by Shiloh White
“Wherever we go, here's not the best place to stay,” Woodstock said. “Let's get moving!"
38. Cornered By Justin Bieber’s Prep School Entourage
We booked it out of the library (Ha! Booked!) and into another large hallway. Woodstock didn't keep us there long, though. We followed him into room after room looking for our friends.
One particular room looked to me like some sort of training simulation for Depression Agents getting ready to attach themselves to a host. The room was filled with training dummies, and the walls were covered with diagrams and encouraging one-liners like, “If you do it right, they'll never know you're there!” and “They're already miserable—take it to the next level!”
I was glad to leave that room.
Along the way, it occurred to me that while we were looking for our friends, I didn’t exactly know where we would find them. So I asked Woodstock.
“The Headmistress loves to stay in power,” he said, “so she'll do anything she can to keep her fingers the ones pulling the strings. Our friends will be somewhere The Headmistress has total control over. She might have even...”
He stopped running and looked at us. There was a dark expression on his face.
“Might even what?” Chug asked.
“I don't want to even consider the possibility, ese. Let's just find them."
We kept running down the hall until Woodstock led us into a room a lot smaller than the massive door in front of it.
Oh, and it looked like a shrine.
Paintings like the ones back at the entrance hung symmetrically along either side of the wall. In between them were long gold curtain, and they went—painting and curtain—all the way to the back of the room, where a pedestal sat.
“What are we lookin' for in here?” Chug asked, wandering inside a little. I wondered the same thing. The room was relatively empty. I noticed on top of the pedestal sat what looked to be an old book.
“A secret room, like in the closet.” Woodstock explained. “I just don't remember where…” He knelt down beside one of the drapes and brushed it aside, revealing...more wall. He shook his head and stood back up. “Check the curtains."
Chug ran down to the other end of the wall from Woodstock and started there, so I started on the other wall to cover the most room. Between each curtain, I glanced up at the paintings. Most of them were new or people I didn't recognize. After a few new ones, I saw that same black-haired girl with the sharply cut brown eyes. I wondered why they'd use up a spot in this room when she was out by the door.
“Why does this school even have these secret places?” Chug asked, flinging aside the nearest golden sheet on the wall. Behind it? Just more wall.
“Well,” Woodstock said, “it doesn't. Some of us students did that. The Headmistress just started uncovering them."
“What for?” Chug asked.
“Because—"
“Guys!” I shouted, my jaw gaping open at the next painting in front of me.
“Did you find the secret entrance?” Woodstock asked. Without taking my eyes off the painting, I shook my head slowly. I heard their footsteps run across the floor to meet me and stop once they stared up at the painting too.
It was of a young man with poorly kept brown hair that spiked outward and down around his whole hair. He had warm blue eyes that I almost missed by his straight face...I didn't recognize him straight-faced. But then I noticed it. There, behind the edge of his mouth next to a small crescent-shaped scar the artist had chosen to leave in, was just a hint of a mischievous smile. But the hint was enough to figure out the puzzle.
“It's Dart,” I said, looking at Woodstock. “He's younger, but it's him, isn't it?"
Woodstock nodded. “Yeah, that's him, mija.”
I kept my eyes on the painting and I felt the top of my brow tighten into a knot.
“What's this room for?” I asked. “Enemies of the Academy?” Woodstock's eyes closed and his shoulders fell with a sigh of defeat. I felt bad for making him dredge up this past, but I needed to know. This was my friend—a Depression Officer. What in the world was he doing hanging up in a school for Depression Agents?
“They're valedictorians.” Woodstock answered.
“What? But then that would make Dart...” A Depression Agent.
I looked back up at the painting. His smile looked a little less mischievous, and a bit more devious now.
“Outside, they hang up anybody and everybody who's attended here,” he said. “But in here? They save this room for the top of their class. Usually because they did something above and beyond their studies."
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like connect to a host before they graduate,” Woodstock said grimly.
I wished I hadn't asked, and I didn't want to ask the next question, but it was too late. I already knew this much.
“Did Dart find a host?” I asked.
Before Woodstock could answer, the doors at the front of the room burst open. The five student boys marched into the room, covered in bits of wood chips and lots of dust. I realized up close that they all looked virtually the same. Same haircut, same pale skin, the way they wore their clothes, you name it. Except for a minor difference here or there, they might have been identical.
The student on the far left was covered in freckles. The one next to him wore rounded glasses. The boy in the middle stood just an inch or two smaller and wore a smug smirk. I thought the student next to him looked exactly the same (minus the height) but then I noticed while all the others' hair was this two-toned blond, his was dark brown. And the one on the far right somehow managed to keep an open book on his head the whole way here.
They looked like the idiots that follow celebrities like Justin Bieber around all day.
“Caught you now,” the smug student in the middle said. The one next to him, Glasses, pointed at the three of us.
“Why aren't you with the others?” he asked. I went to ask what he meant, but Chug stepped in front of me.
“Yeah, uh, we're looking to meet up with them, actually. You know where they are?” he asked.
The students laughed a snobbish ugly-rich boy laugh that flowed through their noses. The book fell off Book-Head's head and clattered to the floor.
