by M. K. Krys
“You’re upset about your sister,” his dad said.
“You don’t think this is all out of character for her?” Beacon asked.
It had been a year and thirteen days since Jasper died. A year since he’d had his sister. There were times it seemed like maybe she was getting better—she’d smile in the old way she used to that would make the skin at the corner of her eyes crinkle, or laugh from deep inside her belly instead of the loud, theatrical sound she’d been doing lately. But then she’d frown before becoming angrier than ever, then stomp up to her room and stay there for days blasting music. That was the thing about grief. It was a monster that lurked in the shadows. Whenever you thought you’d escaped it, whenever you stepped into the light, it was right there with sharp claws and teeth, dragging you back. It didn’t let go.
“It is a bit out of character, sure,” his dad said. “But it’s a good out of character, don’t you think? Your sister has had a really rough go of it this last year. I think getting out of LA might have given her the permission she needed to start moving forward and being happy.”
“I guess,” Beacon said. “But there’s other things, too. I just feel like everyone is watching me. Like—like I’m an animal in a zoo exhibit or something.”
It wasn’t anything he could really put his finger on. Just a stare caught out of the corner of his eye. A scratch in a corridor when he thought he was alone.
He almost mentioned how he’d found himself in the woods without knowing how he got there, but he stopped himself. It would only make his dad decide not to let him wander around on his own. This place was bad enough without being confined to the inn, and he needed his freedom if he was going to be doing an investigation.
“You’re the new kid,” his dad said. “I imagine Driftwood Harbor doesn’t get a whole lot of turnover. You’re interesting to them right now. Once they get used to you, they’ll start treating you normally, and it won’t be so weird.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Beacon lied. He was a bit disappointed his dad had brushed off his concerns. But what had he expected? That he would order the kids to pack up their stuff this instant and go back home, all based on a weird feeling and the fact that his sister had made friends too quickly?
“Thanks for the talk, Dad,” Beacon said.
“Anytime.”
His dad cuffed him on the shoulder, and Beacon went up to his room.
* * *
...............................
The next morning, Everleigh came downstairs wearing makeup. Now Beacon knew things were really serious.
Everleigh smiled pleasantly, her thumbs hooked underneath her backpack straps as she watched the school bus rumble down the road toward the inn. Meanwhile, Beacon’s stomach churned like the sea. He felt as if anyone who looked at him could see straight through his canvas backpack to the stolen insulin syringe in the front pocket.
This was a bad idea.
“There’s the bus!” Everleigh said brightly.
“Boy, nothing gets past you,” Beacon said, repeating his sister’s joke from the other day. He slid a glance at her, waiting for her to call him a copycat and to tell him to get his own jokes—to just be normal Everleigh—but instead she hiked her bag up her shoulders as the bus ground to a halt in front of them and climbed jauntily up the steps. He’d never seen her this eager to go to school. Beacon made a mental note to update his notebook about her behavior and followed her onto the bus.
“Everleigh!”
Jane waved from the back of the bus, and Everleigh beelined for her. Beacon suddenly remembered the spot of blood on Jane’s shirt yesterday and her strange reaction at seeing the twins. But she looked totally fine today.
From the second seat from the front, Arthur waved Beacon over with a brisk gesture meant not to be seen by anyone else. Beacon was relieved to see his friend, wearing a faded blue argyle sweater at least two sizes too big underneath his lab coat. Beacon sat down next to him and pulled his bag onto his lap.
“Hey,” Beacon said.
There was a round of controlled laughter from the back seat as the bus jolted away from the inn. Arthur darted a glance behind him, then quickly snapped his gaze away. For someone who claimed to have done hundreds of top secret missions, he might as well have been wearing a neon sign that said “We’re up to no good.”
“Did you remember the stuff?” Arthur whispered.
“Of course,” Beacon said.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asked. “You’re all sweaty.”
“I’m fine.” Beacon swiped his forearm across his brow; it came away wet. “So you remember the plan?”
“No, I got amnesia overnight,” Arthur said. “Yes, I remember.”
“You can’t be late, okay? Ten thirty.”
“Honestly, you’re starting to insult me,” Arthur said.
Ten minutes later, the bus rolled up to Driftwood Harbor Academy. The brakes squealed as the driver put the vehicle in park. Outside, students converged toward the doors like gulls on a discarded meal.
It was game on.
9
Beacon didn’t hear a word the first hour of class. He knew they were working on math, his strongest subject, but all he could think about was the nurse aggressively flicking air bubbles out of a cartoonishly large needle. He tried to remind himself about everything that Arthur had said—that this was the best plan, that it was the only way to find out what they’d done to his sister, and that Nurse Allen was going to give him the shot no matter what—but all of that seemed very far away.
The clock counted down like a bomb about to detonate. Ten more minutes.
Would Nurse Allen be able to see his guilt? Would she look at him and instantly know he was causing trouble? What if she asked to see inside his bag? What if she caught him in the act and he was suspended or expelled? Or worse, he thought with a horrified rush, what if they call the police?
