But now that I had a target in place, an aim, a weed to pick, time sped up again and it was as if Chris were with me. I liked the buzzy feeling that ran through to the tips of my fingers.
First, I had to make a computer disappear from the library again. This wasn’t as difficult as it may sound, since all I had to do was slide it off where it sat charging on the side of the front-desk counter, its green light flickering. Students were supposed to check out the computers and certain computers were reserved for faculty only, but those were the ones I liked best.
I brought the stolen computer to my handicap stall office and fixed the OUT OF ORDER sign to the door. I should really get one laminated at this point. The faculty computers had access to a master list of student phone numbers. I searched for John Mark Baez first, entering his number into my phone and checking I had the correct digits twice. Then I looked up the phone number of Akin Brewster. Almost every secret had a counterpoint, another person who also didn’t want the secret out. Akin was a well-liked gofer of any contraband that needed getting in school. Akin was the counterpoint in this equation, and I was afraid that, unfortunately, he was about to become collateral damage.
Step three—at least I thought it was three; I was losing track—was to send a message to John Mark promising a sale on goods. I didn’t know what the going price was for the little pills, so I didn’t want to venture a guess, but I was smart enough to know not to text the name of a banned substance.
Sometimes it seemed that people thought quiet meant stupid when really it just meant quiet. I was quiet, but I was always paying attention. And now I could be useful to Chris. I could help.
I sent the message, which would come to John Mark’s phone from an unknown number.
If people woke up at three o’clock in the morning for Black Friday sales, I had to believe John Mark would be willing to request a bathroom pass for a good deal. I then sent a “looking to score” request to Akin. And at the end of the day it was basic capitalism. A buy-sell economy.
Then, I gathered my belongings and headed out to the east wing of the school.
A lot of not-so-nice things happened in the east wing boys’ bathroom. Trust me, no one wanted me to go into the details, but suffice it to say that the place would need a Noah’s ark–level flood of Clorox bleach before it would ever be clean again. I waited at the far wall from the bathroom, just behind a corner where I could see well enough but easily duck away when needed. I played Mahjong Tiles on my phone. I was very good at Mahjong Tiles. I finished a game, then another, before I heard approaching footsteps and watched as Akin Brewster glanced along the corridors. He scratched his nose. Too many people had tells when they were up to something that they shouldn’t be. The most popular were tugging on ears, scratching noses, rubbing temples, looking at feet. That was a critique I would offer if anyone asked me about how to be better at breaking rules—quit looking so guilty. But, of course, nobody ever consulted me for anything.
Shortly after, John Mark followed him inside without looking guilty at all. My stomach clenched at the sound of him clearing his throat. I tried hard not to carry personal grudges, honestly, I did, and if he hadn’t been so hard on Chris, none of this would have to happen.
But he did, so as soon as the door sealed shut behind him, I ran to the nearest classroom and flung open the door. A teacher—I couldn’t remember her name—was grading papers alone.
“Help!” I said as persuasively as possible. My voice was never very loud even when I was yelling, so I had to rely on my face to convey the level of urgency that I needed it to. “I think someone’s hurt in the bathroom down the hall. I heard screaming. Please, hurry.”
Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name sprang from her chair so forcefully that she knocked the stack of papers over, sending them scattering on the floor. She didn’t notice. At the door to the classroom, she picked up an outdated landline phone. I heard her tell someone to send the campus police officer—Deputy Donovan—along with the school nurse to the east wing bathroom right away. She had stopped noticing me. Some people loved emergencies. I didn’t care one way or the other, but Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name’s cheeks were flushed with adrenaline. As she rushed out of the room, her heels didn’t even touch the floor.
No longer needed, I decided to attend the last few minutes of class after all.
It wasn’t until the end of the day when the whispers around school became loud enough for me to overhear.
John Mark Baez and Akin Brewster had been expelled for the purchase and sale of controlled substances on campus.
What a shame.
