“Are you okay, Artoo?”
I blink. He’s turned to face me, eyebrows lifted, a half-smile on his lips.
“What?”
“You look all squinty,” he says.
I’m not sure what he’s insinuating, but I wasn’t staring at him. He just happened to be in my line of vision, looking different from how he usually does. It was natural for my gaze to linger.
Standing up straighter, I gesture to his T-shirt and jeans. “Casual clothes? Did the robot that controls your body get overheated in the suit?”
“Nah, we’ve mastered temperature regulation. It’s just not worth it to have a robot without that ability these days.”
“And here I was looking forward to watching you run around Seattle in twelve cubic feet of polyester.” It’s a relief to spar like this after the yearbook debacle.
He crosses his arms over his chest, as though self-conscious about how much of him is on display. It makes his upper arms appear even more muscular. God, does he lift weights? How else would he achieve that kind of definition?
“Don’t insult me,” he says. “That suit is a cotton-wool blend.”
We’ve inched close enough for me to read the Latin on his chest: QUIDQUID LATINE DICTUM, ALTUM VIDETUR. He’s probably dying for someone to ask him what it means. I plan to google it later.
He zips his backpack and swings it over one shoulder. There’s a pin on it, a shiny enamel basket of corgis and the words FREE PUPPIES! I have no idea what this means either, only that I’m 98 percent sure he isn’t running an underground dog-breeding operation.
“Is everything…?” I wave my hand to indicate the word “okay,” unsure if finishing the sentence would indicate some kind of closeness we’ve never had.
“Curvy?” he asks. He taps his chin. “Twisted? My charades skills are a little rusty. How many syllables does it have?”
“No, I—I ran into your friends at lunch. They said you had an emergency?”
The tips of his ears turn scarlet. “Oh. No. I mean, yes, but everything’s okay now.”
“Good,” I say quickly, because if his friends don’t know much about his personal life, I know even less. I’ve always imagined he does homework in his suits, eats dinner in his suits, sleeps in his suits. Then wakes up and does it all again. This T-shirt and the revelation about his arms have poked holes in my McTheories. “That it wasn’t serious, I mean. I’m glad you can still play. Then I don’t have to feel bad when I beat you.”
“Even though you won’t deign to sign my yearbook?” He says this with a lift of his brows, like he knows exactly how shitty I feel about it.
Now it’s my turn to blush. If my bangs were longer, I could hide behind them. “I wasn’t—I mean—”
He holds up a hand to indicate it’s fine, though his remark makes me uneasy. “I’m going to find the rest of the Quad.”
McNair and his friends call themselves the Quadrilateral, abbreviated as the Quad, and yes, it is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard. But it does make what they said about his personal life even stranger. Almost like the Quad is more of a triangle with an extra appendage hanging off it. They’re splitting up next year too, Neil to NYU, Adrian to one of the UCs, Cyrus to Western, and Sean to the UW.
Kirby and Mara wander back to me. Mara is frowning down at her phone. “It’s 12:02. Are we sure we’re in the right place?”
“Unlikely that all three hundred of us got it wrong,” Kirby says.
Another few minutes pass, and a nervous energy pulses through the crowd. I can’t help wondering if one of the juniors made a mistake. The game is different every year; the juniors spend most of their last quarter in student council planning it. Despite all our behind-the-scenes bickering, McNair and I executed a flawless Howl last year. Our clues, when connected on a map, formed the outline of a wolf.
“It said noon sharp,” Justin Banks yells.
“Did they forget about us?” Iris Zhou asks.
From a few yards away, McNair’s eyes snag mine, asking a silent question: Should we do anything? And I’m not entirely sure. We’re not presidents anymore, but we’re used to taking the lead.…
“This is bullshit,” Justin says. “I’m out.”
As he stomps off the field, nearly three hundred phones buzz, chime, and ding at once. A text blast from an unknown number.
WELCOME, SENIOR WOLF PACK
Surprised yet? We’re just getting started. Only the first 50 players who make it to our secret location will remain in the game.
Here’s your riddle:
2001
1968
70
2.5
“2001, 2001…,” Kirby says. “That was before we were born. What was going on in 2001? Besides some really questionable fashion choices?”
Google isn’t off-limits, but the clues are always designed in a way that makes them difficult to find online.
“Oh!” Mara exclaims. “Maybe it’s a reference to that old movie? 2001: A Space Odyssey?”
“Say it a little louder,” Kirby says.
“Sorry. Got excited.”
We decide to head for my car, since I’m the only one of us who drives to school. Kirby and Mara live close enough to walk. The rest of the seniors seem to have the same idea. Most people split into groups, some racing toward the parking lot and others to the bus.
“I think Mara’s right about the movie,” I say as our shoes hit concrete, willing my mobile browser to work faster. “I watched it with my dad once. Or more accurately, he watched it, and I fell asleep. And… it came out in 1968!”
“There has to be some link to Seattle,” Kirby says. “Maybe it was shot here.… Nope, Wikipedia says England.”
“You’ve been in AP classes for three years and you’re still using Wikipedia?” Mara sounds horrified. Before Kirby can defend herself, we arrive at my Accord and its mangled front bumper. “Rowan! Oh my God, your poor car.”
