Chapter 3
After her revelation, Tori darted away, and Fox and Indira let her go.
I slipped back along the hallway, just in case Fox and Indira turned around—I was here strictly in a supporting role, and I didn’t want them to feel like I didn’t have faith in their abilities.
Plus, I wanted to see what they were going to do next—I had no idea who Mr. Minor was, and I thought if I were the one investigating, I’d probably take out my phone and do a quick bit of cybersleuthing.
Mr. Minor was an adult, and to judge by Tori’s wave of emotion, someone in a position of authority.
A teacher, I suspected, or perhaps one of the assistant principals—although I had to admit, I had a hard time imagining why an adult would steal Keme’s lunch.
Fox clearly knew something I didn’t, because they held a brief, whispered consultation with Indira, and together, they set off down the hall.
I hung back until they had almost reached the next intersection before hurrying after them.
With classes now in session, the hallways were surprisingly quiet, and the sound of my steps seemed much too loud.
Most of the classrooms I passed had their doors shut, and through the windows, I caught glimpses of familiar scenes: teachers lecturing at white boards, kids trying to sneak glimpses of their phones under the desks, and what I now knew—from raising my feral wolf-child—was typical (albeit) bizarre teenage behavior.
In one classroom, two boys were fighting with yardsticks while the teacher did her nails.
In another, a girl had her phone propped up by textbooks as she taught her teacher a dance and recorded the most cringeable video.
I even got to see one of the classics: a boy in a hoodie who had fallen asleep with his head back, his mouth hanging open.
His buddies were clearly trying to work up the courage to throw something in there.
As I reached the end of the hallway, I was craning my head for a last glimpse—it looked like one of the boys had found a penny, and honestly, I wanted to see if they got it in—when I crashed into someone.
I caught myself on a locker, fighting a mixture of annoyance at myself and annoyance at whoever I’d collided with. Before I even saw him, though, I sensed something familiar: a cloud of perpetual annoyance that at any moment could flare up into silent, murderous anger.
Keme’s dark eyes got huge. “What are you doing here?”
Sometimes, the best defense is a good offense. “Why aren’t you in class?”
He must have still been in shock, because he wasn’t quite fast enough on his feet. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Where’s your pass?”
He really was off his game because he just stared at me.
“Get to class,” I said. “Right now. I do not want to have another conversation with the principal about truancy and graduation and how it’s my responsibility to make sure you enter adulthood fully equipped for a rich and rewarding life.
” (Honestly, those conversations were such bummers, especially since it always felt like I was the one in trouble instead of Keme.) Sensing my advantage, I decided to press a little farther.
“You know what? I think I should walk you to class. Make sure you actually get there.”
If his eyes had been big before.
“Are you insane?” he whispered. He even looked around, even though the hallway was still empty. “You have to go home. Now.” It must have killed him to say it, but he even managed, “Please.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I think it’s high time I took a more, uh, active role in—”
“Is that your dad?”
The question came from a short, round ninth-grader with a bowl cut of blond hair and what was, admittedly, a super cute potato chip T-shirt. (The chips were lounging in a bowl of dip like it was a hot tub.)
In that exact moment, I saw Keme’s spirit leave his body: his eyes drifted half-shut; his shoulders sagged; he shrank in on himself.
For about half a second, I enjoyed it.
And then the full meaning of that question landed.
“How dare you?” I said.
But it didn’t matter, because by then, Keme had recovered. His face shuttered into its usually stony reserve, and he spun to face Bowl Cut.
The ninth-grader must have had some kind of atavistic instinct for self-preservation—not enough to make him keep his mouth shut in the first place, obviously, but enough that now, face to face with Keme, that little part of his brain remembered what cavemen were supposed to do when they came face to face with a saber-toothed tiger.
For a single, terrible moment, he was frozen.
Then he farted—and I mean, he ripped one. Long and hard. And then he ran.
“Make him come back here,” I said to Keme. “Then beat him up.”
Keme tried the look on me.
“Oh no,” I said. “That’s not going to work—”
At that moment, Indira’s voice came clearly from the hall. It sounded like she and Fox had backtracked and were now coming toward us again. “—this way, then.”
I flattened myself against the lockers and thought invisible thoughts.
Keme disappeared.
I swear to God, it was like the boy turned to smoke.
“—used to have an office on that side of the building,” Fox was saying as they came closer.
“Well, it won’t hurt to check,” Indira said.
At that moment, they passed the opening to the hallway.
I stayed where I was, squished against the wall of lockers.
For one horrible heartbeat, they drew even with me, and all it would have taken would have been the most casual glance for them to notice me.
But they didn’t look over, and then, after another moment, they were past me and moving down the hall.
I sent up a thanksgiving to the patron saint of little gay boys who sneak around (which is pretty much every little gay boy), and when my heart crawled down out of my throat, I went after them.
Ahead of me, they turned down another hallway.
This time, though, I didn’t need to worry about sneaking, because almost as soon as they rounded the corner, they began to speak.
Their voices were too low for me to make out the words, but let’s put it this way: their tones were not friendly.
Someone answered—a man—and his tone shifted from confused to angry.
I picked up my pace. Whatever was happening, it was escalating quickly, and Fox and Indira were going to need my help.
(My job was to call Keme and tell him to come protect us.)
But when I rounded the corner, I came to a halt.
Remember how Keme’s eyes got wide when he saw me?
Well, I think mine just about fell out of my head.
Fox had a man pressed up against a drinking fountain.
The man wore a blue work shirt and trousers, and to judge by the mop and bucket, he was one of the custodians.
He must have clocked in at six feet, and he was probably twice Fox’s weight; in objective terms, he towered over them.
But somehow, Fox seemed to have the upper hand.
They had their little switchblade comb pressed under the man’s scruffy jowls, and the man was leaning back, trying to get away but unable to because of the drinking fountain.
“I do not like being threatened, Raymond,” Fox was saying, “and this is not high school anymore. We know what you’ve been doing, and we have proof. So, either you confess to the administration, or we’ll tell them everything we know.”
Just one guy’s humble opinion, but it wasn’t going to work. They should have told him, It’ll go easier on you if you confess, because then the bad guy has an incentive—
“I just gave him the keys,” Raymond Minor said. “I don’t have anything else to do with it. He said I had to, or he’d tell Mr. Gates.”
Fox and Indira exchanged a glance.
“What are you talking about?” Indira asked.
“The lockers,” Raymond said. “Mr. Dunkle, he said I had to give him the keys, or he’d tell them about the accident.”
With a faint note of bewilderment, Fox said, “Mr. Dunkle?”
Yes, I thought. Of course. It all made sense. Because Mr. Dunkle was Keme’s evil math teacher.