Endangered

by Lamar Giles

  I check my last two shots, and they’re great, too. Not as dramatic. But still . . .

  “Yes! Yes! YES!”

  I drop them into Photoshop and do a bit of cleanup. No cheating, though. I simply highlight the best parts of these stills so my Admirer doesn’t miss a thing.

  I’m nearly vibrating with excitement when I attach the JPGs to an email titled: TOPPED

  In the body, I write:

  Dear SecretAdm1r3r, these photos are BOSS. So, consider the terms of your challenge met. No more blackmail, or lessons, or whatever you call this. If you want to talk shop, that’s okay, but I’m not playing games with you anymore. Deal with it.

  Panda

  P.S.—I call them Neptune’s Fury.

  I click SEND. Hear the swooshing “message sent” sound and sit back, satisfied.

  Anything less than congratulations and envy means he’s just a hater. I can’t wait to hear what he’s got to say about such awesome work.

  Actually, I end up waiting quite a while.

  He doesn’t respond at all.

  I don’t like being ignored. I mean, unless I’m trying to be ignored. Which is most days, yes. Not when I kind of risked my life (and Ocie’s . . . she wasn’t exaggerating, I guess) to get a damned incredible photo for some jerk who doesn’t even acknowledge how freakin’ incredible I am!

  The weekend slogs. My parents stop by my room frequently—sometimes solo, sometimes as a team—to make sure I’m “all right.” I’m not, of course, despite my insistence to the contrary. Saturday evening, they suggest dinner at Yard House, my favorite restaurant out in Pembroke. I ask them to bring me a to-go order of kung pao calamari without ever looking away from my laptop. Dad’s truck purrs as they leave the driveway, and I keep glancing at the tiny window in the corner of my monitor, my chat friends list.

  SecretAdm1r3r never comes online.

  Sunday. Still no word from him.

  I do go for frozen yogurt. Guess that’s something.

  The weather’s cool in the aftermath of Friday’s storm, so the Sweet Frog yogurt shop is a lonely, pastel-colored cave. Plenty of solitude for brooding over a leaning mountain of creamy goodness covered in chips, and nuts, and candy pieces.

  Who the hell does he think he is to just go radio silent on me like that?

  Who do I think he is?

  It’s been on my mind since this cat-and-mouse nonsense started. More so now that he’s giving me the cold shoulder.

  He goes to Portside. I’m certain of it.

  And he’s got skills with a lens.

  There’s really only one person I might consider good enough to pull off a photo like Dante. The same person who openly despises Gray (over total misunderstandings, mind you) and might be up to screwing with me if he found out we were one and the same.

  My Digital Photography rival. Marcos Dahmer.

  With the edge of my spoon I shave layers off a swirling cake-batter-flavored peak, cause a chocolate-chip avalanche, and imagine the poor people at the melted base of Mount Yogurt screaming in terror at the wrath of their god.

  She is displeased.

  CHAPTER 12

  I SLEEP THROUGH MY ALARM ON Monday. I’m late, but not really.

  My clock’s set a half hour earlier than necessary. I need the extra time to get into my camouflage, to “ghost up.” Dad wakes me when the chime has gone on long enough to drive him a little crazy.

  “What’s with you?” he asks, his patience for his sullen daughter thin on this Monday morning.

  “Up late,” I groan.

  “No one told you to stay up all night surfing the web.”

  “That’s not what I was doing.” Not exactly. I was combing through Marcos Dahmer’s Facebook page looking for Admirer clues.

  His best photos—landscapes, portraits—were collected in an album labeled Portfolio. Nothing like Dante, but impressive.

  “You’re not staying home,” Dad says, reminding me the time for rest has passed, even though my body aches from fatigue.

  Somehow my feet are on the floor, betraying me. “I’m up.”

  A shower helps, though grogginess has me forgetting my shower cap. My hair’s soaked before I’m alert enough to realize my mistake, and there’s no time to dry or wrangle it. Playing sick comes to mind; Mom would buy it even if Dad didn’t, but I think about Ocie. I’m her ride, and I need to regain some goodwill (though I won’t be grabbing the venti white chocolate mocha, not if we plan to make first bell).

  Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Drive. Park. Honnk-Onk-Onk-Honnk (Come, Ocie, come).

  “Where’s my coffee?” Ocie says.

  Really?

  She doesn’t bring up our storm chase, or anything. Maybe because she’s caffeine cranky, and that’s okay. I know I messed up, but I’m in no mood to beg forgiveness, so silence is best. I don’t want to fight, because I won’t back down today. I’m that pissed. Until I see the circus in front of the school.

  What I imagined a week ago is real. News vans from all the local stations are parked at the curb. Every reporter has one of my schoolmates before their cameras, a bulbous mic shoved toward their faces like strangers offering candy.

  “Whoa,” Ocie says, perky now. “This thing’s getting major pub now. Wanna try to get on camera?”

  I don’t respond. I drive into the student lot and grab a spot far away from the drama. Unfortunately, the parking space is still in the state of Virginia, so it’s not quite far enough.

  On my way to homeroom, I scan the hall crowd for a glimpse of Marcos. It’s not like I’m expecting him to be wearing an I’m Your Admirer T-shirt, but now that I suspect what I suspect, I want to see him from a distance. I want to look at him as Gray would.

  “Hey! Lauren!”

  I turn toward the aggravated call—me and several others. Taylor Durham fast walks my way, his face tense and creased. My eyes stretch wide. Seriously?

  He forces his voice down an octave. “We need to talk.”

  I’m walking, shaking my head. “No, we don’t.”

  He’s on my heels. “What did you say to Mei?”

  “I say lots of things to her on a daily basis. She’s my best friend.”

  “She won’t tutor me anymore.”

  I stop cold and he walks into me, knocking my bag off my shoulder, spilling books. Some jackass laughs, and now I’ve gotten more unwanted attention.

  Crouching, I scramble to gather my things and get away from the angry chem man. The jackass is still ha-hawing, and I remember the laugh from the times when it used to chase me down the hall.

  Could this morning get any worse?

  The laughter stops abruptly, and Brock Parham says, “Hey, sexy, you new here?”

  We’ve been classmates since the third grade. His memory isn’t bad, and he’s not half as clever as he thinks. This is what happens when a Hall Ghost suddenly returns to the land of the living. A turf war.

  With my books gathered, I try to slide by him and Taylor, but Brock grabs me by the elbow in a way that might’ve seemed gentle if I’d asked him to touch me. He’s taking liberties, as he’s known to do. Thus me busting his ass on Gray Scales two years ago.

  Crime: Brock plays football. So did Nelson Barclay, who, until an unfortunate locker room incident, was a rising gridiron star and a closeted gay kid. That incident was engineered by Brock, and involved intricate paper arrows made out of the pages from gay porn magazines. The big block arrows were constructed with care I’ve only seen from my mother’s arts-and-craftsy friends, and taped along the walls and lockers like directions through a maze. All pointing to Nelson’s locker, where a huge sex toy had been rubber-cemented to the door in a way that would’ve forced him to hold it in one hand while he worked the combination lock with the other. Nelson never gave his cruel teammates the pleasure of seeing him fondle a plastic penis while suiting up. Instead, he left the locker room, never to return.

  Punishment: I knew a secret—a couple actually—about Brock thanks to his brief relationship with Oci
e back in the day (one of her lowlights if I’m being honest). As obnoxious and homophobic as he is, he’s got a passion that he shares with his father. Comic books. Nothing wrong there, I’ve read a few myself, and can respect the art. It’s more than a love for them, though. It’s a lifestyle, at least part of the year. They do conventions. As cosplayers—people who wear intricate costumes in homage to a favorite fictional character.

  We don’t have any cons locally, which Brock’s probably seen as a blessing. At the time of the Nelson Barclay incident, I had no way of tailing him to any out-of-state events. But this is one time where a little internet research did the job for me. There were plenty of photographers at GorgonCon, North Carolina. A whole lot of lists for best cosplayers. Guess who made the cut.

  Brock and his dad. Or as their con buddies probably referred to them, Batman and Robin.

