2 Students Remaining
Scarlett was waiting on the front porch when I first arrived at the Randall house.
This was a year ago. Tammy had just picked me up from the group home and driven me back to her place, and I was slumped in the passenger seat, already making bets with myself about how long I’d last in this woman’s bland beige life.
I’d figured she didn’t have more than a week in her. Tops.
I first saw Scarlett through the passenger window of Tammy’s car. She was in twin braids and knee socks and Mary Janes, an American Girl doll brought to life. As we pulled into the driveway, I flashed her my most wretched scowl, a real violent number.
I’m a pit bull, the scowl said. I’m not the kind of dog you pet.
But Scarlett didn’t care. And she didn’t care about my dirty jeans or ripped T-shirt or the fact that every detail of my being practically shouted Careful!
This breed bites! She’d leapt off the front porch before we’d even pulled to a stop and torn across the yard, and the second—the second—I’d climbed out of Tammy’s car, she’d thrown her arms around my neck and squeezed me so tight, tighter than anyone had ever held me before.
The first words she ever said to me were “I’ve always wanted a sister.”
I never told anyone this, but I had always wanted a sister, too.
Now, I kneel on the stage, inches away from where Scarlett had been standing just a few seconds ago, and curl my fingers around the edge of the open trapdoor. Everything inside me is agony. I can’t stop screaming. I want to fling myself down that trapdoor after her.
“Ms. Michaels, you are to return to your place immediately,” Wyatt is saying.
In sharp contrast to the chaos I feel, his voice is almost preternaturally calm.
I ignore him. I want one more glimpse of Scarlett, even if that glimpse is of her mangled body on the ground far below.
I want to know exactly what happened to her.
No, I need to know, or else I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering, thinking there was something I could’ve done, some way I could have saved her.
Through the trapdoor I see nothing. Just black and black and more black. I can’t tell how far down it goes.
“Ms. Michaels.” Wyatt’s voice is sharper now. I flip him off, and that must be the last straw, because I suddenly feel arms around me, wrestling me away from the trapdoor, forcing me to my feet.
It’s not the guards; it’s Ian. He’s holding me by the shoulders, staring into my face, saying something I don’t hear. I blink, and struggle to tune in.
“Lia? Lia?” His voice is a burst of static in my brain. It’s grounding, somehow. I lift my hands to his arms, curl my fingers around his wrists. It’s the only thing that keeps me from collapsing onto the stage completely.
“Can you hear me?” Ian says. He’s staring at me, those pale blue eyes boring into me. I tighten my grip on his wrists.
“I want to go with her,” I say. My voice is barely a whisper. “Please, just let me go.”
But Ian’s shaking his head, a hopeless expression on his face. “No, Lia, no.” He leans closer to me, presses his forehead to mine, and says, low enough that I don’t think Wyatt or anyone else can hear him, “You can’t leave me here alone.”
I close my eyes, tears leaking onto my cheeks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t care. Not about this school or my future. My sister’s gone. I don’t care about anything.
I want to watch this whole place burn.
When I open my eyes, Ian’s staring at me, eyes slightly narrowed, like he heard everything I was just thinking. He leans forward like he’s going to press a kiss to my temple.
Instead, he whispers, “Do it,” in my ear. “Burn it down.”
“Don’t get me wrong, this is a lovely moment,” Wyatt says from the audience. “But it’s time for the two of you to take your places. The test isn’t over.”
Ian gives me a loaded look as he shifts back onto his X. I move to my X as well, sliding two fingers into my own pocket as I do, to slip the tinfoil out.
Ian releases a sharp hiss of breath. I know he saw what I did, but when I glance at him, he’s staring carefully out into the spotlights. He says nothing.
I curl the tinfoil balls into my fist.
“Ms. Michaels,” Wyatt’s voice booms from beyond the overbright spotlights. “If you can manage to calm yourself down, we’ll continue.”
I glare toward where his voice is emanating from, flashing the same scowl I gave Scarlett the day we met. “Calm?” I snarl. “You’re joking.”
Wyatt says something in return, but I don’t bother listening.
I kneel and pick my water bottle off the floor.
I’d dropped it in the chaos of Scarlett’s fall.
I lift the bottle to my mouth and carefully unscrew the lid.
To Wyatt and the surrounding guards, it just looks like I’m upset and need a drink of water to settle.
The tinfoil balls are still palmed in my hand. I remove the cap and, in one smooth motion, tip them inside.
The bottle begins to smoke.