SEVEN
Chris
It was Friday at last and the first day of October. Back home, I’d be making the first of many pilgrimages to Delancey Street for a pumpkin spice latte at Berkli Parc. This year, I would have felt lucky to find a cup of coffee that didn’t have the aftertaste of battery acid.
But I was managing to survive, stay out of trouble, and not get my ass kicked, a task that had become much easier after John Mark had gotten expelled from school.
It was second period, which meant only six more classes stood between me and the weekend. Outside the auditorium doors, a clump of students formed, jockeying for position. I drew closer and through the jostling heads I could make out two pieces of paper posted side by side with lists of names printed on each one.
I experienced a slow sinking feeling, like the fall of sand through water. “Already?” I whined to myself. My act of contrition and silly song-making had taken on the pathetic sheen of embarrassment in my memory, and I was eager to forget the whole mess. It wasn’t as though I was going to wow my father with my bit part as a chorus member in the Hollow Pines High School play.
I gently pushed into the warm bodies, all ignorant to the personal space of everyone around them.
Then a bell-like voice rang out from behind me. “Excuse me, excuse me, coming through.” I turned as a swish of auburn hair swept by me, a sight that only served as an immediate premonition to Honor’s pointy elbow jabbing me in the ribs.
“Oof!” I rubbed at the spot. I was close behind her, the top of her head just under my chin. Her voice was breathless. “Is it there? Is it there?” She seemed to be speaking mainly to herself while she chewed on a fingernail.
When one of the other students retreated and freed up a spot in front of the list, she slid into it. “Come on, come on.” She bobbed on her toes, tracing a finger down the right-hand column to her name. I heard a quick intake of breath and then she carefully followed the line horizontally over to the left-hand column. A scream burst from her so suddenly it startled me. It was a someone-was-being-murdered scream. But before widespread panic could ensue, she began jumping up and down on her toes. “I got it!” she shrieked. “I got the part. Oh my god, I got the part!”
She spun and, without looking, wrapped her arms around the first person she came into contact with. That happened to be me. She hugged my neck and lifted her feet off the ground. “I did it!” she said gleefully, her breath hot on my earlobe.
I held her around the waist until she returned her feet to the floor. Once back on solid footing, she pulled away and self-consciously smoothed her hair behind her ears. “Sorry.” Her neck shrank into her shoulders. “I … guess I got a little excited there.”
I felt an uncomfortable tugging in the cavity of my chest, a longing to be touching her again.
“Are you kidding?” I said, willing my voice not to crack. “I was already celebrating.” I glanced over at the list and pointed to where Chris Autry appeared near the bottom. “Chorus Number Six.” I tapped the type. “So big day for both of us.”
She covered her mouth when she laughed like she was embarrassed at the sound of it. For the record, she shouldn’t have been. She had a childish laugh, like a part of her had never aged past six.
“I think,” I said, “this calls for a toast.”
She narrowed her eyes, but I could see the smile hiding behind them. “A toast, huh? You realize we�
�re in a high school, don’t you, and not a bar?”
“Personally, I believe it only adds to the ambience.” I led her away from the auditorium doors, and she managed to glance back only once, making sure that, yes, her name was still there, top of the list. “We have lockers,” I said, “and one of those fancy electric janitor mops.” I pointed. “An array of student art done in the medium of puff paint.” I gave a pretentious gallery wave over the posters fastened to the wall. “Where I’m from in New York, there could be a line out the door for a high school–themed club.” I grinned, stopping in front of the vending machine. “Honestly, we’re lucky to be able to say we discovered this place before it was cool.” I shrugged.
Honor’s lips were pursed as if she couldn’t decide what to make of me. I held up my finger to tell her to wait and then fished out some quarters from my pocket. I inserted the coins into the slot. Two cans of Sprite tumbled down, and I handed one to her. Our fingers brushed.
“It’s bubbly, clear, and won’t leave you with a raging headache the next day,” I said, popping open the top to the sound of a fizzy yawn from the can.
