Endangered

by Lamar Giles

  “The what?”

  He rolls his eyes. “For someone who stalked her you sure are uninformed.”

  “I’m not a stalker.”

  “Whatever. It’s a Facebook page for Keachin. It had five thousand likes.”

  “Keachin’s RIP page has five thousand likes?!” Yes. That sounds shitty. Still. Really?

  Taylor shakes his head, and I mistake it for him judging my pettiness.

  He clarifies: “Had. It had five thousand. After those news stories aired, and the link started making the rounds, it’s up to”—he checks his phone—“thirty-five K.”

  Thirty. Five. Thousand. Likes.

  It’s sinking in. She’s dead. Thirty-five thousand people have expressed some level of mourning with a mouse click.

  So what do I—the one who “got her killed”—get? What’s the opposite of a Facebook like?

  The bell rings. We’re both late. I couldn’t care less.

  I should, though. I really, really should.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I mull over what he’s said. “I get she was popular, but she wasn’t nice, Taylor. Has everyone forgotten that? What? Don’t look at me like that.”

  “You’re not lying, but”—he squirms in his chair—“she got run over by a car.”

  “I don’t mean it disrespectfully. It’s just blowing my mind. She’s everyone’s best friend now?”

  “My mom once told me people have a way of turning shiny when they die.”

  “What’s that even mean?”

  “It means people exaggerate the good stuff about dead people.”

  “So she’s going to be prettier even though she was already gorgeous? The time she didn’t ream some poorly dressed kid becomes her feeding the homeless?”

  “Do you hear yourself?” He looks away, motions toward the library’s double doors, and beyond them. “You’ve got bigger problems. Yesterday, when they found out you’re Gray, that was like shell shock. Now they’ve had time to go home and yak it up with their friends, let some talking head tell them what to feel. They’ve been supplied with an opinion. That opinion says you got the school’s most beautiful, sweetest, smartest girl murdered. Now you’re as big of a monster as Coach Bottin.”

  “I don’t get it, Taylor. Why are you trying to help me? Why aren’t you mad at me, too?”

  Surely, by now, he’s realized he was my first target. The one who started it all.

  His eyes remain on the door when he speaks again, nonchalant. “I’ve always known you were Gray.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “YOU . . . WHAT?” I STAND, BACK AWAY like he’d just flashed hidden claws and vampire fangs.

  “That first picture, me with the jockstraps. Hell, yeah, it was you. What other photographer was that pissed at me?”

  That is the reason I don’t do personal.

  “If you knew, how come you never . . .”

  “Confronted you? Blew up your secret identity? Because you were right to do it to me. I had it coming.”

  This sounds something like an apology. Not quite, but it’s so much closer than anything he’s ever attempted before.

  “I don’t know how to take that,” I say, honest.

  “However you take it, I suggest you do it later. When we’ve dealt with the fallout of you going crazy and telling everyone your secret. What was that about? Did you feel guilty?”

  “It’s not what you think. I was—”

  “Let me guess,” Vice Principal Del Toro says, having entered the library unnoticed, standing now with hand on hip and an annoyed stare. “‘Just on your way to class’?”

  Taylor rises. He knows what’s coming, as do I. He tries to save me. “It’s my fault. Lauren shouldn’t be punished.”

  “I don’t doubt you’re at fault for something, Mr. Durham. You and I have been here before. Ms. Daniels is still responsible for her own class schedule. Besides, she can probably use a break today.”

  She knows about my recent unmasking. Everyone does.

  Ms. Del Toro thumbs her walkie-talkie. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m bringing two students to the ISS room for skipping class.”

  ISS. In-School Suspension, aka Siberia.

  Ms. Del Toro holds the door open and hurries us along. On my way out, I glance into the stacks and see a kid ducking behind the podium where the huge dust-covered dictionary sits. He’s actually skipping class, but I have to go to ISS?

  He sees me seeing him, perhaps wondering if I’m going to tell Ms. Del Toro.

  No worries, kid, I’m not ratting you out.

  Too bad I couldn’t count on him to return the favor.