  And, no, not cutie Robin from the late-nineties movies. I’m talking little green man-panties Robin. It took me all of fifteen minutes to find, crop, and post the photo on Gray Scales. Within a day, Nelson’s sexuality fell off everyone’s social radar as the school refocused on Portside’s own Caped Crusader.

  That was then. This . . . is something I’m not in the mood for.

  I want to bite his hand and rip his shoulder from the socket. I also want to go back to being a Hall Ghost tomorrow. I can’t let some hair frizz and the attention of an a-hole like Brock ruin my cover forever. I say, “Please take your hand off me.”

  He might’ve complied, and this might’ve ended quietly.

  But Taylor smacks Brock’s arm away. “Don’t touch her, dick.”

  A whiff of masculine aggression raises hackles on the backs of onlookers. Now we’re officially the morning entertainment.

  Brock raises his hands, palms out, feigning peace. “My bad, Durham. Just wanted to know who the new girl is.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve seen a girl who kind of looks like you. Nerdy chick with glasses, antisocial, major stick up her ass. That can’t be you, though. Unlike her, you’re cute, in a future-hot-teacher kind of way.”

  “Oh, screw you, Brock.” I realize the opening I give him a half second too late.

  He says, “My bear costume is in the cleaners, but if you’re still willing . . .”

  A collective ooohhhh sounds along the hall, the hive-mind reaction to a well-timed burn.

  Now the bad days are not just a memory.

  I’ve time-traveled to when such jokes weren’t just a Brock thing, but a Portside High thing. My bag’s dropped from my shoulder, my fist clenching the strap while the satchel dangles an inch from the ground, heavy like the spiked ball of some medieval warrior’s mace.

  I say, “I prefer your superhero outfit,” and I glance at his nether regions. “Those little tight shorts assured me there was nothing to fear.”

  The onlookers are laughing harder. Not at me.

  Brock’s not known for letting others have the last word. I’m not in a giving mood either. His chest expands, gathering air to say something nasty. Hall Ghost persona be damned—I’m not backing down.

  Before it goes further, Taylor inserts himself between us, gets in Brock’s face. “Back off.”

  Again, Brock plays like he’s taking the high road. “I’m sorry, dude. This you?”

  “This.” As if I’m property to claim. I can’t decide if I’m more offended by Taylor assuming I need him to fight for me, or the implication that I somehow belong to him. Wisely, Taylor shakes his head. “You know it ain’t like that. Just back off.”

  Brock smirks, flicks a “You believe this guy?” signal to some nearby toady. “Sure will, Sheriff. I don’t want no trouble with the law.”

  Brock forces his way between me and Taylor, bumping Taylor’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

  I walk away, unwilling to lend credence to their childishness by being a witness to whatever happens next. If they fight, they fight. I won’t let it be over me.

  The resulting sounds aren’t that of a scuffle, but of footsteps chasing me.

  “Lauren, bist du okay?” He’s asking if I’m okay, in German. Like he used to. Making me want to claw his eyes out.

  “I’m perfect.” I speed up, hoping to outrun this conversation. I can’t beat his long legs, though.

  “Brock’s a messed-up dude.” He says it like everyone who meets Brock doesn’t get that instantly. Also, like he’s not a messed-up dude. “I had to say something.”

  “Where’s your shield?”

  “My what?”

  “All this time and I never knew your lying and backstabbing was an act. You’re really Captain America, defending my honor.”

  “Lauren? Still?”

  I’m visualizing the mace again. “No one calls me Lauren around here. Especially you.”

  Outside my homeroom, he stops, makes a quarter turn, like half of him wants to run while the other half needs to finish this exchange.

  I say, “I’d prefer you don’t talk to me. Ever. If you do feel the need, know that you’ve lost your ‘Lauren’ privileges.” His back is to me now, and I expect him to walk away. “You call me Panda,” I say, intending to add the stinger “It shouldn’t be hard for you to remember, since it’s the name you gave me.”

  Taylor’s no longer paying attention to me. No one is and I’m feeling slightly shunned. I sidestep to see what’s drawn everyone’s attention.

  Oh.

  Keachin’s back.

  CHAPTER 13

  MUTED COLORS, NO MAKEUP, HAIR UP and away. Keachin’s taken a page from my Hall Ghost playbook.

