by Walter Jury
His thin lips curl into a nasty smirk. “I’ll leave you to your lunch.”
He walks away, and I expect him to go ruin someone else’s meal, but he strides out of the cafeteria, heading toward the mathematics and science wing. Will and I look at each other for a long second. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, once again rubbing his hand over his head.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m the jackass who brought it to school.” I pull my pack into my lap and am sliding the scanner into it when the voice of Mr. Feinstein, our principal, blats over the intercom.
“Tate Archer, please come to the central administrative office.”
At least a hundred pairs of eyes are on me. I’m sure they all think I’m about to get busted for having contraband in school, and I’m not sure they’re wrong.
I push the scanner into Christina’s lap. “Keep this for me? I don’t think I should stroll into the office with it.”
She tugs her own backpack up from the floor and puts the scanner inside. “No problem. Stay out of trouble?”
I think it might be too late for that. “I’ll do my best.”
I push myself up from the cafeteria bench, sling my pack over my shoulder, and walk away from her, wondering if my luck has just run out.
• • •
I walk down the hall at a decent clip. Ten minutes left in my lunch period. Maybe this isn’t about the scanner or any of the pranks I’ve pulled; maybe it’s some administrative glitch or a problem with my records. Maybe I won’t even be late to my next class.
By the time I get to central administration, which is a grand name for the suite of cramped rooms filled with overworked, grumpy secretaries, I’ve almost convinced myself this is nothing.
My dad dashes that hope when he steps out of the guidance counselor’s office and motions for me to follow him. His slate-gray gaze is flinty. His usually neat hair is disheveled, like it’s either really windy outside or he’s been running his hands through it, which I can’t even picture. He stalks out of the office and leads me into a little alcove by the front exit. Just when I think he’s going to keep walking right out of the school, he whirls around and grabs my upper arms.
“You broke into my lab,” he says in a low voice.
His face is too close to mine, and I try to lean back, but he’s not letting me go anywhere. Resignation fills me up. Lying is pointless right now. “Yeah, I did.”
His expression twists. He looks like he didn’t want to believe it, like my admission has physically hurt him. “How did you get in there?”
“Superglue method. After that it was just a matter of making the impression compound. Remember when you taught me that?”
“You were eight,” he says, looking at me like I’m a stranger to him.
“I paid attention.”
He shakes his head, and his bruising grasp on me tightens. I want to struggle, to shove him away, but now the bell is ringing, and my classmates are filling the halls. The last thing I need is for my dad to put me in a leg lock in front of the whole school.
“Give me your backpack,” he says, already reaching for it.
I let him yank it off my arm. He rips it open and paws through it, his movements quick and impatient. His fist clenches over the strap. “Where is it, Tate?”
Oh, crap. Here we go. “Where is what?”
He steps close to me. “You know very well what I’m looking for. The scanner. It’s not a toy, Tate. I need it back. Now.”
It was a huge mistake for me to pawn that thing off on Christina. I almost hope she’s given it to Will, but I know that won’t happen. I entrusted it to her, and she would take that seriously. I tell myself I’m going to stay silent to keep her out of this mess, but the look on Dad’s face is so foreign and frightening that it doesn’t take long to jar my tongue loose. “I left it with some friends back in the cafeteria.”
I don’t miss the flash of intense disappointment and boiling rage in Dad’s eyes before he looks away. He tosses my backpack toward the door of the guidance office as he pushes me down the hall. “Take me there. Go.”
The wail of sirens reaches me from somewhere out in the city. My dad startles, his fingers practically cutting off the circulation in my arm. His eyes go wide, and he curses under his breath.
“What’s going on?” I ask, lengthening my stride to keep him from dragging me along. We turn the corner to the hall where the cafeteria lies.
He doesn’t answer my question. His grip on my arm tightens again as the sirens sound off louder and closer.
