“It’s our dog,” Blue explains. “He’s been really sick, Ms. Jennings. Can I have a pass to go with my sister?”
“Do you have a pass?” her teacher asks me.
I dig inside my pocket and show her my pink slip for the nurse’s office. Ms. Jennings comes closer and squints at the pass. “Why the nurse?”
“I had a substitute,” I tell her. “She wasn’t sure how to handle the situation when it came to a dying pet.”
“Okay. Go ahead, Blue. Work on those quadrilaterals at home if you can, or find a way to let me know if you need more time.”
“I will. Thank you, Ms. Jennings.”
Blue follows me into the hallway. She’s wearing one of the white shirts she bought at AMVETS, knotted at the waist. One word is embroidered on each collar in thread that matches her hair. When read left to right it says Weird Sister.
“What’s going on? Where’s Birdie?” Blue spots Rémy waiting a few feet nearby. “Why do I get the feeling you keep showing up places you shouldn’t?”
“Sometimes, but not always,” he says. “Just think of me as D’Artagnan.”
Blue blinks wide eyes, asking for my interpretation.
“He means well,” I tell her. “Birdie is still in PE with Pennick.”
I look all around, thinking of a plan on the fly, aware Blue’s eyes are glued to me.
“You didn’t answer the real question. What’s going on?”
“I’d rather tell you and Birdie together. Maybe you should go into the locker room alone. Pennick might not notice if it’s just you. Get Birdie then meet me at the ADA elevator and I’ll explain.”
“She won’t come easily without a solid reason up front.”
“Tell her we think Whitlock is a fed,” Rémy says.
“Your chemistry teacher?” Her eyes bulge. “So he’s not actually a prepper.”
“I’m not sure what he is right now. Just tell Birdie that when Daniel said DTA, he was right, and that I think I know why.”
“That’ll work. She’ll come along just at the mention of Daniel.” Blue juts her chin at Rémy. “Is he coming, too?”
“Maybe. I didn’t think that far ahead.”
I’m the biggest enforcer of sticking together. But lately, I’ve had to let go of the idea that if we’re not all together, someone will get hurt. Don’t get me wrong. Normally, I wouldn’t consider splitting up if I thought my sisters might be in imminent danger. Not with this new information on Whitlock. But getting from the locker room to the elevator shouldn’t pose a threat. If that spot was good enough for Ansel, it should be a safe bet for us, too.
“I’m coming,” Rémy announces, before I have a second to decide whether I should integrate or dispatch him. “I can show your sisters the photos. Plus, skipping doesn’t feel like a big deal, considering I haven’t been here for the last three days.”
“Which is probably why you should go. Ms. Everitt will question why you didn’t show up. Plus, if what you showed me is accurate, you’d be wise to steer clear of the whole situation. Mr. Whitlock was pretty adamant about me dissuading you from getting tangled up in things.”
“Mr. Whitlock is a hypocrite,” Rémy says.
“Fair enough.”
“Maybe you should one-up him and go to the cops yourself. Circumvent Whitlock’s whole MO by telling them your side of things.”
Under the right amount of pressure, even a loyal person can crack and reveal what they know.
A new suspicion bolts through me, electrifying the little hairs on the back of my neck. Could Whitlock have turned Rémy into an informant? What if his mom made a deal with Whitlock that if Rémy agreed to get information about The Nest and The Burrow, his suspension would be minimal? I grab Rémy by the shoulders and spin him against a wall, shoving my hand up the front of his shirt to check for a wire before he can even put together what’s happening.
“Whoa.” Rémy raises both hands in surrender and I let him go. He’s clean. “What was that all about?” He straightens his shirt and adjusts the wireless headphones around his neck, gaping like I’ve lost my mind.
“Sorry. I had to see if Whitlock’s play for you to get information on us worked.”
“You thought I was wearing a wire? Are you nuts?” He looks amused for half a second, but it’s quickly replaced with concern. “You haven’t actually told me anything incriminating, by the way. But now I’m starting to worry for real.”