He thought of his dad’s angry face, and all the blood left his head in one hot rush.
“Beacon?” Mrs. Miller’s voice broke through his thoughts. Everyone was looking at him.
“The answer for x?” she repeated.
Beacon mumbled a number, and his teacher shook her head as the students stared at him blankly—somehow, that was worse than if they’d laughed. He sank into his chair.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jane said, standing primly in the doorway. “I have a note for you.”
She held out a slip of paper for the teacher. Mrs. Miller scanned the words, then looked at Beacon. His heart leaped into his throat.
“Beacon, the nurse would like to see you in her office,” she said.
Beacon’s eyes snapped to the clock. No. This wasn’t right. It was too early.
“Thank you, Jane,” Mrs. Miller said. Jane nodded and left the classroom. But not before smiling at Beacon.
Mrs. Miller dangled a hall pass from her hand.
“My appointment isn’t until ten thirty,” Beacon said weakly.
Mrs. Miller looked at the clock, then raised her eyebrows. “It’s 10:21. I think that’s close enough.”
Beacon thought about refusing her, but he could tell from Mrs. Miller’s stern expression that it wouldn’t go over well. He got up and shouldered his bag, then grabbed the hall pass. This wasn’t good. Arthur was prepared for ten thirty. They’d planned everything around hearing an announcement asking for Beacon to go to the office, like yesterday. Arthur would have no way of knowing he’d been called down early.
Outside the classroom, the halls were deserted. His sneakers squeak-squeak-squeaked on the shiny tile floor. He walked as slowly as possible without stopping completely and stalled twice at water fountains to take long slurps of water. But it was a short hall. The principal’s office loomed. He was about to duck into the bathroom for a few min
utes when Nurse Allen stepped out and spotted him.
“Beacon!” She waved him over with a brisk, authoritative gesture.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he said quickly.
“And you can,” she said, “right after your vitamin injection. No more stalling.”
There was nothing to do now but walk over.
He forced his legs to move toward the nurse, his body locked up tight. His eyes found the clock on the wall. 10:24. Was it close enough?
“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Nurse Allen said as she closed the door behind him. The keys jangled loudly as she walked to the lockbox, selecting the small gold key. He gulped as she turned the key, then pulled out the syringe. It had become the size of a rocket ship in his head, and he was slightly surprised when the needle looked small enough to snap in two if you grabbed it the wrong way.
“Have a seat,” she said, nodding at the chair. Next to it was a metal tray topped with alcohol swabs and cotton balls. They might as well have been torture devices, given how fast his heart raced.
Beacon didn’t move.
“We’re not going to have more funny business today, are we?” she asked.
Beacon shook his head and shuffled to the chair. He sat down and gripped the armrests with sweaty fingers.
10:26.
“Can you tell me about the possible side effects of the injection?” Beacon asked.
The nurse raised an eyebrow.
“I like to be informed,” he said. “You know. Like HIPAA guidelines?”
He had no idea what HIPAA was, but he’d heard his dad mention it when he was shopping for a new health insurance plan, and he thought it sounded legit.
He must have been on the right track, because the nurse said, “Redness and swelling at the injection site. That’s about it.”
She picked up the syringe. Panic shot through him.
“What’s the incidence of adverse reactions?” he asked in a squeaky voice.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said. “Now, if you could just roll up your sleeve.”
Beacon’s eyes shot up from the needle to the door. Where was Arthur?
“Beacon?” The nurse’s voice had ground to an angry edge. There was a tiny drop of liquid sitting suspended on the tip of the needle. Beacon swallowed hard and started slowly rolling up his shirtsleeve.
Come on, Arthur! Where are you?
He rolled the shirtsleeve with clumsy, fumbling fingers, pretending to get the fabric stuck to stall for time. After a minute, Nurse Allen huffed and yanked the sleeve up over his shoulder, stabilizing his arm with her big, veiny hand. Beacon yelped and squeezed his eyes shut. His breaths came in sharp bursts, his forehead drenched in sweat, the thump of his heart vibrating in his ears.
The door burst open, and the secretary rushed in. “We need you,” she announced breathlessly. “Someone’s having a seizure.”
A tidal wave of relief washed over him. He had to bite back the hallelujah that almost slipped from his lips.
Nurse Allen paused, looking at Beacon’s arm. He used the moment of hesitation to yank his shoulder out of her grip and roll down his sleeve.
“I’ll be back,” she said, stabbing him in place with a finger. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She burst out of the room with the secretary, leaving the door to the office hanging wide open.
Now that she was gone, Beacon’s body went into survival mode. All he wanted to do was get out of there, as far away from the needle as possible. But this was his chance. He wasn’t going to get another one—if he tried to pull this trick again, she’d be onto him for sure.
He unzipped his backpack and reached into the interior pocket for the insulin syringe.
Arthur had stolen it from his grandmother’s medicine cabinet the night before and filled it with saline solution. Up close and side by side, the syringes looked nothing alike. They were roughly the same size, but the printing on the side of the insulin syringe was orange, and on the vitamin injection, blue. If the nurse paid an iota of attention, she would see that something was off. But Beacon didn’t have any other options right now. She could be back any second.