My heart has picked up a heavy, hard rhythm. My blood is pounding in my ears. In all the years I’ve known him, my dad has operated at exactly three speeds. Mildly amused. Harshly disapproving. And utterly composed and calm, which is his default. He wears his cool like a bulletproof vest, like a full body tattoo. I thought it could never dent, never shatter, no matter how hard he got pushed, and Lord knows I’ve pushed him.
But right now, he looks nakedly freaked.
He steps close to the wall and pulls me along with him. Kids are heading to fifth period, streaming from the cavernous cafeteria through the three wide doors along the corridor. I spot Will’s Mohawked head bobbing through the crowd. When he sees me, he does a double take, then gives me a nervous grin. One that says he hasn’t missed the scary look on my dad’s face—and that he’s going to try to save me.
He saunters toward us. “Hey, Mr. Archer! What’s up?”
“Is he the one you gave it to?” Dad asks, barely opening his mouth.
I give Will a hopeful once-over, but he’s empty-handed. “No,” I say quietly.
My dad doesn’t even look at Will as he muscles past him. “Get to class.”
Will flattens himself against the wall to keep from getting run over. All I can do is shoot him an apologetic shrug as I’m towed along.
This is much worse than I expected, and as we dart through the nearest entrance to the cafeteria, I know it’s about to descend straight into unforgettably horrible. When she sees me coming, Christina stands up, holding her backpack against her chest. She must have been waiting for me, hoping I’d return before she had to go to class, and I wish she hadn’t. Her eyes are round with alarm when she spots us, and I almost steer my dad away from her. I want to protect her from this moment, from my own father.
She unzips her pack and pulls the scanner out. She wants to protect me, too. She holds it out to my dad, whose attention is drawn to it—and her—immediately. He strides toward her, not even flinching as at least four of my classmates go ricocheting off him like bumper cars. We’re battling the tide because everyone’s trying to get to the exits, but none of them are a match for Frederick Archer’s wide shoulders and brutal, single-minded purpose.
I try to get ahead of him, to get between them, but he shoves me away as he releases my arm. He rips the scanner from Christina’s grasp so abruptly that she stumbles forward. Her face crumples as her hip hits the side of our table. I swing around, seeing red, ready to have it out with him right here. He can yell at me all he wants. Hell, he can kick my ass from here to Jersey.
But I won’t let him hurt Christina.
I open my mouth, explosive words cocked and ready to launch. My dad’s not looking at me, though. He’s not looking at Christina anymore, either. His eyes are on the far entrance to the cafeteria, over by the math and science wing and the back parking lot.
Three of New York’s finest are standing in the archway, next to a guy in a black suit and tie. He’s got the most sharply angled face I’ve ever seen, and his hair is buzzed military-style. His fierce gaze rakes the cafeteria with systematic precision as the C-lunch crowd pours past him, eager to begin their thirty-minute escape from the drudgery of the day. Buzz Cut’s dark eyes sweep over them and narrow when they focus on someone standing to my left.
My father.
I glance at my dad and s
ee the answering recognition in his face—undisguised hatred mixed with raw fear. It’s such a foreign expression that I can’t process it. All I want to do is get away from him.
“No,” he growls, taking a step back. His fingers close over my shoulder. “Tate, I know you’re angry with me. But we can fight later.”
I wrench myself away from him. “Get off me.”
He’s acting so weird. Not one minute ago, he pretty much assaulted Christina for doing no more than trying to hand him the scanner I stuck her with. And now he looks so desperate that all I want is for him to go—without me. “Why don’t you just—”
“Tate.” Dad grabs my arm again. “It’s very important that we run. Now.”
Just then, Mr. Lamb turns the corner and says something to the officers and Buzz Cut. My Game Theory teacher looks at us with a familiar smirk that tells me he’s probably the one who called Buzz Cut in the first place. He points to me, like he’s painting an invisible bull’s-eye on my chest. And then he points at Christina, who shrinks back and turns to me with a look so frightened, it sends a frigid wave of guilt crashing over me. He obviously thinks she’s wrapped up in this, too.