“You're not getting that info,” Mr. Smug said. “If you don't know where they are, that settles it: you're not supposed to be here."
I guessed between the five of them, they actually did have some common sense. So much for that plan.
“Yeah, especially not you, Woodstock,” said Brown-Head. (Or Brownie. Yeah, Brownie sounds better.)
“What's he talking about?” I asked. “Why do they know you?”
“They're my classmates,” Woodstock answered. His voice had shrunk from his deep and solid tone to a more skittish sounding noise.
Each of the students took a step forward. Chug and I scooted back. Woodstock stayed where he stood, stiff as a board.
“Former classmates,” Brownie said, spitting the words in Woodstock's direction. “This deserter chose his side a long time ago."
“He left because this place is a lost cause,” Chug said. “It's just too bad you punks can't see it."
“Watch it, shorty,” said Mr. Smug, taking another step forward. The rest of the students followed. “We don't have a lot of time to fool around—the ceremony's staring soon."
“Ceremony?” I asked. “What ceremony?"
Mr. Smug rubbed his hands together, and I didn't think it possible, but his smirk looked even more sinister.
“If you want to know,” he said, “I suggest you and your friends come quietly. Or we'll have to do this the hard way."
“What do we do, Woodstock?” I asked. He backed away from the students in front of him, sweat coming down his face.
“I-I-I...” he stammered. The wide, scared look in his eyes and the sharp, quick breaths flowing in and out of his chest told me he was having an anxiety attack.
“I don't mind the hard way,” Book-Head said
. “It's what the other guy chose.
“Other guy?” I asked. “You mean Scott? What did you guys to to him?”
“The Headmistress has plans for him,” Mr. Smug said. “As for you three...” he cracked his knuckles.
Chug pulled out his gun. His hand swirled around the handle, loading his smoke into the barrel. I glanced one more time at Woodstock. He was clearly unable to fight. We were going to have to protect him. I reached into my art bag for my yellow paintbrush and pulled out a red one.
“What?” I said aloud. I tossed it back in, and pulled open my bag for a closer look.
“What's goin' on, Lucy?” Chug called out. His eyes were focused on the five students walking closer. They spread apart, taking up more room between us and the door, sealing off our means of escape.
“I don't have my paint whip!” I shouted.
“You what?”
The Agent students decided this was perfect moment to charge us.
39. (Insert Inappropriate Joke About Acid Here)
“Find something else!” Chug yelled. “You have a whole bag of brushes, don't you?"
“Yeah, but—”
“Duck!” Chug shouted. I sunk to the floor in time to see Book-Head be the first to make a move.
BANG! A bullet of compacted smoke whizzed past me and knocked him into the wall of the room. He crushed a painting and fell to the ground unconscious.
Chug blew the excess smoke off his gun.
“Who's next?” he asked. Each of the Agents shifted on their feet, waiting for another to try something against us.
“Well, somebody get in there!” Mr. Smug ordered. The other Agents hesitated to follow his command.
Chug laughed at them.
“They're a bunch of dogs with no bite,” he said. “Lucy, you've got plenty of time to figure out another weapon. Go guard Woodstock, and leave these doofuses to me.”
I turned and ran to join up with Woodstock near the back of the room. The Agents—Glasses in particular—didn't like that. With newfound anger, he took off in my direction.
“Oh, no you don't!” Chug said. He tried to take out Glasses, but he was a lot faster than Book-Head. The spectacled boy dipped past Chug, and came straight for me.
Glasses stopped short of running me over, and put his fists up to fight. But his eyes weren't on me. They were on Woodstock, who was sitting on the floor in shock and a panic.
“Why'd you come back, traitor?” Glasses asked. I stepped in front of Woodstock, trying to look as intimidating as possible.
“Back up,” I told him. “You're fighting me first.”
I pulled the red paintbrush out of my art bag to prove my point. I didn't have a clue what to expect it, but he didn't have to know that. I glanced over at Chug, who was keeping the other three boys at a distance. Then I looked back at Glasses. If he could fight three of them, I could take one guy on, right?
“You're not serious, are you?” he smirked.
“Of course I—” I started to say, but he winked and disappeared.
“O-over here, mija!” I wheeled around and saw Glasses closed almost all the distance between himself and Woodstock.
He didn’t disappear at all. He moved. Faster than my eyes could follow.
“You know how many lives you cost?” Glasses asked him. Woodstock said nothing, but tried to scoot away from him. Glasses reached for him, and I forced myself into action.
“Get away from him!” I yelled, swinging the red paintbrush at him. Oh, please do something, I asked.
Where I'd swung the brush, red paint flew off of it, growing into giant red globs that splattered the ground underneath Glasses. He stared at it and scoffed
“Ahh,” he said. “Paint. I don't know why I expected anything more.” Then he turned to Woodstock. “Now where were we? Right—you being a coward—"
The floor under Glasses creaked and he stopped talking. The paint began to bubble and steam on the floor, and then the floor started to melt.
“What the heck did you do?” he asked, his voice raising several octaves. He tried to run, but the paint had spread to his shoes, melding them to the floor. The paint did its' job eating away at the rest of the floor until Glasses was standing on nothing, like in an old cartoon. Then he fell through the floor.