“Thanks,” she said, following suit.
I held up my soda can. “To me,” I said. “For not totally ruining your audition.” I took a sip. The bubbles jumped up my nose, and my face crinkled.
She stopped before the drink reached her lips. “Aren’t we supposed to be toasting me?” she asked.
The corner of my mouth tugged sideways. “Yikes, folks, looks like we’ve already got a diva on our hands.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll drink to that.” I watched her close her eyes as she took a long gulp.
“You know, your voice kind of reminds me a little of Sutton Foster’s,” I said because it was true. Since I first heard her voice on stage, I had been trying to place it. The brass of it, the accuracy, it was impressive for someone twice Honor’s age.
Honor jerked to attention and coughed up the sip of soda. “You know who Sutton Foster is?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Of course,” I said. “She’s had dinner at my house.” Okay, I was showing off slightly there.
“You’re joking. She’s won a Tony Award. You’re joking.” Honor shook her head. The can of soda quivered in her hand.
“She’s won two. And no, I never joke about Sutton Foster,” I replied.
One thing I had in common with my father was an instinctual attraction to people with talent, and I didn’t just mean romantically, though, that too, if anything could be made of my raging childhood crush on Kelly Bishop. It was an infectious thing. There was so much of it in New York, and, so far, I’d found so very little of it here.
I felt myself lingering on Honor’s face, studying the way her freckles were most visible on her nose, but how you had to squint to see them on her cheeks. I felt myself trying to figure out whether she was wearing any makeup or whether Honor Hyde was naturally that beautiful. And then—
Shit. What was I doing? Why was I really trying to impress her? I should absolutely not be trying to impress her. She was a girl. A very talented, mind-muddling girl. And when faced with the presence of a very pretty, talented, mind-muddling girl, I could be trusted to do only one thing and that was to make very stupid decisions. Get it together, Autry.
“Anyway.” I cleared my throat, intentionally breaking any moment that was passing between us. “I better get inside,” I said, “because I heard somewhere that if you’re not early, you’re late.”
I looked back at Honor only once as I followed the stream of other students into the auditorium. She’d seemed to deflate when I left her and as I watched now it was to notice that no one was gathering around to congratulate her. She was given a wide berth of physical space by her classmates, a few of whom did nod or murmur compliments on their way past. Honor’s posture was impeccable. Her eyes still shined with an internal triumph. She wasn’t sad. But she was curiously, I realized, alone.
* * *
I DIDN’T SPOT Lena on my way into drama.
I did look for her, though, scanning the audience chairs for a slim silhouette skulking in the background. I searched for her eyes shining in the dark, but I didn’t see her anywhere and wondered where she’d gone off to given that she’d yet to make herself scarce all week.
On the first day of rehearsal, Mrs. Fleury had an ambitious plan to run us through the opening number of the musical. Nearly the entire cast milled about on stage while she directed each of us to our marks.
When it was my turn, Mrs. Fleury pushed me by the shoulders into a back corner of the stage. I blinked into the lights, not used to looking out at the audience. I felt a dizzying sense of height as the empty chairs sprawled away from me below. “Now, in the first eight count, you’ll walk from stage right to the ‘X’ taped here on the floor,” she told me. “You’ll cross, cross, cross, with Group B. Time your arrivals. Look where you’re going. Do not bump into each other and then freeze.” She did a dramatic stop on the floor, stomping her feet and flaring her hands wide as if she wore taps on the soles of her shoes. “That will cue Drake and Honor to come to the center.” She patted her side, and Honor trotted over obediently.
Honor kept her chin tilted up as if to ward off any questions about whether she belonged there.
Drake, who’d already voiced his disdain for me on day one, had been assigned the male lead of Mark Antony to play opposite Honor’s Cleopatra in a musical version of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Drake gripped the sheet music like he expected someone to try to rip it from his hands. He kept glancing up from the paper to run vocal warm-ups. I may have rolled my eyes because there was taking it seriously and then there was taking yourself way too seriously, and the latter wasn’t a good look on a teenage drama nerd.