“I understand why you would, and I appreciate the blind trust, Rémy, I really do. But I’ve broken a lot of rules for you, and I have no idea what that means for either of us in the long run.”
“What rules?”
I glance at the ceiling and blow out a breath. “Before we moved here, my family was already prepping solo. Canning and stockpiling food, water, medical supplies to have on hand in the event of an emergency. But ever since we joined The Nest—that’s what we call one part of our coalition—we’ve added loads to our skill set. Hunting, trapping, shooting, shelter building. You name it. We’ll be ready for The End Of The World As We Know It. But one of the rules for living within this group is we don’t date anyone who could expose our setup. That means only dating within the coalition or not at all. Every secret we keep is meant to protect us.”
“So no Outsiders,” he says.
“Right. My sisters and I never make friends with other people. Not in the traditional sense. It’s too hard to navigate when you don’t do what everyone else is doing. Even at our other schools, we weren’t allowed to participate in clubs, or play organized sports, or do anything outside of our art or what we were doing at home. Our mother is a nurse practitioner who runs paranoid when it comes to Western medicine. We grew up with a strict understanding that we wouldn’t be allowed to participate in any activities that required a physical examination. She doesn’t trust hospitals or doctors and gave us all our vaccinations herself, at home. So this thing with you and me, this friendship or whatever, it’s not prepper approved.”
“Can we focus on the or whatever part for a second?”
Rémy is nothing if not consistent.
“It’s not possible,” I tell him. “Or at least not probable.”
“It’s already happening.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. “But it’s a bad idea. If the feds are looking into our group, it’s because there’s something bigger going on. Sure, we have guns and ammo and self-defense systems set up, but that’s not a crime.”
“Not being with me could be considered criminal.” Rémy takes a step closer. “The whole point of being with someone is you can let your guard down and tell them everything going on inside your head without fear of being judged.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He tilts his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true. None of the boys in our group have ever interested me. And before that, let’s just say I was always considered one of the weirds. Completely closed off from approach, so it didn’t matter.”
He takes another step, purposely bridging the gap between us. “So, you’re weird. That’s what makes you interesting. You’re also an amazing artist. Smart. Quick-witted. Fierce. Free-spirited. Protective.”
I flip my hair. “You forgot beautiful.”
“Beautiful is too basic a word to describe you. And weird is not an insult.”
“Tell that to the student bodies of the six schools I’ve attended.” The bell rings, rightfully shifting my thoughts back to my sisters. “Come on. We have to go.”
The hallways are filling up with students, making it easier, and in some ways harder, for Rémy and me to blend into the fold. Any minute now, Birdie will be entering the locker room where Blue is waiting. I scan the hallways for Ansel and Annalise, but they’re nowhere to be seen. We turn down the hallway that leads to our art class to get to the ADA elevator. A fever rises over me when I spot Ms. Everitt hanging our self-portraits on the wall opposite our classroom. I can make an excuse for myself, but not Rémy
. I’m trying to think of something to say when I notice my painting hung center stage, probably because it’s the biggest and gives the wall some balance.
Ms. Everitt’s face lights up when she sees us approaching. “I’m so glad to see you, Honey!”
I don’t get why her enthusiasm extends to me alone, but I play along.
“I’m glad to see you, too, but I might not be able to stay for class today. I’m not feeling great.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that. Is it a flu? Your stomach? Because if you can hang on for a little, just until the news team arrives to interview you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Your painting. You won, silly. Out of every high school artist in the country. I’m so glad you had a change of heart.”
Only, I didn’t.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Everitt, do you mean the scholarship competition?”
“Yes!” She clutches my upper arms energetically, cheeks flushed with pride. “This is so exciting.”
Heat rises to my face, burning with suspicion and resentment. “Can you excuse me for a minute, Ms. Everitt? I’d like to collect my thoughts.”
“Of course. Use the classroom. It’s empty.”
