I spit them out and shivered, coming back to reality, standing on the sidewalk and pushing away the snow. This would take a while.
"John, come in and have some chocolate!" It was Mr. Crowley, calling from the open door. I finished the last few feet of sidewalk, and went in to sit at their kitchen table and smile politely and wonder if cutting Mr. Crowley open would even work. I remembered the gash in his belly when he'd stolen the drifter's lungs, sealing itself closed like a Ziploc bag. He could heal himself back from a barrage of gunshots. I smiled again, took another sip of chocolate, and wondered if he could regrow his head.
Dark thoughts filled the rest of my day, and one by one, I tore my rules apart. When I went to school the next morning I felt haggard and terrified—like a new person in an old body that barely fit. People glanced over me, ignoring me just as they always had, but it was a new pair of eyes that looked back, a new mind that watched the world through this alien shell. I walked through the halls, sat through my classes, and stared at the people around me as if seeing them for the first time.
Someone shoved me between classes and I followed him the length of the hall, imagining what it would be like to take my revenge slowly, piece by piece, while he hung from a hook in the basement. I shook my head and sat down on the stairs, breathing heavily. This wasn't right; this was what I'd fought against all my life. Children streamed by like cattle in a slaughterhouse, like blood in a web of arteries. The bell rang loudly and they disappeared like roaches, scattering and swarming into their holes. I closed my eyes and thought about Mr. Crowley,
That's why you're doing this, that's who you want. Leave the rest alone. I took another deep breath and stood up, wiping clammy sweat from my forehead. I had to go to class. I had to be normal.
Halfway through class, the principal summoned all teachers to a special meeting. My English teacher, Ms. Parker, returned fifteen minutes later, paler than I'd ever seen a live body. The room fell silent as she came in, and we watched her walk slowly to her desk, and sit down heavily, as if the weight of the entire world was on her shoulders. It had to have something to do with the killer. I worried for a moment that Crowley had already killed again, and I'd missed it, but no. It was too soon. They must have found the policemen's bodies.
After a minute of deathly silence, no one daring to speak,
Ms. Parker looked up.
"Let's get back to work."
"Wait," said Rachel, one of Marci's best friends. "Aren't you going to tell us what's going on?"
"I'm sorry," said Ms. Parker, "it's just that I got some very bad news. It's nothing." She squinted as soon as she said it, her eyes red, and I wondered if she would start crying.
"It sounds like all the teachers got very bad news," said Marci. "I think we deserve to know what it was."
Ms. Parker rubbed her eyes and shook her head. "I should be handling this better. That's why they told the teachers first—so we could make it easier for the rest of you. I'm obviously not doing a very good job." She dried her eyes and looked up.
"Principal Layton just informed us that two more bodies have been found." There was a collective gasp from the students.
"The bodies of two policemen were found in the trunk of a car downtown."
Brooke wasn't in my class this period, and I wondered if her teacher was sharing the same news. How would Brooke react to it?
"Is it the same guy?" asked a kid named Ryan, two rows behind me.
"They think it is," said Ms. Parker. "The . .. wounds... on the victims seem like the first three. And it had the same . . . stuff, the black stuff."
"Do they know the policemen's names?" asked Marci. She was white as a sheet. Her dad was a cop.
"It wasn't your dad, honey. He's the one who found the car and called in the report."
Marci burst into tears, and Rachel got up to hug her.
"Did the killer take anything from the bodies?" asked Max.
"I really don't think that's appropriate, Maxwell," said the teacher.
"I bet he did," grumbled Max.
"I know this is hard," said Ms. Parker. "Believe me, I . . . well, I'm as shaken up as you are. We only have one school counselor, and anyone is free to go talk to her if you want, but if you want to talk to me, or go to the restroom, or sit quietly . . . or we can talk about it as a class. .." She hid her face in her hands. "They said that we shouldn't worry—that the pattern is consistent, or something—I don't know how that's supposed to comfort you, and I'm so sorry. I wish I knew what to say."
"It means that his methods haven't changed," I said.
"They're worried that we'll think he's getting worse, because two bodies were found this time instead of one."
"Thank you, John," said Ms. Parker, "but we don't need to dwell on the ... criminal's methods."
"I'm just explaining what the cops meant," I said. "They obviously thought it would make us feel better."