  Her friends form a protective bubble around her like a popularity Secret Service, escorting her through the stunned spectators. As she passes, a wave of gossiping murmurs follow. Keachin maintains a stiff spine, her chin high and eyes on the horizon. So dignified. She may be prom queen yet.

  When she turns the corner, the volume cranks. Girls simultaneously pitying and cat-clawing, boys being crass or wanting to be the one Keachin allows to comfort her during this trying time.

  “Wasn’t expecting that,” Taylor says.

  “Me neither,” I say with no snark. He seems shocked.

  The warning bell rings and the crowds begin to disperse. Taylor gives me a long look that sets me on edge again. “I really need Mei’s help, Lauren. I’d appreciate it if you considered giving me a pass on this one.”

  “I don’t control what Ocie does.”

  “You’ve got more power than you think. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  He shakes his head, and he’s gone.

  In homeroom I take my desk. The morning has already been a mix of rough and strange, and the school day has not started yet. I’m dreading what is sure to be a long, long Monday, and I reach into my bag to power down my phone. There’s a text from a number I don’t know, though the message reveals all.

  The bitch is back. Some ppl don’t learn. A little Neptune’s Fury would serve her well. BTW—like ur ’do. ;)

  My hand rises, and I finger comb my spongy hair. He’s here.

  I glance at the surrounding desks, knowing my Admirer isn’t that close. After all, me and Marcos don’t have the same homeroom.

  Dealing with Taylor and Brock distracted me, and I didn’t notice if he was around. Observing. I should be creeped out. It’s almost mandatory, right? But I’m getting used to his game.

  He mentioned Neptune’s Fury to bait me. After a weekend of silence. My strongest urge is to text back something mean. I fight it, cut my phone off instead, and leave it off for the entire day. I’m taking back some control.

  Should’ve been playing hard to get the whole time.

  Keachin Myer is not in my lunch period, but her presence is felt. Gossip is like wildfire; even when you think it’s done, the ground is still hot. Ready to ignite again. It doesn’t need a spark—it’s already fire—it just needs air.

  “She’s the best-looking victim I’ve ever
seen,” Ocie says, not above the fray. “I hear she’s a little testy, though. You know that theater girl? Melanie? Keachin bit her head off for staring.”

  “Doesn’t that girl have an astigmatism?”

  Some ppl don’t learn.

  Ocie shrugs, keeps chattering. If there’s one positive to Keachin’s return, it’s eclipsed Ocie’s irritation with me. The negatives, though . . .

  “You think she thinks any of this is her fault?” I say, cutting Ocie off midrumor.

  “Why would she? Coach Bottin’s the grown-up.”

  I nearly say, “But what about Nina’s crutches?”

  That would be too much. A connection no one’s made, and no one is going to make. What have I done here? Really? Is it possible that my pictures, and the subsequent scandal, have made Keachin more popular?

  Ocie kicks my shin under the table.

  “Ow! What the hell?”

  She makes this really weird face, her lips pinched and twitchy, fighting a smile. She speaks through her teeth, “Don’t look.”

  Of course I’m going to look, because she’s cutting her eyes hard left. I should probably make sure I’m not about to be attacked or something.

  Jalen Palmer and Mike Harris are checking us out like we haven’t known each other forever. I glance to Ocie. “What’s that about?”

  “Your new look, dummy. You could’ve warned me you were glamming today. I would’ve switched it up, too.”

  “Wasn’t on purpose,” I mumble. Jeez, do I really look that different?

  They stroll past flashing obvious eye contact, and Ocie’s smile almost cuts her head in half. “I want Mike.”

  “You can have them both.”

  “Stop. They are cuties, and Jalen’s in my next class. I can ask him about you. We could double.”

  “Do. Not.”

  Her grin retracts into something sinister. “You owe me.”

  “Just lattes, dear. Just lattes.”

  Dating is the last thing on my mind. Digital Photography is next period. Marcos will be there. He’s where my head’s at.

  Except he never shows up. It’s perplexing, and I want to ask his yearbook buddy Alyssa if he’s gone home sick. But I’ve never asked after him before. It might tip him off. I remain silent, and can’t concentrate for the rest of the day.