The cafeteria is silent. Everyone stares at the broken lights, then back at us.
“Like I said…”—I wave the ten-dollar bill at McNeil, trying to act as if I’m not fazed despite nearly jumping out of my skin—“accident. Here.”
McNeil recovers. “Don’t sweat it, Halloway. It’s just a sandwich. Let’s go, guys.”
Matheson scowls at me and strides off after him, the rest of their friends close behind.
I look up to the ceiling again, and Okiku is there, staring after the boys. Her shoulders hunch forward. Her hands form claws against the cement. She’s rattling, as if she’s about to go on the attack, and she’s—
hunger hungry kill peel off their skin
cut it thin take heads and limbs
little dark little dark kill
Uh-oh…
“Ki!”
She jerks away and disappears, leaving me alone with a roomful of strangers. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out, slowly becoming aware that people are still looking at me. The whispers are starting.
“Show’s over, folks,” I mutter, stuffing the money back in my pocket and catching sight of Trish and Kendele loitering by the doors. Trish looks both fascinated and terrified. Kendele is a little harder to decipher. She watches me, a strange look on her face.
With as much dignity as I can muster, I stride out of the cafeteria to the restroom. I check to make sure there’s no one else around before sagging against one of the stall doors.
“Okiku.”
She appears, settles on the ceiling, and looks everywhere but at me.
“Ki, what was that all about?”
“It is nothing.”
“Like hell it was,” I say. “You were about ready to flay those guys alive.”
“I do not like them.”
“No one in their right mind likes them—which says a lot about the students here, since they do. Are you feeling antsy about tonight?”
A pause, and she nods. I have a feeling she isn’t telling me everything, but I let that pass. “Don’t worry about it, all right? I know you’re impatient, but let’s not freak out any more people than necessary. Can you hold off ’til then?”
She nods again, this time with more determination.
“Good.” Still, I can’t shake my unease as we leave the restroom. Okiku’s never kept secrets from me before, but I’ll have to pry them out of her after tonight’s work when she’ll be more at ease.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
Hunters
I can tell by the smell of food as I walk through the door that Dad’s been home for at least an hour. As a lauded connoisseur of takeout in the greater DC area, I’ve learned to interpret my father’s moods by the food he brings home for dinner. Lo Wan’s means he’s brought his work home with him and shouldn’t be bothered for the rest of the night. Thai Mam means he plans to relax for the evening, maybe watch a game or two.
Kouzina takeout, from the Greek place he knows I like, means he wants to sit down and have one of those father-and-son talks with me, which never deviate beyond asking how school is going and expressing mild disappointment at the dearth of extracurricular activities making up my social calendar. Japanese food from the Sushi-ya takes this a step further, with the conversation at the table revolving around musical lessons and sports camps he suggests I sign up for, though I’ve always found a million and one reasons why these were bad ideas.
This time, it’s different. There is a faint scent of burned pasta and my eyes widen. Dad’s attempting to cook, which could have no possible happy ending without the fire department on standby.
I drop my backpack on the couch and race to the kitchen, where Dad is juggling an assortment of prechopped herbs sealed in tiny, expensive containers, the kind specifically marketed for those who have no idea how to work a stove but would like to give it a try. He’d changed out of his business suit into a polo shirt and pants that could only be described as part jeans and part sweats.
Dad can speak four languages and wring out millions of dollars in settlement clauses with no more than a PowerPoint presentation, but put him in front of anything that involves preparing food and it’s like a kitten attempting to power a lawn mower. The most horrifying words that could ever come out of my father’s mouth in the kitchen are “What does this knob do?” and “I’m sure that was supposed to happen.”
The pasta is more than done. The gas flame underneath is turned to its highest setting. There’s barely enough water in the pot but enough leftover foam that Macbeth’s witches would dance around it. I switch off the burner, and Dad pauses in his herbal acrobatics to glance over his shoulder at me. “You’re home late.”
“You killed the pasta,” I reply. “I’m calling 911.”
“Are you sure? I put it on maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Twenty-five minutes?” I peer into the pot, at the mushy mash of noodles that are more Al Capone than al dente, and sigh. “Dad, the package says ten.”