After a short time, Drake took a long sip of tea that had been resting on a prop and took brisk steps over to meet Honor in the center.
“Don’t come in early here,” he said to her with his finger pointed at a spot on the page. “I’m going to hold this note, so if you come in early it will not work.” He punctuated each word. She twisted her neck to see around his finger. “You’re a sophomore, right?” he asked. She nodded. “Great, so when I say don’t come in early, remember I have lungs like a mermaid, will you?” There was an undercurrent of exasperation in his voice already, and we hadn’t even begun yet. I got the sense that he was used to his talents being appreciated and that, unlike Honor, this probably wasn’t his first starring role.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t that my internal monologue was Team Honor—I didn’t even know her—but being anti-Drake was completely understandable.
Not that I had time to dwell on it either way because Mrs. Fleury was outlining the choreography for the next couple of eight counts, and I was trying not to panic. I had watched Cats and A Chorus Line, and those dancers had made the steps look easy. I’d believed that the hardest part was to sing well. As I shadowed the steps she laid out for us, I knew that I’d been deeply wrong about this. My palms were sweating, the way they did before any form of public speaking.
“From the top.” Mrs. Fleury pointed one of her acrylic nails at the pianist. An upbeat melody floated out from the instrument. I waited for my cue, followed a boy named Zayn diagonally across the stage, performed a quick grapevine across center, and then—
“Stage left, stage left, Mr. Autry.”
I glanced over and saw that as I’d been counting beats under my breath, the rest of Group A, to which I belonged, had grapevined in the opposite direction as I had.
“Sorry, sorry.” A tall, lanky guy had stepped on a girl’s foot in the interim, and she was currently hopping on one leg, yelling at him that he was always careless.
“Worthless neophyte.” Drake tapped his foot impatiently, watching me as I walked back to my starting position. Was he speaking to me in particular? He snapped his fingers. “The chorus is supposed to just go, go, go. It’s not supposed to be so hard. You�
��re background. Support. We can’t spend every rehearsal this way.”
I glared at him. “It’s just the first one, dude,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
But the next time, although I managed to head in the right direction, I got tripped up on my shoelaces and fell out of step. Mrs. Fleury halted us mid-step. I felt my neck getting red and splotchy. I should be better than this.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Drake rubbed his forehead. “This is ridiculous.”
“Give it a rest.” I turned to see Honor piping up. “Chris will get it. He knows all about theater.” I closed my eyes and took a breath in. The bulb of muscle at the base of my jaw worked in and out. “Don’t you, Chris?” she said. Pockets of heat gathered behind my ears.
Drake scoffed. “Is that so?” He folded his arms. His middle finger tapped at one of his elbows impatiently. “Well, please, please, do enlighten us.”
I gave a long stare over to where Mrs. Fleury was offering instruction, but stayed silent.
“He’s from New York. He’s had dinner with Sutton Foster.”
At this Drake laughed broadly as though already stage-acting.
“Right, Chris?” Honor’s voice became tentative.
I glanced over at her. “I—never mind, Honor.” And I returned to my beginning mark.
Drake’s laugh cut off sharply. “Guess you’ll have to sleep your way to Broadway with somebody else, doe eyes,” he muttered to Honor.
I raked my nails over the back of my neck and pulled the fibers of my being under control. I was not going to lose control over a little prick like Drake. I should never have gone out of my way to be nice to Honor Hyde in the first place. Lesson learned.
In the meantime, Mrs. Fleury was quickly losing control, and the scene was devolving into chaos. The short girl who had been stepped on was now yelling at the tall boy in a way that made me believe they had slept together at least once before, the microphone was screeching feedback, Mrs. Fleury had descended from the stage to consult her clipboard, and I heard a hushed voice coming from the wings behind me.
Teen Phantom Page 6
