Are You Still There (3 page)

I've never seen him before in my life.

“Miguel? Miguel Gomez?”

My black hoodie friend lifts his head, looking like he doesn't know where he is. He really did knock out there on the hard hallway floor. His breathing went all heavy and I heard a couple snores.

“Qué?”

“Your turn, buddy.” It's a cop, but not one I know.

Miguel hoists himself up with sudden energy. He slings the backpack over his shoulder and salutes me. “Later. Nice sleeping with you.”

I almost choke on my air. Did he really just say that? My cheeks get sunburned hot and I want to crawl into my own backpack, but instead I check him out. Maybe he doesn't get the double meaning of those words. He's pretty obviously an ESL student, which explains why I've never had a class with him.

He glances back as he heads through the door, and I catch a sparkle in his eye.
No way
. He totally knows what he just said.

Ten minutes later, the cop's back for me. “All right, Gabriella, follow me.” He leads me into the administration wing, past the row of offices for our assistant principals and school counselors. Most of the doors are closed for other interviews.

The cop steps into Principal Bowen's office. I've never been inside before. The walls are covered with certificates and awards, evenly spaced. Principal Bowen and his big, bulbous nose are nowhere to be seen. At his desk sits Officer Williams, who looks like she's outgrown her uniform. She's been working with my dad for as long as I can remember.

“Take a seat, Gabi.” She smiles at me, but her eyes look tired.

I sit down slowly. It's so quiet that I can hear the ticking of Officer Williams's watch.

“I am going to ask you a series of questions. Please tell us everything, however irrelevant it may seem. We will use our discretion and protect your privacy as much as possible.” She takes a sip of her soda. “First, please tell me your experience from Tuesday. What you saw and heard before, during, and after the incident.”

I tell her everything. Except for the peeing-in-my-pants part. I keep that to myself.

Then she jumps into a rolling list of questions, scribbling notes with her free hand. The questions blend into each other—“Have you ever heard anyone make a threat against another person? Have you ever made a threat against another person? Have you ever seen a gun or knife on campus …”
Have you, have you, have you
. “If you ever needed to talk, do you know who your assigned school counselor is?”
Well, duh. Of course
. But the question is does
he
know who I am? There are three counselors total, and we get like five and a half minutes with them in the spring to plan next year's classes. I've never sat down with a counselor just to chat.

“We'll have extra counselors here at school for the next two days, so please utilize them. Situations like this can be very traumatic, and trauma can interfere with your ability to function—you know, sleeping, eating, concentrating, that kind of thing.”

I nod. By the time she reaches her final question, I feel like she's taken a big spoon and stirred my brains around.

“Is there anyone you know personally—or have heard of—that might have orchestrated this threat?”

I hadn't really allowed myself to consider that thought. Faces flash before me. The grungy custodial assistant who talks to himself while he mops the floors and who looks like he stepped off an America's Most Wanted poster. The dropouts who set up shop selling drugs from a rundown rental across from the school. The loner kids who sulk by the band room and get shoved into trash cans. Anyone who's ever been expelled from the school. They should put Petey Plumber on reporting duty. Like a neighborhood watch, only in the school halls. He'd love it.

“No.” I can hardly hear my own voice, and when I glance up, I can see Officer Williams looking at me expectantly. “No,” I repeat, this time louder.

“If you think of someone, we'll have an anonymous-tip call line. Is there anything else you'd like to add?”

Something to add? Besides the fact that my brain is spinning in dizzy circles like that teacup ride that makes me barf?
Uh … that'd be a big, fat no
.

5

LATE OCTOBER

Funny how quickly things slide back to normal. Except for the three officers milling around campus at all times, and the hand-held metal detector as we walk through the front gates, school is school. Teachers teach, students sleep, I take compulsive color-coded notes.

