Endangered (14 page)

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.

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 kick—“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.

Miss Carney smiles sheepishly. “I tried that Contour-App-Delete
nonsense, but it didn't seem to do a thing.”

“You're right. It isn't working. I'm going to try a hard reboot.”

“Will it take long?”

Rozlynn says, “A few minutes.”

“Do I have time to grab a cup of tea from the lounge?”

“Go crazy.”

Miss Carney gives an excited little clap, then motions toward me and Lanie. “Keep an eye on these two while I'm gone. They've been little troublemakers today.”

“I will keep the lighthouse in your absence.”

The old lady leaves, and Vice Principal Del Toro calls Lanie into her office. I'm left alone with the freshman computer geek. She flits glances my way.

“How'd you score such a cushy gig?” I say, needing the weird silence to end. Before she answers I lean my head back, and press the ice bags to my eyes, creating a cold blindness. I don't want to see Rozlynn's dismissal if she has soured on me.

She says, “You're talking to me?”

Wow, how shy must you be to think I'm talking to someone else when we're the only two in the room. Poor kid. “Yes. You.”

If I wasn't freezing my eyeballs solid, I imagine I'd see her blush from the attention.

She says, “I'll tell you if you tell me how you got those shiners.”

“A master negotiator,” I say, hoping she takes it as praise. A confidence boost. Be nice if I did something good today. “Deal. But you first.”

She takes a deep breath, like a runner before the starter pistol fires, and says, “There weren't many—or
any
—girls in student tech support. When I asked my guidance counselor if I could join, I think he got nervous and
pushed my request through. Like, affirmative action or something. You know?”

I do know. Something similar got me a guided tour of the Cablon construction site. Sometimes the gender card works.

She says, “I get training on some cool computer stuff. Stuff I can use when I get ready for college. I might be able to get some scholarships.”

“You and my friend Ocie would get along well,” I say. “Fixing all the raggedy computers must make you the It Girl with the faculty.”

“Don't know about that. I'm nowhere near as famous as y—” She tries to catch herself, not wanting to offend me. The effort alone makes her friendlier than most these days.

“I believe the word you're looking for is ‘infamous.' You're Rozlynn, right?”

“Yeah. But people call me Roz.”

“I'm Panda.” Of course, she already knows that.

“So, what happened to your face?”

Shrugging. “Karma, maybe.”

“I can see how your, um, exploits might piss off people.”

My phone vibrates in my purse. I lower the ice, retrieve my cell, and read the message. It's from him.

Dozens of my schoolmates pass by the big office windows. Only one is still, staring at me through the glass.

Marcos.

MY ICE BAG SLIPS OFF MY
lap, crunch-splashing on the floor when I rise. Despite its absence, I'm chilled.

Marcos smacks the glass then motions with two fingers:
Come here
.

If this was night, and he was at the mouth of a dark alley, I might've made a different decision. But midday, in a crowded hallway . . .

I snatch my purse strap and make for the door.

“Hey!” Roz says. “I'm supposed to watch you.”

I point to the window. “Well, watch.”

Outside, hall stragglers give me the evil eye. I ignore them and move toward Marcos, slowing as I draw near, leaving a few feet between us. Escape room.

“So, Gray,” he says.

“And what should I call you? Does ‘Admirer' work, or does ‘Sack of Crazy' feel more fitting?”

His eyes narrow, and his forehead creases. “What?”

“We're done with the games, right? No more mysterious chat sessions”—I hold up my phone—“or creepy texts?”

“What are you talking about? I don't have your number. I don't
want
your damned number. Not in a million years.”

“But, this text, you just—”

He sidesteps slightly, closes the gap between us. He's quick, the exact opposite of what I am since I'm puffy eyed and half blind. I rotate a moment too slow, and let his forward motion intimidate me. He backs me into the window/wall. I can only get away by doing a clumsy side shuffle. If he touches me, I'll scream.

“For what you did,” he says, “that beating you got today is too good for you.”

“Are you threatening me?” I search the hall for someone to help, but we're alone. The period bell rings, and for the first time in Portside history, it seems no one's tardy. Except Marcos. But he doesn't seem concerned.

“Not threatening. Explaining. In case you don't know what a bitch you are.”

