Are You Still There (25 page)

Nobody seems to realize the hypocrisy of having the cheerleaders perform right after honoring the life-death of a girl tormented by cheerleaders.

I'm too tired to point this out.

I ditch school for the first day in my life. I convince Chloe to ditch too. Miguel, Janae, and Garth want to tag along, but I need their eyes on campus. I really just don't want too many people involved. This is Mom's first week of classes, so she's out of our hair. I've already fielded the calls home from the school, reporting our absences. Except for my friends, nobody knows we're home.

We have very little time. The memorial is set to take place at 2 p.m. I need Chloe's help with the pictures. I've got them spread around my room. She'll scan them all, using Dad's scanner, hooked up to her laptop. For each picture, we will save two versions. One version will be exactly as the bomber left them for me. We will save this set, make copies from it, and hand deliver them to all the people we recognize from each picture so they get this as a warning.

Then we'll make a second version, a collage of the photos, only this time we'll disguise everyone's faces. When the jerks see our second version, even though their faces will not show, they'll know who they are. At first we think about doing it without disguising anyone's faces, but then we realize that kind of public humiliation makes us no different than them. It would be reverse bullying, and that's not cool. In the center of the second version, we glue Jo Moon's sophomore-year school picture. We add the following words in black, block letters:
Is it worth it?

We do a quickie run to the FedEx store and make massive copies of the second version.

We'll pass it around today at the memorial.

As I'm stacking up the copies, I am struck by a thought. I wonder when and how the bomber got all these pictures. Did people know they were being photographed? Did he sneak around campus? Or was he someone with permission to take pictures? Someone on staff for the school yearbook or newspaper? Someone who could walk around campus with a camera around his neck all the time? I grab last year's yearbook and flip over to the club section, poring over the yearbook and newspaper staff pages.
Oh. My. God
.

There he is staring back at me in black and white, unsmiling.

I know who the bomber is. I. Know. Who. He. Is
.

It hits me so hard I'm sure I'll bruise.
Shit
.

I have to make sure I'm right.

And I have to stop him.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 22

I know it seems weird

To snap pictures of people

When they don't know you're looking.

But isn't that the only real Truth?

People do all kinds of crap

When they don't think anyone is watching.

It's only when they think they're anonymous

That the real claws come out.

Unless they want the audience.

Unless they get off on it.

Then they're even worse. And isn't
that
weird?

Besides, photos don't lie.

I doubt that girl

Will know what the hell

To do with them.

She keeps disappointing me,

Which is no big surprise.

Sadly.

38

I am running. My hair is flying loose behind me, tangling in my wake, and there's a blister working its way up on my heel. I have to power through it because I can't stop. I can't stop.

I parked on the street in front of the house and now I'm jamming down the driveway. I hold my yearbook under my arm. I have no idea if Mrs. Moon will be there again, but something tells me she doesn't get out much.

We showed her the wrong set of pictures.

She needed to see the freshman pictures from Jo's sophomore year. Because I know who he is. I
think
I know who he is. So brilliant he takes AP physics with the seniors even though he's only a junior. So bright he's hacked the teachers' computers and has access to the answers before the exams. So bright he skipped at least one grade. But quirky bright. The kind of kid who doesn't fit in. Who walks around campus with a camera, snapping pictures of random people. The kind of kid who is invisible. So invisible he stopped caring a long, long time ago.

Mrs. Moon is irritated. And maybe a little drunk. She smells like she bathed in cheap wine, and even that can't cover up the smell from not showering. But it doesn't matter. Because the second I show her the page with his picture, I see her eyes narrow in.

She does not hesitate. She points her finger at him. The name under it says Simon Blackwell. The geeky kid who gave me the answers to the physics test a couple months ago. I hadn't even known his name for sure.

“That's him,” she says. “That's the Stray.”

I am late. The trip to Mrs. Moon's cost me precious time. But I had to know for sure. I'm driving illegally, trying to dial my cell phone en route. I call Dad directly.

I have never hated voice mail so much in my life. I hear his message start immediately, which means he doesn't even have the cell turned on. I slam my phone down. I screech into a parking place in the student lot and start running again. Running, running toward the school. The sun shines its angry rays down on me, beating against the top of my head.

I scan the parking lot frantically.
Where is an undercover bodyguard when you need him, damn it!
No sign of my preppy wrestler dude.
Shit
.

I call again. Maybe Dad will pick up this time.
Damn. No luck
. I leave a message though, all out of breath and panting. I probably sound like I'm dying. “Dad! I know who it is. I think I know who it is. Meet me at the school. Call me on my cell.”

I don't even think to call the station until I'm nearing the side gate. I don't know the number by heart, so I punch in the number for information. “Central Police Department” I am practically wheezing. The automated responder can't recognize what I'm trying to say, because I'm so out of breath and not able to enunciate. I press zero to speak to a live attendant.

“Information, can I help you?”

“Yes. The number for Central Police Department.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“No.”

Short pause that tells me she doesn't believe me. I must sound like a crazy woman. “I can connect you to 911 if you like.”

“It's not an emergency. I just want the office number.” I don't want the emergency responders out here. They'll barrel in with sirens screaming, and the bomber will feel totally betrayed. He might even blow up the school out of spite. No, I have to do this covertly. I have to talk to Dad directly.

She makes a
tsk-tsk
sound, which is totally unprofessional, and I'm just about to get pissed when she connects me to the number.

“Central Police Department, can I help you?”

I stop running. I stand with my hands on my knees, hunched over and panting. “Hi, is Officer Mallory in?”

“Hold on just a moment, please. I will check for you.” Brief pause, while I hyperventilate. I try to slow my breathing. “No, ma'am. It looks like he's in the field. Can I take a message for you?”