At lunch Beth waves at me from our table outside the cafeteria. She saves me and Bruce a space every day. Bruce is our “special friend,” and I mean that in the kindest way possible. Beth and I volunteered in one of the special ed rooms at summer school after freshman year. Maybe we were overly friendly or something, because after that he wanted to sit with us at lunch. What were we going to say … “No”? We thought it'd be a phase.

Bruce has a crush on Beth, but he's so innocent that it's cute. He sits with us. Or rather, he sits with Beth. Sometimes on her shiny, black hair because, yes, it's
that
long. She shares her Oreos with him and he listens to her nonstop brain-numbing gab. True love.

“You know, Bruce”—she hands him his first Oreo of the day—“this relationship totally works for me.”

He crunches in response.

“There's no drama. No interruption of study time. No late-night texts. Plus you're adorable.”

He nods politely. And crunches.

“Beth,” I say, sighing. “I don't do drama either. But don't you think you're taking advantage of him? Maybe he'd crush on a girl from his class if he wasn't crushing on you. It's not fair.”

“What? This is a mutually beneficial relationship. Plus it's the topic of my college admissions essay. And my first novel. Possibly a dissertation.”

“You're too much.”

“Seriously, Gabi. Neither you nor I have time for a
real
boyfriend. This is as close as I'm gonna get until I finish my double doctorate. Plus I know all my secrets are safe with you two.” She offers me an Oreo. I turn it down.

I pretend to be insulted. But she's right. I don't have time to hang out with anyone but Beth, so who would I tell? So I crunch my organic kale salad and listen to her social commentary. As soon as she starts whispering, I know I'm gonna hear something juicy.

“Did you see the way Kikki Todd was all over that guy by the lockers? No shame, I tell you, no shame! That's why nice girls like us get zero male attention. No offense, Bruce.” She doesn't expect any response, so I can just zone out.

“Are you even listening?” Beth's voice breaks in. Not sure how long I've been zoning, but the kale salad is nearly gone.

“No.” I'm honest. “I'm conserving my brain cells for study group.”

“Looks like your sister and her fellow cult followers are trying to get your attention.”

I check out Chloe's spot on the grass. Right smack in the center, totally exposed. Her group wasn't lucky enough to nab a nook by the portables or a locker cranny. Most of the fringe groups position themselves in the crevices of campus, so they can people watch while securing their own perimeter.

“No offense, Gabi, but why does your sister hang with the rejects? It's weird.”

I never know how to respond to Beth. It seems mean to talk this way, but I kind of agree. Chloe's cronies include this funky mismatch of kids that don't fit anywhere else. Two of them are meditating. Pretty soon they're gonna be weaving anklets out of straw or making their own clothes out of hemp or something equally strange. I usually just say nothing.

“Is she even taking any honors classes?” Beth whispers, then flashes a huge smile at Chloe and wiggles her fingers in a “hi.”

“Thanks a lot, Beth. Now I can't even pretend I don't see her,” I say. Chloe waves wildly, gesturing me over.

“Bruce and I always got your back, sis.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I groan and head over to Chloe's “alternative” faction. Because I'm an AP kid and a cross-country kid and a leadership kid, I have special powers to circumvent Central's social clique boundaries. It's like being Superwoman, only I don't let it go to my head. I glance over at the football meatheads. I get distracted by looking though, and my shoulder bumps into someone.

“Oh, sorry,” I apologize.

It's that kid Miguel. I see him everywhere now. He's like a leprechaun or something, popping up at random times. Miguel gives me a curt little wave and moves on, running to catch up to someone.

Chloe spots me and pops up from her cross-legged spot. “Gabi!” She's usually not that excited to see me. “Did you hear that they arrested the shop teacher?”

“Mr. Marks? Seriously?” I look around. Besides the random pieces of fruit that are being tossed, I can practically see rumors flying from table to table like sparks, catching on everything and igniting.
He was the mastermind behind the bomb threat
.

“Yep! The reporters are saying that the cops analyzed all the computer records after the bomb threat, and it turns out Mr. Marks has been giving ‘extra credit' to certain unnamed female students for ‘extracurricular activities.'” Being able to give me the scoop is making her unusually gleeful.