  The ISS room is located on a desolate back hallway, right across from the old special-needs classroom. There’s one window, and an air-conditioning unit partially blocks the sun attempting to stream in. What light remains shines through milky, yellow glass that’s stained from the days when kids used to smoke their cigarettes behind the school. Inside the room, eight or nine desks are arranged in an unrecognizable pattern. Not rows, or a circle. More like chaos-lite.

  When we arrive, there are already two kids in lockup. A couple of burnouts who look old enough to be seniors but still have lockers in the Freshmen Slums because, well, burnouts.

  Behind the big desk, Mr. Mitchell, the Automotive Arts teacher I thought was pervy until I uncovered the king faculty perv. I can’t believe they leave him alone in a secluded room with children, though. Have they learned nothing from Bottin? I feel his eyes on my boobs already.

  “Hand over your student IDs,” Ms. Del Toro says.

  Taylor—obviously familiar with this routine—has his in hand. He passes it over to Mr. Mitchell and takes a seat toward the front of the room. I have to root in my bag for mine, Ms. Del Toro sighing impatiently while I do. Before I find my ID, my fingers graze the camera I took from my locker yesterday, forgotten in the nightmare that’s been my life ever since. It cheers me up a little.

  “Today, Ms. Daniels,” Ms. Del Toro says.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I hand over my ID. When I take my seat, it’s in the corner farthest from Taylor. I’m still processing his claim to have known about my exploits all along. I need some distance.

  “I’ll be notifying your parents about your misconduct. Provided you hold it together and don’t give Mr. Mitchell any trouble, I may consider letting you go back to your regular classes tomorrow. In the meantime, you will work in silence for the rest of the day.”

  I didn’t bring any work with me, leaving the option of napping like the burnouts. But within twenty minutes, an office runner arrives. I barely notice until he begins handing out class assignments passed along from the teachers we won’t be seeing today.

  Taylor takes his, leafs through the pages, gets to work.

  Both burnouts tuck their assignments in the baskets under their desks as if the papers are for someone who will be along later.

  When the kid gets to me, he drops my handout on my desk and leaves the room in a hurry.

  My assignment is four pages stapled together. I peel back the first page and understand his rush. Sticky blue bubble gum, thick and moist, is pressed between my papers. A not-so-subtle message.

  Now I know what the opposite of a Facebook like is.

  A different runner brings my second-period assignment. No gum this time. Just spit.

  The third-period runner just scrawls the word “KILLER” in red crayon on the back page of my history worksheets. I spend most of the period wondering where he got crayon from.

  Fourth period is lunch for the ISS kids. We go before the first regular lunch period so our isolation is not interrupted. The silence rule is supposed to be maintained while we eat, but Mr. Mitchell has had enough of it by then—he’s got no one to talk to either—and leaves us alone in the cafeteria while he does whatever suits his mood when he’s not eye-humping young girls.

  As soon as he’s gone, Taylor’s next to me, whispering, “I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

  “This isn’t your fault.” Me, sayi
ng that to him. So many surprises this week. “Besides, I’m getting the impression ISS might be the safest place for me right now.”

  “What?”

  I tell him about the various assaults on my schoolwork. It’s no surprise to him. “A lot of people are mad. Why’d you blow your own cover?”

  “It wasn’t me,” I said. “I was outed.”

  “By who?”

  “That . . . is complicated.”

  “We’ve got time. Like nine minutes, but time.”

  The burnouts have stopped murmuring to themselves, keying on our conversation. I can play Secret Squirrel and try to conceal the truth, but it hasn’t been my week for subterfuge, now has it? I tell as much as I can in eight minutes. Not the whole story, not the parts about Dante or scheming my way into the Cablon construction site or Keachin’s crime scene photo because I’m still not sure what to make of all that, but Taylor gets the gist.

  With a minute to go, he says, “Someone you don’t know followed you, photographed you in stalker mode, then used your own mail list to show the world what you do when no one’s looking.” He cocks his head, squints. “And you think this person admires you?”

  I shoot him a look.

  “Just wondering.”

