I roll up my sleeve to show my bruise. If this was a week ago, it would look more impressive, but it's still pretty nasty. "This is your useless policy! And I have pictures, too. I have pictures of Frampton hitting me and your useless, stupid teachers standing around laughing and not doing anything!"
He clears his throat and picks up a pen from his desk. Starts tapping it against the phone, which is really annoying.
"I never said that Frampton wouldn't be punished." He sounds a little calmer. Maybe he wasn't expecting me to fight back. Good guess, since I wouldn't have expected it, either. "But both parties in any fighting must be—"
"You know, if this had happened anywhere else, we wouldn't even be havingthis discussion." He keeps tapping the pen. "But it's ridiculous that I can be pounded on for days by someone larger than I am while I'm under the care of your teachers, yet when I defend myself, I get in trouble."
His eyes light up. The pen stops. "So you did pepper-spray him."
I grit my teeth and glare at the Spermling. "Prove it. Show me the canister of pepper spray."
He leans forward, eager, his face flush with excitement. "I don't have to prove it. We're not in court. I sign my name to a piece of paper, and you're expelled."
"Fine." I stare back at him. The truth is a great thing, but sometimes only a lie will do, so I pull out a big one. "Fine. Do it. And then be prepared to have to prove I had pepper spray because my dad's a lawyer and I will take you to court. And I will show the pictures of how your teachers stood around. And if you think this lacrosse team stuff is a headache, wait until I put you on the stand." He starts to deflate. He's not sure if he believes me, but he's like everyone else in the world: absolutely terrified of being sued. "Wait until you have to testify about how you put me into a violent situation through your own reckless endangerment. Wait until my lawyers get to subpoena everything in your world, including your office."
Kyra pops up again. Oh, yes.
"Just wait until they take your stuff," I say. I lean forward now, meeting him over the desk. "Wait until they find the child pornography on that computer."
It's like I've dropped the F-bomb in the middle of church. His florid face goes completely pale. It's a beautiful thing to behold.
He pushes back from the desk, away from me. His eyes dance over to the computer.
"I don't—" He can't get the words out. "I don't know why you would say that! There's no child pornography on that computer!"
"Oh, so just regular adult pornography?"
His eyebrows shoot up like in a cartoon. I love it. "No! No, there's nothing bad. Nothing bad at all!" Not sure if he's trying to convince me or himself. But I don't really care.
Silence. I wait. I stare. This has to be perfect.
"There's no child pornography on there," he insists. He wants me to believe.
I give it a second. This has to be better than the Great Ecuadorian Tortoise Blight.
"There will be."
His face twists to genuine horror. "You—you—"
It's amazing. Suddenly I know what it would be like to have ESP. Because I can read his mind. He's thinking of the lacrosse team. Of compromised security. Of my grades. My report card. He's thinking of the semesters I have of computer science, and a row of straight A's.
I've turned the Spermling into a thousand pounds of quivering, terrified blubber. I'm Batman and Wolverine rolled into one.
"You—you—"
"I'm leaving," I tell him calmly. "Because I'm running late for Trig and I've got a perfect score in there. So I'm going, because you wouldn't want to hinder my education, would you?"
"You can't do this!" he says. "You can't threaten me!"
I pause at the door. "I didn't. We just had a nice chat, that's all. Something bad happened to a bad kid and you asked me what I saw and I told you. End of story."
And before he can say anything else, I'm out the door, smiling at Miss Channing as I walk past her desk. I did it. And I didn't even need my bullet as a safety blanket.
If you have the balls to tell them to shove it, they crumble. Just like Kyra said. Easy.
Kyra.
I stop just outside the office. She walked past Miss Channing's desk, she told me, crying, with her shirt untucked.
Kyra.
You're a suicide wannabe.
So, where do you keep your ammo?
Kyra. It was Kyra who said—
Try harder next time.
Kyra who—
Can you get one of your stepfather's guns?