“It still drives,” I say, a little sheepish. “Get in.”
“If it’s movie-related, maybe ‘seventy’ is referring to seventy-millimeter film,” Mara says, sliding into the back after Kirby claims the front passenger seat. “Are there any theaters in Seattle that still use seventy millimeter?”
“My guess would be Cinerama,” I say. It’s one of Seattle’s oldest theaters. Some more frantic googling. “One sec… There!” I turn my phone to show them, filled with the rush that comes with being pretty sure you have the right answer to a problem. “Cinerama showed the movie in seventy millimeter for two and a half years.”
“To Cinerama!” Kirby says, slapping my dashboard.
While we cruise toward downtown, Kirby scrolls through my music, blatantly ignoring the unspoken driver’s choice rule.
“I knew Howl would fix things. You’re already significantly peppier,” Mara says. She leans her head against the window. “But would it kill Seattle to give us more than ten minutes of sun?”
The clouds have shifted again, the sky a tranquil gray.
“You know what they say,” Kirby says without looking up from my playlists. “Summer doesn’t start in Seattle until after the Fourth of July. Why do you have Electric Light Orchestra on here?”
I grab for my phone, but she holds it out of reach. “Because ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’ is timeless.”
“We might even get rained out in Lake Chelan,” Mara says.
Kirby freezes, turning her head to glance back at Mara.
“What’s happening in Lake Chelan?” I exit 99 North onto Denny Way, landing in the middle of Seattle’s downtown lunch rush.
A pause. Kirby becomes invested in peeling old parking stickers off my window.
“Shit,” Mara mutters.
“We were going to tell you,” Kirby says. “Mara’s parents are going to Lake Chelan for the Fourth, and they invited me to go with them.”
“They invited you,” I say, my stomach dropping. “Just you.”
“Yeah.”
“For the weekend?”
“For, uh, for two weeks.”
Two whole weeks. It’s not that we’ve always spent every day of every summer together. Every other year, Kirby’s family visits relatives in Cambodia, and twice, Mara went to a dance camp in New York. But this summer is our last one, and I thought that meant something.
I had it all planned out in my head. Sand between our toes at Alki and Golden Gardens, daring each other to touch the fountain at Seattle Center like we’re twelve, portabello burgers at Plum Bistro, molten chocolate lava cakes at Hot Cakes, cinnamon rolls at Two Birds One Scone…
“We can still go to Bumbershoot together,” Mara says softly.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “I can’t go to Bumbershoot. I leave for Boston at the end of August.”
“Oh.”
“I just—I thought we had all these plans.”
“We haven’t really talked about it,” Kirby says as traffic crawls forward.
I open my mouth to insist that of course we have—except I can’t actually remember it. We had AP tests and graduation prep and final exams, and now it’s here, our last day on the cusp of our last summer, and I’m losing my best friends much sooner than I thought I’d be.
3. Hang out with Kirby and Mara EVERY WEEKEND!
“Parking spot!” Mara practically shouts, then holds a hand to her mouth like she’s surprised by her outburst. “I mean, there’s a good parking spot. Right there.”
Silently, I pull into it.
The theater takes up nearly an entire square block, despite having only one massive screen, and costumes from various film franchises are on display in the lobby. But my favorite thing about Cinerama has always been—
“Chocolate popcorn,” Mara says, still trying to play peacemaker. “Do you want some, Rowan?”
I shake my head, declining it for possibly the first time in my life.
Student council juniors Nisha Deshpande and Olivia Sweeney are waiting at the entrance to the auditorium. “Rowan, hi!” Nisha says as she scribbles my name on her clipboard. “I’m so glad you made it.”
Fan club, Kirby mouths.
We’re within the first ten to have arrived. With the exception of some hushed conversations, the auditorium is quiet. We grab three aisle seats near each other so we can make an easy escape.
And then we wait.
Our classmates show up mostly in small groups but occasionally solo, and I crouch down low in my seat when Spencer ambles up the aisle. I spot McNair hair—a homing beacon, as always—and a mix of relief and pride rushes through me. He made it, but I beat him.
It’s almost twelve thirty when the last person arrives.
“Lucky number fifty!” Brady Becker shouts, tearing down the aisle with an outstretched hand. A few people reach out to high-five him.
The moment he slides into a second-row seat, the auditorium door shuts with a whoosh and the lights go completely dark.
12:26 p.m.
A FILM STARTS to play. Welcome, a title card says, white letters on a black background. You’ve passed the first test.
The juniors modeled it on a silent film, black-and-white stills interspersed with written dialogue and scored by a jazz piece. They act out game play and demonstrate both proper kills and unsportsmanlike conduct, including an over-the-top chase sequence that ends with a player diving into Green Lake.
“Lights!” someone calls when it ends, but the room stays dark. “Lights,” they say again, more forcefully.
As my eyes readjust, a group of student council juniors takes the stage: incoming president Logan Perez and VP Matt Schreiber, plus Nisha and Olivia. They’re all wearing blue T-shirts, though Nisha and Olivia are weighed down with clipboards and papers and boxes filled with armbands. It’s clear they’re the minions in this operation.