  A sharp whistle interrupts the conversation: Mr. Mitchell signaling the end of the lunch period, ushering us from the cafeteria like lepers unfit to be seen by the good and free students of Portside High.

  I leave my seat, contemplating what Taylor said. I’d been so caught up in what happened, I’d never considered how it happened. I never saw the message the Admirer sent when he did what he did, but the buzz leading up to it had everyone thinking Gray was making the reveal. Taylor asked why I exposed myself. So did Quinn Beck. People think I’m doing this because the Admirer’s using my own system against me.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, Panda.

  Mr. Mitchell stops us outside the cafeteria doors. “Hang tight, prisoners. We’ve got some new inmates joining us.”

  More burnouts, I presume. Ms. Del Toro rounds the corner. I’m very wrong.

  She’s walking Danielle Ranson down the hall, and the girl’s staring me down. Her hair’s pulled back, slick and greasy with Vaseline. Her ears are bare, the chunky, gaudy earrings she usually wears absent. Her forearm muscles dance as she flexes her fists.

  Our bathroom encounter from the day before is so fresh, I focus on Danielle first, neglecting the other two girls accompanying her. There’s Simone Presley, who missed part of last year because my pictures got her sent to rehab. And there’s Lanie Jackman, Keachin’s freshman cousin. I have photos of them hanging together in the days before the coach scandal broke. Lanie idolized her older cousin.

  Del Toro says, “They all seemed quite determined to get tossed in ISS today, Mr. Mitchell. I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  Mr. Mitchell shrugs it off, either ignorant of the conspiracy unfolding before his eyes, or indifferent. “The more the merrier.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I’M FIRST THROUGH THE ISS ROOM doors, but Taylor’s on my heels, risking a few words, in German no less, before Mitchell brings in the rest of the herd: “Setz dich zu mir.” Sit by me.

  The solitude may have made me chatty in the cafeteria, but I’m not about to let him be my personal security in a room where evil looks are the worst thing that can happen. I won’t look weak.

  I sit where I sat before; he does the same, shaking his head.

  The burnouts enter, taking their old seats, though they twist them slightly to allow a peripheral view of me and whatever entertainment they think this new ISS dynamic will generate. Danielle and company enter, each taking desks that are much closer than I like.

  I expect the glares and threatening gestures to begin right away, but they adhere to the ISS rules. Silence. Eyes ahead. Simone’s particularly studious, pulling a science book from her bag and burying her nose in it.

  Mr. Mitchell takes his place behind the big desk, pulling an MP3 player and earbuds from his shirt pocket. Seems the man enjoys his tunes after lunch.

  Things are uneventful. For about twenty minutes.

  Simone raises her hand, speaks before the gesture is acknowledged. “Mr. Mitchell, I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  There’s a dreamy lilt to her voice, sort of gaspy. It’s weird, and Lanie’s glancing back at me like I smell.

  Mr. Mitchell—loud, because his earbuds are still in—tells her to come up for a pass. When she rises, she wobbles. It’s exaggerated, though, like someone playing drunk. She makes it to Mr. Mitchell’s desk, then lurches, catching the edge for support. “Oh, I don’t feel so good. Can you walk me to the nurse’s office?”

  Mr. Mitchell looks wary; a creeping dread fills me. I know what this is. Why doesn’t he?

  He yanks his earbuds. “You better not be messing with me, girl.”

  “I’m not,” Simone whines. “I feel really hot and dizzy.”

  Mr. Mitchell grabs his walkie-talkie and thumbs TALK: “I’m walking Simone Presley to the nurse’s office. Gonna be out of ISS for approximately five minutes.”

  I don’t know who he’s talking to, but the kids in the room are paying attention. Every. Last. One. Of. Us.

  He says to us, “No monkey business while I’m gone.”

  He doesn’t have to worry about monkeys in here. When he leaves, this is going to be something more vicious. Sharp teeth and claws. I pull my bag into my lap, reach into it.

  Mr. Mitchell “helps” Simone along. When they turn the corner, she flashes a smile to Danielle, confirming what I already know.

  She’s the distraction.

