” I cut her off again, pulling my arm away a little faster than I meant to. I snap new gloves onto my hands, pick up the scalpel, and slice into the frog’s heart. “Next stomach.”
“Next stomach?” Harper repeats, scrunching her forehead.
“Next subject.”
FOUR
I push open the science building’s heavy door and walk out onto one of the school’s smaller quads. New Albany High School looks more like a college campus with its deep redbrick buildings, towering white columns, domed roofs, and manicured lawns. I glance at the giant clock on the gym and it reads 2:10. Love end-of-the-day free periods. I have just enough time to finish my calculus homework in the library before the final bell.
I pull on the strap of my messenger bag and step out from under the overhang and into the sunshine. The leaves have turned muted shades of yellow, red, and orange. They’re about a week away from their peak. Out of all the places I’ve lived, Ohio falls are by far my favorite. Apple picking, pumpkin patches, corn mazes, and haunted houses, the kind of unspoiled normalcy you’d find in a Norman Rockwell painting.
As I cross the quad, something catches my eye: a wispy mess of blond hair, a small body cowering in a corner near the entrance to the gym. It’s Claire Weixel, Luke’s little sister. Her tiny hands grip her books. She holds them to her chest like a shield. I squint a
nd hold my hand up to my forehead, blocking my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. And then I see them. From behind a white column, three girls emerge and surround Claire. My body stiffens but I watch from a distance, just to make sure I’m not being super overprotective. The leader of the group digs her meaty hands into Claire’s thin shoulder, shoving her into a dark corner most teachers can’t see. Claire’s back hits the coarse bricks and a look of pain crosses her pale face.
“Oh, hell no,” I say under my breath.
“Come on, give it up,” I can hear the tall, thick leader say as I run up behind the group. “Give it to me now or I’ll make you wish you were never born.”
“Seriously? That’s the best line you’ve got?” I say, putting a hand on the girl’s hunched shoulder, pushing her aside. I step in front of a trembling Claire, my hands on my hips, and get a better look at the group. The leader is tall and strong with long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. She’s got about fifteen pounds on me but could honestly pass as my sister. Same coloring, same build. But that’s where our similarities end. The leader and the rest of her little crew look like they stepped right out of Central Casting with their torn jeans, dirty hair, and I’m-so-tough-you-should-be-scared scowl on their faces. I can’t help it and start to giggle. “Wow, really? What’s it like to be a walking stereotype?”
“What’d you say to me?” the leader asks, looking me up and down.
“I mean, seriously, did you steal all your lines and your wardrobe from a Lifetime original movie or something?” I ask and roll my eyes. “If you’re going to be a bully, can’t you come up with something a little more original?”
“Get out of here,” the leader says, trying to get around my athletic frame.
“Leave her alone,” I say defiantly, my tongue slowly wrapping around each word.
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