Empty because everybody is in the hallway, wearing faces that fail to hide their disappointment. I pull Rémy inside the art room and unleash the fire of my temper.
“Did you do this? I told you I couldn’t enter this thing. Now I have to talk to reporters? If Dieter Ackerman sees me on Channel Seven news, I’ll be eighty-sixed. I thought I could trust you.”
“First of all, I didn’t do this. Once the administration found out that there was real money attached to the scholarship, they handed over the logistics to the faculty advisors. Second, everyone whose art was submitted received an email with the details. I got mine while I was suspended.”
“I didn’t.” My eyes go as wide as a brass gong being hit by a hammer when what he says strikes home. “Whitlock.” I grit my teeth so hard they might crack. “That two-faced, sneaky—”
“Federal agent looking out for his own interests while taking advantage of a teenager,” Rémy finishes. “I’ll accept that as your apology.”
I rest a hand on his shoulder briefly before placing it over my heart, forcibly exhaling a tense breath. “I’m sorry. But I can’t go out there. I need to leave.”
I dart to the windows, seeing if there’s a way to make an escape, but they only crank open inward at a sixty-degree angle. Enough to put a leg through, but not enough for a distraught student to jump. Safety first. I raise my eyes to the air shaft, hands on my hips as a proverbial lightbulb sparks.
I can feel Rémy watching me as I grab the stool next to my empty easel and put it on top of Ms. Everitt’s desk. Big R Reactive.
“Oh, come on. Really? The air shaft?”
“Yes. Really. I need to get out of Dodge. You don’t understand.”
The only problem is the art room stools aren’t as tall as the ones in chemistry. Neither are the desks. The lab tables are set to standing height. I’m at a complete loss, feeling more and more trapped by the second, my heart pounding hard enough to break out of my chest. I need a milk crate or a wooden wine box to raise the stool.
“Honey.”
Rémy says my name calmly, trying to instill some reason, but I’m too busy searching the room for things sturdy enough to stack.
“Honey,” Rémy says again, with more emphasis.
I stop rummaging around the low cabinets lining the back of the room to whip around. “What?”
Ms. Everitt is watching me from the open doorway. She doesn’t question what I’m doing, but her eyes shift to her desk where I left the stool. It wouldn’t take much to conclude I wasn’t thinking about changing out the fluorescent lighting tubes.
“They’re ready for you.”
I stand and pull myself together, letting my eyes linger impossibly long on Rémy as I make my way to her desk and pick up my EDC. I’m not Ready. Not in the big R way. I take a minute to go over to the easel I’ve been using and examine myself in the mirror. I run my hands over my thick brown hair, taming flyaways. I’m dressed decently enough in skinny jeans, a heather-gray V-neck T-shirt, and a long, pine-green cardigan. From the outside, to them, I’m the same girl who made the painting given center stage in the hallway. We see what we want to see, like Blue’s shirt said. Because for me, this is a bad mirror day. From every angle imaginable.
DTA
DON’T TRUST ANYONE
MS. EVERITT ESCORTS me into the hallway, where a reporter and camera crew are waiting in front of my painting. The slender reporter, a hair-sprayed blonde in her early thirties, dressed sharply in a pencil skirt, lavender blouse, and pointy heels, is chatting with a group of students until her cameraman alerts her to my presence. She turns with the kind of plastic smile and posture that cost thousands of dollars in tuition fees to perfect. But here she is, interviewing the teen about to be handed a full ride to the art school of her choice. Lucky me.
I spot my sisters standing side by side. The circles under their eyes darken with dread as they watch this one-ring media circus unfold before their eyes. If Daniel, who never appeared on camera, was sent away alone, what will Dieter choose for my punishment?
Mother’s warbled voice sings in my head like a distressed bird trying to protect its young. Run. Run. Run. But it’s no use. Any moment now, I’ll be turned into the coalition’s betrayer, soon to be flung from The Nest.
“I have your winner right here,” Ms. Everitt says happily.