“What’s that? Ms. Michaels? What did you do?”
Does Wyatt’s voice sound ever so slightly alarmed? The corner of my lips twitches. This savage enjoyment is the only positive feeling I’m capable of right now. I hold the smoking bottle in front of me. “Chemistry experiment.”
“Get that away from her!” Wyatt shouts.
The guards move toward me, and I round on them, smoking bottle held before me like a gun. “Do it. I dare you. All I have to do is shake this bottle once and it’ll explode.”
The guards freeze.
I hesitate, just for a moment. The thing is, I didn’t actually expect the bomb to stop them.
I figured Wyatt would release the trapdoor beneath my feet and I’d fall, shaking the bomb as I dropped, going out in one final violent blaze of glory.
I don’t care what happens to me as long as the force is enough to destroy the rest of the stage, maybe even set some shit on fire.
I pictured going out in an explosion of chaos, laughing maniacally.
That’s not what’s happening. Instead, there’s a shuffle of movement in the darkness, followed by urgent, whispering voices.
Then the spotlights flick off.
I blink, my free hand coming up to rub the stars from my eyes. Wyatt isn’t sitting anymore, but standing just a few feet away, and Ashlyn and another TA have come up behind him. They all look like they’re about to wet themselves, which I find perversely satisfying.
“Lia,” Wyatt says. “Where did you get the chemicals to make that?” His voice sounds completely different than it did a couple of seconds ago. It’s way less sure of itself, and nearly an octave higher than I’ve ever heard him speak. I grin wide, showing off my canines.
“Chem lab,” I explain.
Wyatt’s already shaking his head. “No, that’s not possible. All chemicals were removed from the chem lab before you were taken inside.” He glances at Ashlyn, as though to confirm this. She nods.
“There was a janitor’s cart,” I explain. “You can make a bomb using Drano and tinfoil.”
Wyatt’s eyes flick to the bomb in my hands, and I watch the horror register on his face. Good, I think savagely. I want him to be scared. He deserves it after everything he’s put us through.
I lift the bottle, preparing to shake, but Wyatt raises both hands. “Wait, Lia, please don’t. That’s actually dangerous.”
“Actually dangerous?” There’s a part of me that wants to laugh. That’s probably why I sound slightly hysterical when I say, “God forbid we do anything that’s actually dangerous.”
“You don’t understand. None of this was dangerous, not really. It was a test. None of it was real.”
Every muscle in my body pulls tight. I don’t understand why he would say that. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a test,” Wyatt says again. “It wasn’t real. None of this was real.”
I’m beginning to feel something in my gut. A churning feeling, like missing the last step on a staircase, that dizzying hit of fear you get when you realize that the world’s different than you thought it was, that you’re falling. This feeling is like that. But about a million times worse.
I look at the trapdoor where Scarlett had been standing only a few moments ago. “My sister—”
“Scarlett’s fine. Everyone is fine. They’re waiting for you. This was the final test.” He offers us a thin, flickering smile.
I lower the bomb slightly, my grip loosening, but not releasing. I search Wyatt’s face, looking for any sign of deceit, any hint that he’s just lying to try to control me. I feel a prickle of nerves along the back of my neck, the slightest rising of the hair on my arms.
As much as I want what he’s telling me to be true, something doesn’t quite fit. I tighten my grip on the bottle, somehow managing to choke out, “Why?”
Wyatt opens his mouth. Maybe he has an explanation. If so, I never find out what it is, because, at that moment, his phone rings.
Keeping his eyes on me, Wyatt fishes the phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. Whoever’s calling must freak him out, because his face visibly pales. He answers and says, “Doctor, thank God…No, I can’t. She has a bomb!”
The voice on the other end of the line is muffled. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Wyatt swallows hard and says, “Yeah…yeah, okay.” He hits another button to end the call and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
To me, he says, “Listen, it’s all going to be okay now. The dean is coming.”
“You’re the dean!” I shout.
“That’s not entirely true,” says a voice. I look up and see Wyatt Sullivan’s assistant, Lynn, hovering in the doorway.
“I’m the dean,” she explains, shutting the door behind her.
I stare. Though the trapdoor below my feet stays closed, it feels like I’m falling.
“You look confused, Ms. Michaels.” Lynn makes her way toward the stage, elegant as ever. “Perhaps we’re overdue for a chat?”
I glance at Ian, wondering if I’m the only one who doesn’t understand what’s going on. But Ian is staring at his feet and won’t meet my eyes.
“I don’t get it,” I say slowly.