I start to say no but then I change my mind. “Sure. Please tell him to call his daughter on her cell.”

“Is this an emergency?”

I take a deep breath. How to answer this one? “Yeah, it's pretty urgent.”

“All right. We'll get the message over to him ASAP. Thank you.”

I race onto campus, flashing my school ID as I enter through the office. I shove my cell into the back pocket of my jeans. Hopefully Chloe is already here, slipping the personalized copies of photos into the appropriate lockers.

The best term to describe the school atmosphere is “organized chaos.” Students are being herded into the stadium stands for the memorial. This is where we hold all campus-wide events, because the gymnasium isn't big enough. The halls are clogged with students, and despite my best efforts to push through the masses, I'm totally stuck.

As I'm being pushed along with the current of bodies, I realize we're passing my locker. On a whim, I edge over to the side and step out of the massive wave of students. My hands are shaking so badly as I spin the combo that it doesn't even work the first time. I try again. When I fling it open, I gasp. All my books are back inside. My scraps of paper and crumpled-up lunch bags are back too, but folded neatly.

There is a single rose and one playing card attached to it. A thorn pokes through the card, right in the center of the joker's chest. Black Sharpie blood drips down, and his eyes are crossed out, making him look dead. There are other black marks on his chest, like someone pushed the Sharpie in hard. They look like bullet holes.
Isn't sacrificing yourself for a cause the highest kind of honor? Or is that just the crap they feed suicide bombers?

And this is when my heart stops.

I lose at least five minutes. I blame panic. I find myself sitting against my locker, my knees drawn into my chest and the joker in my hand. I have no idea how to stop this train wreck. I can already hear the squealing of the train's brakes. And I know, on some level, that no matter how hard I try, I won't be able to stop it. It's already in motion and I'm not strong enough. The best that can happen is that I'll witness it.

Why did he want me to pass out the photos? Why didn't he do it himself? I look at the card.
Isn't sacrificing yourself for a cause the highest kind of honor?
What is his cause? Anti-bullying? Be nice to the underdog? Step in and stand up—don't be a silent bystander? And why did he send me all those cards? Call me on the Line? Did he think I could stop him?

I am comforted by the thought that if he put that new note in my locker, then he must have gotten mine. My note that he could trust me, asking him to give me time. I scan the lockers for Chloe. I wonder how far she's gotten in distributing the fliers.

The halls are still packed, but there's more air space between each person. Most of the students are probably already in the stands. I realize, stupidly, that the student body is all together in one spot. If Simon were to set off a bomb at this moment, we will have played right into his hands. Now everyone is in one place. The casualties will be massive.

I read the card again. I find a single strand of hope. To me, it looks like the joker has been shot multiple times. If he was really planning on blowing himself up like a true suicide bomber, he'd be a mess of black scribbles. He'd have put other playing cards in the locker—queens and kings—and they'd all be dead too. Maybe Simon just wants to make us
think
he's gonna blow up the school. To have the power, to be in charge, to make us scared. That was basically what he did with the bomb threat earlier in the year. Maybe fear is his goal, not actual casualties.

I run my finger over the card. I touch the dark blotches on his chest and the hole where the thorn held it to the rose. Why would he be shot multiple times? If he shot himself, it would be a bullet hole to the head. If he has multiple shots to his body, then someone else would have to shoot him. But how would he
know
someone was going to shoot him?

Does he have accomplices? I've wondered that for a long time. This has been an elaborate plot—even for a genius brainiac. Maybe he has partners (one or two or more) and maybe those partners will shoot him today. Like a staged event. But who could they be? And isn't he a loner? How in the world would he rope in someone to help him? Unless
he
was the one roped in.

And if he doesn't have a partner, then who else would shoot him? How would he
know
for sure someone else would shoot him? The only way he could know is if he set up a scenario for the police to shoot him. They'd blast him away in a heartbeat if they thought they were saving innocent lives. I take a moment to catch my breath. Maybe this is an elaborate set up for a suicide by cop.

“Gabi?” I recognize Bruce's voice before I look up. He and Katie are standing over me, their backpacks strapped over both shoulders.

I scramble to my feet. How much time have I wasted?
Got to move!

“Go home, Bruce. Take Katie with you.”

Bruce looks at his watch. “Not time yet. See?”

I grab one of each of their hands in mine. “Go to the office.
Please
. Sit with the nurse. Tell her you feel sick.” Assuming the whole school is not blown to smithereens in the next ten minutes, Simon Blackwell will be gunned down in front of the entire school population. Bruce doesn't need to see that.

“Lookie here, a little reunion of the lunch bunch.” Beth's tone is playful teasing and I whirl to face her. I must look a mess, because she says, “Gabi? Oh my god. What's
wrong?”

“Beth.” I grab at her shirt, frantic. “Take Bruce and Katie to the office.”

“Did someone die or something?” Her eyes widen.

Not just yet. But maybe soon
. I shove their hands in hers. “Please. If our friendship means anything to you, do this for me. Trust me.”

I see the meaning of my words sink in. “Okay,” she whispers.

And then I can't waste another second. I turn in the other direction and force my way through the crowd. I check my phone, hoping to see a missed call from my dad. Nothing. So instead I text Chloe, Miguel, Janae, and Garth. On a whim I add Eric.
Important. Can anyone put their eyes on Simon Blackwell?
The only reason I know his last name is from looking at his yearbook picture.
Scrawny kid, junior, school-issued camera. Text me if you find him. Don't approach him, just text me.
And then I text Dad. Just Simon's name and these words.
Suicide by cop.
I hope he knows what I mean. I hope he has his cell phone on. And most importantly, I hope I'm on the right track.

I get three texts back at once.