But when she looks at me, her sea-glass-green eyes swim with concern, anchored by the stool she saw on her desk.
“Wonderful. Let’s get started.”
The reporter’s voice floats to me in a way that’s oddly soothing. The familiar voices devoid of any quirks or colloquialisms that continuously play on the television in our house, delivering news and weather.
She explains she’ll introduce herself and the news station before asking me a few questions. I’m nodding, or shaking my head, in answer to her questions—Are you nervous? Would you like a drink of water before we begin? Have you ever been on television? Yes. No. No.
The whole time I’m searching for Ansel, hoping he’ll fling a paracord lasso around my neck and strangle me before this goes further. It takes a few scans around the assembled students before I spot him, looking downright miserable because he knows my potential fate. I watch his twin by birth alone march up and grab his arm, whispering through clenched teeth, pointing like I’m a witch accused of heresy—Goody Juniper on the stand—and she is my accuser. Being able to read lips like Whitlock would come in handy right now. Ansel wrenches out of his sister’s grasp, and she casts her angry gaze at me, eyes fiery enough to burn me at the stake.
“Here’s the teen of the hour,” the reporter says, and I snap my attention to what’s happening whether I like it or not. “Honey, right? That’s sweet. No pun intended.” She stares into the camera, laughing effortlessly at her own joke.
My eyes lock with Rémy’s as she says, “How does it feel to be the recipient of the Scholarship for the Arts America?”
I blink back. “Honestly, it’s the biggest shock of my life. I was just telling Rémy Lamar, the student liaison for the competition, that never in a million years did I think this would happen.”
Rémy nods once, his smile encouraging me to keep it simple so I can get the hell away from this whole mess. I agree, but then what?
“I have to say your art speaks volumes about what’s going on in America right now. The concerns many people have for our safety and welfare during tumultuous and uncertain times. When you painted this, were you leaning toward any one side of the political fence?”
“Well, Miss—?”
“Fielding,” she says, through lips lacquered so red she looks like she drinks blood.
“Miss Fielding. I’m not old enough to vote yet. And my mother taught me it wasn’t polite to talk about politics or religion, but I’m h
appy to discuss my process if you’d like.”
“Sounds like your mother taught you how to stay out of harm’s way.”
Lady, you have no idea.
“Can you tell us why you chose to paint three versions of yourself for your self-portrait titled Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”
Oh, because my life is one huge WTF right now.
“They’re meant to represent my past, present, and future,” I answer. “None of which have ever fully escaped our present-day prejudices and impending doom, as you pointed out. But if something catastrophic does happen, I hope those of us who survive will remember to keep the arts alive.”
I don’t explain that it’s a painting of my sisters and me, because it’s easier to flip her a lie that follows the rules of the competition.
“That’s quite a sophisticated and self-aware view, making perfect sense for your beautiful and evocative piece of art. I’m sure all of our viewers can see why the judges, some of the top art critics writing today, chose your painting out of the thousands of entries. Are there any other thoughts you’d like to share with our viewers about your work before we sign off?”
I’m screwed no matter what I say, so I turn to the camera and smile. “Rules breed rebels. I think it’s important to think for yourself when making art. That way you’re leaving a mark as uniquely yours as your own fingerprints. We’ve all been taught that the black sheep is a deviation from acceptable standards and something to be avoided. Still, when you see it among a herd, its lack of conformity is what steals your breath and captures your attention.”
“As you will continue to capture that of the art world, no doubt. You heard it here first, from up-and-coming young artist Honey Juniper in Elkwood, Washington. This is Bridget Fielding for News Seven.”
When all the niceties have been handed out and the news team is packing up to leave, I scour the hallway for Ansel. He’s nowhere to be seen, and I don’t know what to make of his absence. Despite everything that’s happened, I still consider him my friend. I know there’s a zero percent chance his father won’t see or hear about this segment for Channel Seven at Seven. News Beyond the Headlines.
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