“Sweet,” I said, finally breathing again. I looked at the red paintbrush. “It's acid paint.” Then I remembered Woodstock. I ran over and knelt down next to him.
“Woodstock, can you stand?” I asked.
Woodstock muttered something too quiet for me to pick up. I knelt in closer. His eyes grew from wide to bloodshot. His tan skin looked pale, especially on his face. I couldn't even remember having a panic attack this bad.
I touched his shoulder, trying to get him to move.
“Chug can't hold off the others for much longer."
Woodstock muttered again.
“What did you say?”
“Coward..."
“You're not a coward!” I told him. “You've saved us twice since we got to this place.”
“Oh, he's a coward like you wouldn't believe!” shouted Freckles. “I mean, who talks about freedom and just gets his friends killed when the going gets tough?”
Chug stepped in his path and fired a couple rounds at him. One hit his right arm and forced him back.
“Ow!” he cried in pain, clutching his arm.
“Serves you right!” Chug taunted.
“They're right,” Woodstock said quietly. “I am a coward."
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Woodstock slowly turned his bloodshot eyes at me. They were wet, welling up with tears now. I couldn't tell if he was in pain or if it was just the attack on his body. Or both.
“When I escaped this place...I meant to get a lot more out of here than just me. But—"
His voice cracked and he choked on the last few words.
“Lemme help you out there, amigo,” Mr. Smug said, standing at the far side of the. “Woodstock was a... visionary of sorts. He thought Disorder, the Headmistress—all of it—was wrong. So he wanted off this boat, and took anyone willing to come. But when it was time to leave, The Headmistress found out. And she had no use for traitors.”
“She didn't...” I said.
But I knew deep down what this woman had done. Mr. Smug gave another smirk.
“That's right,” he said. “Used her most loyal Agents for the job. The traitors tried to fight for their freedom, but we got every last one of them. Except for the coward who ran from his own rebellion. I saw him run myself."
Woodstock flinched. Mr. Smug laughed and Chug shot him in the leg, forcing the Agent to his knees.
“That's enough outta you.” Chug decided. But Mr. Smug smiled through the pain.
“It's ironic you're back, Wood,” he said, “considering you know the Headmistress' power more than most of us."
“What's he talking about?” I asked Woodstock, jostling his shoulder.
“It's...urgh...” Woodstock doubled over. I placed my hand on his back to keep him from hitting the ground.
“Go slow,” I told him. Woodstock took a deep, shaky breath.
“It's the reason I can't move,” he explained. “Anchor Zone of Anxiety, remember? The Headmistress' power radiates that entire feeling throughout her entire Zone."
“But Lucy and I aren't losin' it,” Chug asked, tilting his head back. “How come?"
“The longer you're here, the worse the effect is.” Woodstock said. “I've been here before—for a long time."
“But what about Mr. Smug—I mean, the other students?” I asked.
“Anxiety affects us all differently,” Mr. Smug chimed in.
“I don't want to be like this,” Woodstock said. “Quivering in fear. I can't even move my body anymore. I'm...afraid."
“That's our cue, boys!” Mr. Smug said proudly. He and the other two boys started advancing on Chug, who did all he could to keep them back. Meanwhile, I tried to think of what to say to Woodstock to get him
to be okay. At first, I figured just telling someone as tough as Woodstock to just get it together might snap him out of it, but looking at him huddled on the floor, I thought better of it.
I thought back to the anxiety attack back in my Depression Zone, when that giant boot closed in. If this for him was anything like that, “get it together” was definitely not going to work. And why should it have? No one in an anxiety attack wanted to be told “get over it".
“I've never faced what you're facing,” I told him, “but I know it's tough and scary. You gotta realize though, you're not alone. Everything else might be against you, but we're not. Chug's over there fighting for you this very second.
“Not for much longer I'm not,” Chug called out. “I'm almost at my limit. Do we got another plan?"
“Just hold on!” I said.
“Or just give in!” Mr. Smug suggested.
“Don't listen to him!”
I turned back to Woodstock, putting my hands on his shoulders. “You gotta fight this, Woodstock. We have to get out of here, one way or another. Now, can you stand?"
Woodstock's gaze fell from me down to the ground. He closed his eyes, and his breathing found a steady rhythm. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but we didn't have a lot of time left, so I hoped it worked.
In the meantime, Chug wasn't kidding when he said he was giving out.
Brownie, Freckles, and Mr. Smug pushed him back, just a few feet from Woodstock and I. Brownie moved forward, and Chug barely hit him. But there was only enough force to shove Brownie back a little. Mr. Smug and Freckles took this chance to surge forward and overtake Chug. Chug whipped his gun towards them and fired off two shots.
The first zoomed at Freckles, who instantly crumpled to the floor clutching his foot. It was a great shot.
It was also Chug's last great shot.
The second bullet shot forward at a pitiful speed and connected with Mr. Smug. I could see Chug was aiming for his head, but it only managed to blow a gust of wind at his, hair. He and Brownie rushed Chug again, that smirk growing on his face as he ran.