The officers and Buzz Cut move into the crowd, flowing along with it, coming straight for us.
My dad tries to tug me backward, but I don’t budge. I can’t take my eyes off one of the cops, who has his hand on the butt of his gun and his gaze locked on Christina. I don’t know what Mr. Lamb told these guys. I don’t have any idea what the fuck’s going on. But I do know that if we leave Christina here, she could be in serious trouble.
“I’m not going anywhere unless we can bring her, too,” I say, shaking off my father’s grasp and reaching for Christina’s hand.
Her fingers are icy cold as she laces them with mine. She hesitates as she looks back at the cops, who are still about eight tables away, advancing on us slowly, fanning out across the cafeteria. When she sees the way that one cop is homing in on her like prey, a shiver courses through her body, sending her terror jittering up my arm.
My dad glares at her. For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to refuse, but then he looks at my face, and surrender softens his expression before it hardens once again. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I hesitate, still fighting all my instincts. You’re not supposed to run from the cops if you’ve done nothing wrong.
“Tate, wir müssen fliehen. Jetzt. Jetzt!” my father barks, snapping me out of my trance.
We have to escape. Now. Clipped German words, tinged with pure desperation.
When he sees the understanding in my expression, he pivots on his heel and runs for the exit that will lead us back to the central office and the front of the school. An oblivious student with her head down walks into his path and he crashes into her, sending food, plates, cups, and plastic cutlery flying everywhere. He staggers but is moving forward again in an instant, hurdling over the stunned girl with spaghetti in her hair. I catch Christina around the waist to keep her from falling as her feet slide through salad dressing and pasta sauce. We scoot through the mess and pelt after my father, only to run into him as he comes to a full stop.
Two more cops are blocking our escape route.
I don’t hesitate. I yank Christina toward the lunch line. “There’s a back door through the kitchen,” I whisper to my father as I pull her past him. The two sets of cops are closing in, so I let go of Christina and make like I’m going to run for the middle exit, and they all move to head me off, which takes them farther away from the kitchen.
All the students are frozen now, their gazes darting between us and the cops, dumbfounded expressions on every face. I reverse direction and plow through them easily. Christina’s right behind me as I jump up on the table that holds the stacks of trays and plates, which slide and crash to the floor as we scramble over them. I vault over the glass hood that protects the food and land in a crouch next to a startled cafeteria worker. I help Christina over the hood and push her toward the door to the kitchen. My father leaps over the hood a second later and heads straight for the door, salad dressing dripping down his face from the earlier collision.
As I follow him, my gaze gets snagged for a split second on that gray-haired lunch lady, one of the few people in the cafeteria to send off blue light under the scanner’s glare. She stares up at me like she thinks I’m a terrorist. I wonder what we have in common, and if that blue light is the reason five cops and scary Buzz Cut man are now leaping onto the tray table so they can get to us.
I tear my eyes from the lunch lady’s, zip past her into the kitchen, and slam the door behind us. Then I lock it. I don’t want to think about what will happen if Buzz Cut catches us.
THE KITCHEN STAFF, THEIR PLASTIC HATS AND APRONS streaked with moisture in the sweltering room, all look up as we come through. Their expressions range from alarmed to disapproving, like they’re mad we’ve invaded their turf.
“Get down,” I shout, my voice cracking with my own terror. If I don’t take action, one of them is going to open the door for the cops. “They have guns! They came in dressed as police, but they’re taking hostages!”
A few of the lunch ladies shriek and flatten themselves against the metal shelving, sending cans of industrial-grade pasta sauce flying to the tiled floor. Several other workers crouch behind vats of spaghetti. One swarthy guy waves a giant slotted spoon in the air, like he’s going to take on the invaders single-handedly. I put my head down and focus on getting to the exit, taking a tiny detour to grab a two-gallon plastic container from one of the shelves.