“Gross!” I try to imagine someone making out with Mr. Marks. He's so hairy that it'd be like kissing Cousin It.

“I know!” Chloe bounces a little.

“You are cheerful. I haven't seen you this happy since you got your last T-shirt off Woot,” I point out. “Mel”—I nudge Chloe's friend Mel with my foot—“can you believe her?”

Mel nods, pinched and irritable looking. “Chloe's whacked. We both know this,” she says. Mel is whacked too, probably more than Chloe, but I don't think it's polite to point this out.

“Come on!” Chloe bounces. “This is drama at its finest. Someone should stage a reality TV show from Central High. I
live
for this shit.”

“How are we even related? I have no time for drama. Drama is draining.” I look over to Mel to help me make my point. “Right, Mel? You're exhausted just thinking about it, aren't you?” Mel sits like a lump, apparently not impressed. Just getting out of bed in the morning must be exhausting for her, so maybe she's not the best example.

Am I the only one with a more sinister thought wedged in my mind? If the cops arrested Mr. Marks for being a pervert,
not
for making a bomb threat, it means the bomber is still out there. Waiting to strike again.

I get a blue slip halfway through English and I wonder if I'm in trouble. I stand in Dr. Paisley's doorway, watching as she types rapidly on her computer, her fingernails clickety-clacking against the keys like music. She must be going too fast, because every ten seconds or so she pauses and sighs before she hits the backspace key a bunch of times in a row and retypes something. I stand there for a full minute before she notices me.

“Oh Gabi! Come on in. Shut the door behind you, will you?”

I move over to a chair and sit on my hands.

“So I brought you in today because your name has come up for our new school-climate improvement program.” Paisley takes a deep breath like she's about to say something important. “Central High is starting its own crisis hotline. We're handpicking fourteen members. You're one of them, if you choose to accept the invitation.”

I nod.

“But in order for the program to work, you won't be able to tell other people of your involvement.”

Okay, so I'm honored to be hand-picked, but it sounds fishy. “Why?”

“If callers know who's picking up the phone, they'll be less likely to reach out in this way. It has to feel safe. Private. Anonymous.” Paisley shakes her heavy earrings and they bounce against the side of her face. “For that reason, we'll ask you to keep it private even from your family. Your parents will sign a generic consent that allows you to volunteer for a confidential program, but even they will not be privy to the details.”

I think about this for a second. It's all very cloak and dagger.

“Time commitment is six hours a week. One shift a week, from four to nine. Staff meeting every Sunday morning from 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.” She must know I want to groan, because she adds, “I know it's early. We had to do it that way to accommodate churchgoers.”

I hesitate. My schedule is jam-packed. But saying no is not easy for me.

“You can count it as volunteer experience,” Paisley throws out, like she's dangling a carrot under my nose. “Looks good on résumés and applications.”

I hate that this entices me. “Doesn't Central already have a peer counseling program?” I ask, taking my hands out from under my butt because they're nearly asleep.

“Yes. We've had a peer counseling program for a few years, but it's sadly underutilized. We think students are afraid of being exposed in some way. That's why we need something anonymous. We've got to make the students feel as if there is someplace confidential they can go when something's bothering them.”

I nod. I agree. I'm just not sure I'm the one to do it. I stick my hands back under my butt.

“It'll be fun, Gabi. It's like a secret society.”

A secret society? “Okay,” I say slowly, half regretting it. “Let me check with my parents.”

Mom says yes the moment she hears the magic words “volunteer opportunity.” It's too bad I'm such a good kid. I could get away with anything if I told them it was a study group or a volunteer opportunity. I could probably run a successful Ritalin redistribution business without them having a clue.

Sigh
. And once again I'm stuck doing something I'd rather not. I need to practice saying “no” in the bathroom mirror. It shouldn't be that hard. It's only one syllable, for Pete's sake.