Oh, God.
Chapter Fifty-Six
"IS SOMETHING WRONG?" Miss Channing asks from behind me.
Can you get one of your stepfather's guns?
"Is something wrong?" she asks again. I'm frozen, standing like a statue, half in the office, half out.
My vision fades. I see Instant Messages in front of me.
Xian Walker76: You planning on shooting someone?:)
Promethea387: I didn't ask for bullets, fanboy.
Xian Walker76: Bullets are easy to get.
Promethea387: I would only need one anyway.
Oh my God. I told her ... I told her how. And I...
So, where do you keep your ammo?
That's just attention. Everybody knows that. Cutting across just gets you to the hospital. That's just from movies and TV shows and stuff like that. You didn't really try to kill yourself. You just wanted attention, but you screwed up. Try harder next time.
I take off like a shot. It's Monday. Fourth period. Kyra has geometry. I haul ass upstairs and down the empty hall. Someone pokes a head from a door and shouts, "Hey! No running!" Like I'm gonna listen.
I find her class and burst in. Thirty or so heads swivel in the direction of the panting, red-faced moron at the door. A woman at the blackboard—a teacher I don't know—starts to come toward me.
"Where's Kyra?" I ask between gulps of air. I scan the room. I don't see her.
"What's this about?" the teacher asks. Some part of me notes the geometry proof on the board. It's really easy. "Let me see your pass."
"I need Kyra," I growl with as much testosterone and anger as I can muster.
"Went home sick," someone says from the back of the room.
"That's enough!" the teacher snaps before turning her attention back to me. "Who are you? Give me your name."
As if. I turn and bolt.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
WENT HOME SICK. OK. SURE.
Back down to the office. I practically fling myself at Miss Channing's desk. "Do you have Kyra's home phone number?"
It's like I'm a wild lion that jumped out of hiding to attack her. She shrinks back. "What? What are you talking about?"
"Kyra. Kyra Sellers. I need to know her phone number."
"I can't give you that. You know that."
"Please, Miss Channing. Please! It's an emergency."
She looks at me helplessly. Poor woman. A star student dragged into the Spermling's office, then running all over, helter-skelter. Must look pretty crazy to her. I'd sympathize if I had the time.
"I can't help you," she says.
Fine. I wheel around and race out into the hallway. Fortunately, I'm dressed for all this running. I don't think my gym clothes have ever gotten such a workout before.
What do I do? How do I get in touch with her? She won't answer my e-mails or IMs. She never gave me her cell number or her home number. I don't even know where she lives.
God. I don't know anything.
If I were Courteney, if I had had Courteney's powers, I would know everything. I'd be able to see Kyra's thoughts and dreams and I'd know for sure. But I'm not Courteney, so I just have to go with my gut.
I stop in the middle of the hall. There's fifteen minutes left in fourth period, so the corridors are like tombs. I'm all alone. I'm the only person in the world. And I don't know anything.
So where do I go when I don't know anything?
Chapter Fifty-Eight
LESS THAN A MIN
UTE LATER, I throw open the door to the media center. Mrs. Grant looks up from the circulation desk in surprise and calls out my name.
"This is very important!" I yell as I head for the computers. "Very important!"
I waste half a second of fantasy time imagining that I can hack into the school database and get Kyra's address and phone number, but after the lacrosse team fiasco they've probably got that sucker sealed off like a contaminated ward. Instead, I pull up an Internet phone directory and punch in "Sellers" for Brookdale. The hard drive cranks and churns. Mrs. Grant comes up behind me.
I don't even look up at her as the screen starts to fill in. "Mrs. Grant, I'm really sorry, but this is really important."
"What class are you supposed to be in? Why are you wearing your gym clothes?"
I like Mrs. Grant a lot. She's in charge of the books and computers, and those are in my Top Five Reasons Why I Go to School. But I just don't have time for this.