My dad is almost to the back door, his cell phone at his ear, his words staccato and commanding, talking so fast, I can’t catch any of it. Christina is close behind him, pale as a ghost. I look over my shoulder to see all the kitchen workers staring at the door to the cafeteria. The cops are pounding on it, shouting, “Police! Open the door!” over and over again. But I’ve created just enough uncertainty to hold them in place for a few seconds.
I squat low by the heavy metal door to the outside, feeling the breeze at my back as Christina holds it open for me. I wrench the cap off the container in my hands. A few seconds later, I’ve laid a little vegetable-oil welcome mat for anyone who chases us out this way. Again, it will gain us only a few seconds, but I’m thinking we need every advantage we can get.
Christina takes off, and I weave through a set of Dumpsters and recycling containers, hot on her heels. She’s fast as hell and agile, too, and she streaks into the open and sprints behind my father, who’s several strides ahead of us, cell phone in one hand and the scanner in the other. He runs straight up the sidewalk. A few faces are pressed against the classroom windows, no doubt happy for the distraction. A black SUV skids around the corner, from the street at the front of the school, and accelerates toward us. For a second I think we’ve got another enemy, but my dad waves his arms at the vehicle.
He brought a getaway car?
His powerful strides don’t slow as he looks over his shoulder, as if to gauge our distance from him. As soon as I see the expression on his face, I know the cops are closing in. I don’t even turn around to look. Instead, I kick it into overdrive and close the distance between me and Christina. We’re a few car lengths from the SUV, and whoever’s inside has thrown the passenger-side door open. We’re going to make it.
My father doesn’t dive through the open door like I expect him to, though. He turns back and runs toward me as Christina sprints past him and ducks into the SUV. Before I have a chance to wonder why, I hear a series of echoing cracks and the windshield of the car next to me shatters. A voice back by the Dumpsters yells something, but I can’t make it out. My dad is right behind me a second later, shielding me with his body. The police are firing at us like we’re terrorists or criminals, like we’re a threat, and I have no idea why. They’re not supposed to shoot at unarmed civilians, right? Especially right next to a school?
My brain
is a soupy fog of questions and fear as we stumble the last few feet toward the SUV while the world explodes around us. My dad flinches and falls against my back with his full weight, nearly knocking me over. The groan that rolls from his throat is pure, animal pain. He reaches around me and presses the scanner into my chest. “Take this,” he says, sinking to one knee.
I turn toward him, the scanner dangling from my fist. The back of my father’s pressed white shirt is blossoming with red.
The driver of the SUV, a muscular young guy with a baseball cap pulled low, opens his driver’s-side door and stands up on the step, aiming a handgun at the cops. “Get him in the car! It’s bulletproof!” he roars at us just before he sends a barrage of bullets toward our pursuers.
I am vaguely aware of the shouts of the cops as they dive for cover, giving us a moment to get to safety. But I can’t get myself to move, can’t feel my aching leg, can’t see that SUV, the only way we’re going to get out of this alive. I’m too busy staring at my dad, my limitless, perfect, invulnerable dad, who’s clutching at his back with scrabbling fingers. He spits blood onto the sidewalk at my feet. My stomach heaves.
Christina, her pale face set with determination, jumps from the vehicle and tugs the scanner from my grasp. She gets on my dad’s other side and helps me drag him to the back door of the SUV. My dad’s driver is still shooting, adding another clip whenever he runs out of bullets. He’s the reason we’re not perforated right now.
I jump into the backseat after Christina, hook my arms under my dad’s, and heft him onto the seat.
“Hey!” I yell at the driver. “We’re in! Let’s go!”
As the guy takes several more shots, I lean around my dad and reach for the passenger-door handle. A bullet buries itself in the panel a scant inch above my hand. I flinch, then slam the door shut. A flash in the rearview mirror has me whipping around to see a few cops racing toward us. They’re coming at us from both sides.