“Congratulations, seniors!” Logan shouts, her voice so controlled that she doesn’t need a microphone. She’s led Westview to two basketball championships already, and she’ll probably do it again her senior year, though I won’t be around to see it. “You’re all officially playing Howl.”
Whoops go up from the crowd, and it’s impossible not to feel amped. Last year, I couldn’t wait until it was my turn. You’re not done with WHS until you play Howl. Right now, I’m clinging to that pretty tightly.
“As far as you know, everyone is an enemy,” Logan continues, pacing the stage. “Your best friend, your boyfriend, your girlfriend. Trust no one.”
Mara and Kirby exchange a worried glance as Matt takes the mic.
“The basic game structure is the same as past years,” he says. “Before you leave this room, you’ll receive a blue armband and a slip of paper with your target’s name on it. In order to make a kill, you have to pull off your target’s armband. Then you’ll assume their target, so do not lose your slip of paper.” He cups a hand over his ear. “What was that?”
“Do not lose your slip of paper,” the auditorium echoes, and he flashes us a thumbs-up.
“You also need to message us when you make a kill so we can keep track,” Logan adds. “You all have the number from earlier.”
“But, Logan,” Matt says, “how do you win?”
“Great question, Matt. You’ll receive all fifteen scavenger-hunt clues as soon as you leave this room. You’ll need to capture photographic evidence for each clue. Some of them might refer to very specific landmarks, while others are more general. You can get them in any order, but keep in mind that there might be a lot of other people at those specific landmarks, people who might be hunting you. You’ll send your photos to us, and we’ll verify them for you. While you can share photos with your friends at your discretion, we’ll be running them through a reverse image search to make sure you’re not cheating.
“To win, you have to be the first person with all fifteen clues who makes it back to the Westview gym. The game will end one hour before graduation on Sunday if we don’t have a winner.”
“So what you’re saying is this game goes all night?” Matt says. “And tomorrow, too?”
Logan nods. “Yep! And you all raised a ton of money this year, so we have a really exciting game in store for you.” Logan pauses for dramatic effect, then grins. “The grand prize is five thousand dollars.”
A low whistle rolls through the crowd. Five thousand dollars—that’s more than double our prize from last year. It would cover the first-year tuition my scholarships didn’t.
I could buy so many books.
“Okay, okay,” Logan says, holding up a hand to regain control. “Should we talk about the safe zones, Matt?”
“Let’s talk about the safe zones, Logan!”
I have to admire how they’ve choreographed this, how well they work together. They’ve always been friends, partnered up on projects in leadership, and as demonstrated by their nearly landslide votes, are pretty universally well liked among the student body. It’ll probably be a much more peaceful student council.
“Throughout the day, you’ll get text blasts from us instructing you to meet at certain safe zones, and showing up at those safe zones will be mandatory. We want to make sure you’re not just hiding out somewhere, but we also want to give you a chance to rest and spend time with your friends. You can hang out at the safe zone if you’re killed, too. This is your last day! The last time you’re going to see all these people! We want you to have fun with them—”
“—when you’re not trying to murder them,” Matt finishes. “Any questions?”
A freckled hand shoots into the air.
“Are we to assume we have geographical limitations?” McNair asks in his overly formal way.
Logan points at him. “Yes. Good question. No farther north than Eighty-Fifth Street, no farther south than Yesler, no farther east than Lake Washington, and no farther west than Puget Sound.”
They answer a few more questions—“What happens if you lose your armband?” (don’t do it), “Can you double up on photos?” (no: one clue, one landmark). Text blasts will keep us updated o
n the game standings.
“We won’t take any more of your time,” Logan says. “Nisha has armbands, and Olivia has your targets. Be sure to collect one of each. Your armband should be tied only once around, not in a knot. And obviously, don’t let anyone see the name you have. We know some of you will decide to work together on the scavenger hunt, but be careful. You never know if someone will sacrifice your friendship to win a big pot o’ cash.”
That’s what happened last year: two best friends worked through the entire scavenger hunt together, and at the end, one of them killed the other, who’d been her target.
“You have five minutes before there’s a target on your back,” Logan says. “Same with the safe zones: five minutes of safety before your enemies are free to take you down.”
“Good luck, Wolf Pack!” Matt says, and the auditorium erupts into a loud, anxious howl before we jump to our feet and race to the auditorium doors.
In the lobby, Nisha ties the blue bandanna around my upper arm. “Good luck,” she whispers as I get my slip of paper from Olivia.
My stomach plummets when I see my first target: Spencer Sugiyama.
* * *
Outside the theater, everyone splits off in different directions, some in clusters, some alone. The list of clues is daunting. A handful of them are obvious, but I’m stumped on at least a couple.
Kirby, Mara, and I linger at Cinerama’s Lenora Street entrance. Now that we’re alone again, the car conversation feels like a physical barrier between us.
“Our five minutes are almost up,” I say, staring at my phone before sliding it back into my dress pocket.
“Right.” Kirby toes a dent in the sidewalk with her sandal. “And any one of us could have the other.”
Today Tonight Tomorrow Page 6