"It's a family emergency," I tell her, the lie sliding easily off my tongue as I scan the listings. "My mom's going into labor and I have to find my stepdad's work number."
"Oh. Oh!" She steps away, then comes back. "Isn't that on file at the office?"
May God forever damn librarians and their need to help! I'm trying to work here! "No," I tell her. "They never added it." I'm multi-tasking like I'm a dual-processor computer. I'm looking up the information, stacking lies for Mrs. Grant, and imagining Kyra calmly getting it right this time, spilling liquid garnets down that perfectly white skin. It would almost be art.
Mrs. Grant goes away, but I'm not sure how long she'll stay away. I've got twenty Sellerses on my screen, and a depressing "1, 2, 3" at the bottom of the page, indicating more pages with the same name. I don't know what her father's name is. How am I supposed to do this?
I stare at the screen. I need more information. I need an address or a first name. I have to do something. She could be lying dead somewhere, and it would be all my fault because maybe she found a gun after all and used my bullet...
An address. I need an address.
Wait a minute. I close my eyes. I remember last week, when Kyra and I drove around town. Just north of Brookdale ... to that new development, with the swampy pond that she hated so much.
How did she know about that place? How did she know the details?
"That's where she lives, " I murmur.
Mrs. Grant hates it when people touch the screens, but I can't help it—I put my index finger on the monitor and drag down, checking the street names. Halfway down the second page, I find "Sellers, R." on the same street that Kyra and I visited. I scribble down the phone number and then I'm off to the circulation desk.
"Mrs. Grant. Can I use your phone?"
She looks at me suspiciously, but not too suspiciously. As far as she knows, I'm a good kid. I like books and computers. And besides, I'm throwing out my most earnest and innocent face.
"Use the one in there," she says, pointing toward her office. "It's private. You have to push nine first."
"Thanks!" I dash into the office and tap out the number. Four rings later, a man's voice says, "Hello. You've reached the Sellers house. If you'd like to leave a message for Roger or Kyra , wait for the beep."
I wait for the beep and then I record some silence onto his answering machine. If someone's home, I could shout into the machine and maybe they'd hear me, but if Kyra's home, she might just accelerate her plans.
I hang up. This isn't working. I need to talk to Roger Sellers and I need to do it now.
OK, so what do I know? Dad's name is Roger. I've got an address. Roger. And he ... he...
My computer. Kyra thought my computer was ancient. And my Internet connection was dial-up, which she thought was bad because ... because...
Her dad works for the phone company. Bingo.
I call the phone company and get lost in a maze of phone trees and voice mailboxes. I stab the 0 button, which kicks me to a receptionist.
"I need to speak with Roger Sellers." God, what if he works in the field or something?
"Who's calling, please?"
"I need to talk to him. Now. Please."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Sellers is in the conference room, miss." ugh. My voice is cracking. She thinks I'm a girl. "I can put you into his voice mail."
"No! This is important. I have to talk to him right now. It's about his daughter." I can almost hear her thinking from the other end. "His younger daughter."
There's nothing and then: "His what?"
"His younger daughter. Kyra. Not Katherine. Kyra."
"Hold on a second."
There's a click and then a voice tries to sell me DSL and call forwarding. I wait.
Another click, and a masculine voice: "Who is this?"
"Mr. Sellers? Mr. Roger Sellers?"
"Yes. Who the hell is this and what's wrong with my daughter?"
I don't know what to say. I've been so worried about calling him and finding him that I never thought of what to tell him. How do you tell someone that you think their kid might be trying to kill herself ... or might have done it already?
"I'm a friend of Kyra's. And I think she's in trouble."
"Kyra's always in trouble. If you're one of her friends, you're probably in trouble, too. Did she put you up to this? Did she tell you to prank me at work?"
"Mr. Sellers, please. I swear to God, I'm worried about her." I didn't realize how worried until just now, as tears start to flow. "Please. I think she's going to try to hurt herself." I bite my lip. "Again."