Anger sears the center of my skull, and the throbbing in my eyes doubles, pounding like bongos. I shove Marcos in the chest. He stumbles backward.

“Is that the lesson you taught Keachin? What a bitch she was?”

His crinkled face goes slack. “Don't you ever talk about her.”

“Where have you been, Marcos?” Did the police have him? Did he con his way out of his cell? “You're the one who sent me her picture. You told me it ‘had to happen.'”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Daniels. All I know is, you got my friend killed.”

“Your—?”
What?

“You want to know where I've been? At Keachin's house, with her parents, crying my damn eyes out.” To demonstrate, twin tears crawl down his cheeks.

“Since when were you and Keachin
friends
?” I try to imagine the scent of deep-fried hush puppies exuding from his pores and mingling with her three-hundred-dollar Brazilian perfume. His worn army surplus jacket next to her silk blouse as they enjoy a Saturday afternoon matinee.

“That's none of your business,” he says, “but minding your business is a concept you obviously don't get. She was trying to get away from Bottin's crazy shit, to end it on her own terms. You dragged all that into the light, and look what happened.”

Keachin was trying to end her affair with Coach? And Marcos knew about this
before
I exposed it?

But he can't have been Keachin's friend. He's
my
Admirer. He
has
to be.

“Two days ago I thought a twenty-five-year-old
Star Wars
geek who preys on teen girls was the worst person in this school. That bastard killed my friend. Yet, I'm thinking he runs a close second to you.” He says it between sobs.

Marcos leaves me. When he's down the hall and around the corner, I start breathing again. Roz stares curiously through the glass.

She couldn't have heard what he said. Or felt it. That's the only relief I can find in the moment. The only way I'm able to face her.

When I'm back in the office, she says, “Is everything okay?”

“Peachy. He's a fan.”

“Somehow I doubt that. He looked kind of intense.”

He did. But intense enough to be my Admirer? I don't know anymore. I don't know anything.

“Roz,” I say, “you're good with computer stuff. If I asked you for a
favor, do you think you could help me?”

She tenses. “Depends on the favor.”

I get it. I'm a walking bull's-eye right now. No one—even people who don't despise me—wants to stand too close. This won't require standing. “I've got a phone number and I need to know who it belongs to. Can you do that?”

“Is this a
Gray Scales
thing, because if it is—”

“No. It's not like that. Someone's been messing with me. For a while now. I need to know who he is.”

She nods slowly. “I can try a couple of reverse-lookup sites. If it's a cell, maybe I can figure a way to ping the GPS. It'll be a challenge, though. We haven't really covered that stuff in my tech support training. A lot of times we just play
Zork
.”

“Play what?”

“Just know it won't help you. I'll try, though.”

“Good enough.” I grab a Post-it off Miss Carney's desk and scribble down the number my Admirer's been texting me from, along with my own contact information. Handing over the note, I add, “One more thing?”

She waits.

“Can you figure out who in the school has the skills to hack my email?”

“I think so. Should be a short list.”

“That guy I was talking to is Marcos Dahmer. I want to know if he's on it. I want to know if he's—”

Principal Carlin's door opens and Danielle exits, followed by an adult in a black-and-white-striped referee shirt. The Foot Locker name tag pinned to the chest identifies him to shoe shoppers, but I don't need to read it.

Darius Ranson sees me and places a gentle hand on his sister's shoulder. The picture of restraint.

“Darius,” Principal Carlin says, “please express to Danielle how easy it is to derail herself at this age. She'll have some time to think about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Darius says, a display of respect I didn't know he was capable of. “I know. It's just me and her, and I won't let her mess her life up over stupid stuff.”

Danielle stares absolute death toward me. Darius catches her doing it and his grip tightens. “Come on. She's not worth it.”

A former beefed-up sports tyrant just told his sister that I wasn't worth the trouble she's brought on to herself. I never thought there would be a day when I'd consider if Darius Ranson was right about anything.

He escorts Danielle away to begin her suspension, and Principal Carlin says, “Come on, Lauren. Your turn.”

The principal is looking past me, at my mom, who just arrived, not a trace of pleasant on her face.

She examines my swollen eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I say quietly.

I read the response in her stone expression. It says,
Not for long
.

Carlin's office beckons. I step forward to face my school punishment, knowing it will be mild compared to whatever awaits me at home.