  Seconds . . . heartbeats . . . lifetimes . . . pass in the space between the alternating clacks of Simone’s heels on the hall tiles, quieting with distance, a countdown. She and Mr. Mitchell are away, too far to hear anything that happens next.

  And then the jackals pounce.

  CHAPTER 25

  DESKS SHIFT SUDDENLY. CHAIR LEGS SCRAPE the floor, a sound like screeching howls.

  “Yeah, Peeping Tom.” Danielle rises to her full height and advances. “No one’s gonna save your ass now.”

  I’m up, too, and regretting my seat choice. Not because of Taylor’s implied protection, but sitting in the back corner leaves very few escape options. Backpedaling, I hit a wall, keep digging in my bag. Come on.

  Danielle’s charging me, a half second from ripping my head off. My hand closes on the point-and-shoot in my bag. I yank it free of my junky satchel, and trigger the shutter release without aiming, hoping to blind her with the flash.

  Would’ve been a great plan if I’d been pointing the camera in the right direction.

  As it is, the flash blinds me. My field of vision goes stark white, then explodes with red and yellow dots. I’m so stunned, it takes a few seconds to feel Danielle’s man-hands wrapped around my throat.

  Confession: for all the badass secret agent/private eye stuff I’ve done over the years, for someone who’s a soldier’s daughter, I’ve never really picked up any fighting skills. I’m going to get right on that, though. Should I survive.

  The lack of oxygen does wonders for my spotty vision. Danielle snaps into sharp focus, as do the burnouts clapping and cheering behind her.

  Taylor crosses the room, puts Danielle in a half nelson, prying her off me while she curses and spits. The burnouts boo him for it.

  “Lauren,” he says, riding Danielle like a rodeo cowboy. “Are you okay?”

  Air burns my throat, but I cough out the word, “Okay!”

  Lanie, whom I’d forgotten about, forms an immediate rebuttal when she punches me in the eye.

  “The hell?” I say, on a slight delay from the extraordinary pain that comes with the expertly delivered blow.

  She answers with a second haymaker to my other eye. Somehow, I’m staring at the ceiling.

  Lanie drifts into my field of vision. “This”—a kick to my side, forcing me into a ball—“is for my cousin, you night-skulking”—another ki
ck—“freak!”

  She winds up for another kick, but doesn’t deliver. She’s crying too much.

  This is how Mr. Mitchell finds us when he returns. Me on the floor, Lanie sobbing, Danielle and Taylor conceding a grudging respect for each other’s wrestling skills. We all get a trip to the main office. I’m happy to go.

  I’m sure the people are much nicer there.

  Waiting. A large sandwich bag filled with ice pressed to my swelling eyes. Taylor’s called into Ms. Del Toro’s office first, and is quickly dismissed back to ISS for the rest of the day. The look he gives me on his way, it feels like good-bye.

  Danielle was also taken in right away, since whatever parental wrangler was called in to deal with her special kind of crazy got here fast and was already waiting in Principal Carlin’s office. The rest take their turns one by one.

  I’m left in awkward silence with Lanie. She’d doesn’t grill me with evil looks, just pretends I’m not there. Her fists have already delivered whatever message she had to send.

  Pressing ice to my eyes, I pretend not to notice how the person who beat me down is now treating me like I don’t exist.

  “Thank goodness!” Miss Carney, the old-lady secretary, screeches. I lower my ice to see if this “goodness” was going to make my day any better.

  It was only Rozlynn, Taylor’s student tech support protégée, rocking a style best categorized as Gypsy Frump. Her tie-dyed skirt brushes the ground despite her height. Her blouse’s collar hugs her neck, and she’s got a denim jacket that distorts any possible curves.

  She enters the office and goes straight for the secretary’s PC.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with it,” Miss Carney says. “I was trying to open my attendance reports and it froze.”

  Hunched and as awkward as ever, Rozlynn motions for the old lady to give up her chair, takes a seat. Gently, showing none of the frustration I’m feeling from the secretary’s high-pitched voice, she says, “Do you remember the trick I showed you? Control-Alt-Delete?”

  Rozlynn spaces her hands and keys the command to demonstrate.