His voice goes angry and concerned at the same time. "Who is this? What do you know?"
"I just think she needs some help. She was at my house one day and I think she stole a bullet—"
"What?" He explodes. I don't blame him. "You gave my daughter a gun?"
"No! Not a gun! I didn't give her anything. She took it. A bullet. It was just a bullet that I carried around, and I think she took it." I take a deep breath. "But she asked me how to get a gun and I didn't tell her, but I think she took the bullet because she wants a gun. I don't know. I'm just really worried, Mr. Sellers. I'm just worried and I think that you or maybe your other daughter should be with her right now—"
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." I can almost picture him holding his hands up to stop me. "Wait. What did you just say?"
I don't even know. I'm babbling, rambling. I scroll back the conversation. "Maybe you should be with her. Or if you can't, maybe you could call her sister to—"
"Her sister."
"Yes. Her older sister. Katherine."
The line is silent. Have we been disconnected? My hand goes for the button pad to redial. "Her sister," he says again.
"Yes."
"Kyra doesn't have a sister. Who is this?"
She doesn't—? What? What?
"Her..." I'm stumbling over my words now. I'm lost in language. "Her sister. " As if saying it again can make it real. "The one who was pregnant. The one with the cars." And before he can even reply, I make the connections and I feel like an idiot. How could I not have known? How could I have fallen for all that crap about her sister's car and her mother's car? I'm a moron.
From the other end of the phone comes anger and confusion: "What are you talking about? Look, I can see on my Caller ID that you're calling from Kyra's school, and I want to know who this is right now— "
I hang up in the middle of his threat. I'm shaking with adrenaline. I'm completely spastic, my teeth chattering as if in fear or cold.
When I finally calm myself down and leave the small office, Mrs. Grant looks up from the circulation desk. "Do you have to leave?"
It's like she's someone from a thousand years ago, asking me a question about ploughshares. "What?"
"Did you get in touch with your stepfather? Is your mother OK?"
Oh. Right. That's the problem with lies. Tell enough of them and you can get screwed if you lose track.
"It wasn't labor," I tell her after thinking about it. "False alarm.
"
"Oh. Is everything all right, though?"
I stand there and stare at her. I don't know. I really don't. So I shrug my shoulders and leave.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
I GO BACK TO GYM TO CHANGE into my regular clothes. Burger and Kaltenbach seem very solicitous and interested in my welfare. I wonder if the Spermling told them I have pictures of them yukking it up while I was being hit by Frampton.
I can't bear the thought of sitting through my last two classes, but I don't have any way to get home, either. I feel like I should go tell someone else about Kyra, but ... what would be the point? I talked to her dad. What else can I do? I'm fifteen, for God's sake. What else am I supposed to do?
Cut class, I guess.
After all, it's been a day of firsts for me: first fight in school, first time sent to the office, first time threatening a school official. Why not compound it?
The day I met Kyra I wondered how she managed to sneak out of school. Well, mystery solved, and it's not exactly a Sherlock Holmes moment. You just leave, that's all.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk like I've got purpose and a place to go (which, I guess, I do). No one even looks at me as I head down the hall and out the door. Just walk like you're supposed to be doing what you're doing and people's minds fill in the blanks for you. Lying without saying a word. A new high for me.
It'll take me a while to walk home, but I don't mind. I stand out in the parking lot for a moment, trying to figure out the right direction—I'm used to being in a bus or car, not hoofing it.
A car. Kyra's car. Cars, actually.
The first time I met her...
Home can wait. I'm going back to elementary school.
I cut around the high school, cross the access road, and head down the hill. It's too late in the afternoon for recess—the elementary school kids are all inside, but there's someone on the swing, drifting back and forth. From here, she's the same as the first time I saw her, a solid black figure with a white thumbprint for a face.
The swing squeaks. Her black boots have gone gray and brown with dust and dirt kicked up as she drags her feet to the rhythm of the swing.