Sixteen

In the morning I’m on the computer early, researching Chicago’s oldest school buildings still in use. I scribble notes to myself—“Lincoln Park. Old Chicago. Survived the big fire? Grass. Bushy trees. Private road. Small stop sign.”

Not all of the older schools I can find have pictures online, and besides, our stinking slow connection makes it impossibly hard for me to load anything, so I give up on that and start to list school names on a different paper. “Drive by: Lincoln Park HS. Lake View HS. Wendell Phillips Academy. Robert Lindblom Math/Science Acad.”

And then I add questions.

1. Victims are presumably high school age, not middle school, right? Can tell by clothes/dress/size? Maturity—boobs/facial hair? Note clothing of each victim—for identifying before.

2. Close-up of whiteboard—forgot to tell you about zooming the pic to read the writing.

3 . . .

It’s right about here that I realized these notes could be vastly misunderstood, maybe even peg me as plotting a school shooting if they end up in the wrong hands, and I nearly choke at the thought. What a kick in the teeth. I debate ripping this up and swallowing it vs. burning it, and then decide I’m being irrational and just fold it up and put it in my pocket.

In the five seconds that remain before Rowan drags me out the door, I leave a note on the kitchen counter by the sink. “Going to library after school for tree research. Our lame Internet connection is too slow—can’t get my homework done.”

“Tree research?” Rowan asks as we three climb into the car.

“Yeah. It’s for a . . . project.”

Trey turns his head sharply to stare at me. “I don’t remember having to do any tree project in tenth grade,” he says. He looks back at the road, but I can feel an accusation in his posture.

I shrug. “Maybe it’s new.” My hands start to sweat.

“Look,” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror, “I know something’s up. You’re a terrible liar. And you’re starting to piss me off.”

I sigh. “Nothing’s up. Not with me. Okay? Sawyer needs my help on something.”

Tension strains the silence.

“It’s not my thing to tell,” I say.

After a few quiet minutes, we’re at school and Trey parks the car. We all climb out.

“Go ahead, Ro,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “You’d better include me this time if it’s something exciting and dangerous, that’s all I can say.” She shrugs her backpack strap higher on her shoulder and walks toward the school.

Trey comes around the front of the car and stops me, a shock of his sleek dark waves falling over one eye. “After all I did for you, and for him, I think I deserve to know what’s going on. Or you can forget about me covering for you like this day after day. Okay? I’m done.”

He stares at me for a long moment, black eyes piercing into mine, and then he turns on the wet pavement and strides through the parking lot, leaving me standing there looking at the rivulets of water migrating from the shrinking piles of crusty, dirty snow.

•••

Inside, Sawyer hands me a folded piece of paper, and I hand him one in return. We both open them and read them, standing together at my locker. I skim his long, detailed outline, my eyes growing wider as I read. When I get to the bottom, I look at him. “Seriously?”

He nods, staring blankly at the paper I gave him, and then he looks at me. “There’s no way we can do this alone,” he says in a low voice.

“I’ve been thinking about that. What about . . . Trey?” I ask.

He nods again. “I don’t know who else to go to.” His voice is hollow and his hand drops to his side, like he’s too tired to hold the paper any longer.

“No, this is good,” I say. “Really. He already knows something’s up.” I fold the notes he gave me into a tight square and put them safely in my pocket. “I’ll talk to him and see if we can figure out a time to meet up so we can explain—”

Just then Roxie and BFF Sarah come up behind Sawyer. Roxie slaps Sawyer on the butt, and when he turns, Sarah grabs the paper from his hand.

“Ooh, a love note!” She laughs.

Sawyer tries to grab it but Sarah hands it off to Roxie. And because of my paranoia this morning, and because it’s so stupid rude anyway, I lunge for the paper, grasp Roxie’s shirt collar with my good hand, and pull the paper from her with my other hand, leaving only a tiny bit between her fingers and, unfortunately, a large scratch on her neck from my fingernail.

“Ow, you bitch!” she shrieks, holding her neck like it’s way more than just a flesh wound, and then she lunges back at me, going for my neck rather than the paper, which I manage to shove into my pocket.

People around us start shouting and I can’t see anything but Roxie’s flaring nostrils in my face. I think frantically about how this all will lead to nothing good, namely parents being called, and I sink to the floor, deadweight, praying that somebody pulls her off me as she follows me to the floor, because I’m not going to fight back. In an instant, she digs her knee into my stomach and rakes her fake claws down my neck. I close my eyes and keep my flinching as invisible as possible, hoping she doesn’t totally fuck up my innards after they’ve been trying so hard to heal. Instinctively I bring my good arm up to her rib cage to try to lessen the weight she’s putting on me, and she jabs her elbow into my biceps, giving me a wicked charley horse.