He swapped out the needles, stuffing the stolen syringe into the bottom of his bag, then burying it underneath a pile of schoolbooks. He darted a glance at the doorway. The office area was empty; even the old secretary was gone, probably calling in reinforcements to help with Arthur’s “seizure.”
He’d done it.
Beacon blew out a slow breath.
A minute passed. Two.
He could have stolen the syringe twice over with how much time he had.
His eyes floated over to the gray filing cabinet underneath the window. He never would have considered it before, but his success with the syringe bolstered his confidence. He got up and wandered closer to the cabinet, then casually reached down and tested the handle. The drawer slid open easily. A rush of adrenaline fizzed through his body. Students’ names were stretched out across the top tabs of the files. He scanned quickly and found the one marked McCullough, E, then with one last glance at the doorway, he yanked it out and opened it wide on the top of the other files. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of the file, then he shoved it back inside.
He was still alone—he could hardly believe it. He knew he was pushing his luck, but when was he going to get another chance like this? He scanned the files again, first looking for his own name, then when he didn’t find anything (did Nurse Allen have his file out for this appointment?), looking for Arthur’s. He’d love to impress his new friend with a picture of his file. He spotted Newell, A. He quickly slid out the folder and took a pic.
He still had time.
Who else was there? Jane! What was her last name again? Middleson or Middleton or something like that. He skipped to the M section, but there was no one with a name even close to the one he remembered. Maybe he’d heard wrong. Then he saw the name Sims, N. That had to be Nixon—he was sure he’d heard Mrs. Miller call Nixon “Mr. Sims” that morning. He snatched out the file and opened it up. The thing was huge—like fifteen pages. He riffled through the folder, snapping pictures of each page.
Footsteps and voices rounded the corner. Beacon went stiff, before he jolted into action and scrambled to rearrange the papers back inside the folder. He shoved the file inside the cabinet, kneed the drawer closed, and jumped into his seat. The chair was still swiveling underneath him as Nurse Allen stepped into the room. Her dark eyes narrowed on him, then fell to his hands. Beacon realized he was still holding his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Nurse Allen asked. The calm, even tenor of her voice was even more chilling than if she’d yelled at him.
The cell was frozen in Beacon’s hands. His heart banged so hard, the beats blended together. “I was just—”
“Give that to me,” she barked.
He quickly bashed buttons, but she yanked the phone out of his hand.
“Zombie Apocalypse Countdown?” she said, squinting at the screen.
“Sorry,” Beacon said. “I got bored waiting.”
There was a loaded pause before she said, “We have a strict No Cell Phone policy on school property.”
“I didn’t know,” Beacon said. “It won’t happen again. Sorry.”
She twisted up her mouth. Beacon worried that she might look through his phone more carefully and find out the truth, but then she just said, “It better not,” and shoved the phone back at him. He quickly stowed it in his pocket. Then before he knew what was happening, she had his shirtsleeve rolled up and his shoulder wiped with alcohol.
“Wait!” Beacon yelled, jumping back. The chair bumped into the windowsill behind him, but she tracked his movements, following him with the syringe. The needle jabbed into his shoulder. He felt the cool slip of liquid into his muscle.
&nb
sp; “See, that was easy, wasn’t it?” Nurse Allen said.
He fainted.
* * *
...............................
By lunch, the entire school knew about Beacon’s fainting incident. A Gold Star he’d never seen before had even stopped him in the hall to ask how he was doing. It was all he could do not to shout “I forgot to eat breakfast!” for the millionth time.
So much for confidentiality.
He spotted Arthur stuffing his books into his locker.
“Great idea,” Beacon said by way of hello. “I was about two seconds away from becoming a Gold Star.”
Arthur cast a furtive glance around, then closed his locker and leaned in.
“Did you get it?”
Beacon nodded.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“Shhh!” Beacon hissed.
“Where is it?” Arthur asked. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets.
“In my bag.”
“Oh my God.”
“And I got pictures, too,” Beacon said. “Of a bunch of student files.”
“What?” Arthur’s voice came out a choked squeak. Beacon didn’t know whether to be happy that he’d impressed his friend or insulted he was so surprised.
“Come on, let’s go to the quad,” Arthur said. “I know a good spot.”
Beacon followed Arthur outside, then around the giant sports field, where students were playing a game of soccer. Arthur sat against the fence, under the shade of a giant pine tree. He spread out a workbook and some papers in front of him. “So it looks like we’re studying,” he explained.
Beacon sat next to him.
“So?” Arthur was practically vibrating with excitement. He tugged at Beacon’s backpack, trying to get inside before he even got it off his shoulders. Because that didn’t look sketchy at all.
Beacon unzipped his bag and slipped his hand underneath the pile of schoolbooks. He pulled out the syringe and slid it discreetly to Arthur, who handled it as if it were some kind of holy relic before putting it in his own backpack.