Figured they’d be besties, what with the power and the criminal proclivities of ex-Mayor James Jr.
“And there’s one more.” I gripped my pen harder and stared at him. I didn’t want to miss any part of his reaction.
“Shoot,” he said, pleased with our little chat. He probably assumed he’d set me straight.
“About Project Hydra . . . What’s that? Why does it preempt the Warheads’ afternoon class work? I hear they leave every day after lunch. Is that why you’re protecting them despite clear allegations of bullying? I’ve witnessed it, by the way. In the game they play and in the halls of your school.”
He was silent for a long moment, and then he pushed back from the desk.
“That’s no business of yours. Nothing to do with the Warheads is, as I’ve made clear.”
When I got up, assuming he was dismissing me, he said, “Just a second,” and left.
Left me right there in his office. All alone, with no one around.
And he didn’t return right away.
I got up, peeked out the door. He wasn’t in the hall, but I could hear him talking to someone out front—presumably poor Ronda—in barking-orders mode. I’d flustered him enough that he’d dropped his cheap-satin-disguised-as-smooth-silk veneer.
I scurried over to his desk and poked around the contents. Beside his giant dinosaur of a computer was a small faux leather stand holding post-its. Because he wouldn’t want anyone to think his post-its weren’t classy.
They didn’t seem to be used, at a glance. But I picked up the pad and flicked through, confirmed they were blank.
I eyed the leather notebook, in its place of pride. Picked it up and flipped through it, as well. Also empty, except . . . I stopped when I reached the final sheet. The only page with writing.
A series of scratched out words ran down it in columns. All at least six characters. All with at least one number and one capital letter.
The last word wasn’t crossed out.
I looked over my shoulder, confirming he wasn’t back yet, and took the top sticky to copy down the last in the list. Which I’d bet a ransom was his password.
You never knew. It might come in handy.
I closed the notebook, scooting it back to the position where I’d found it, and then headed back to my chair. Dropping into it, I reached down to tuck the post-it into my messenger bag, finishing as he returned.
He was still rattled, and he did a double take when he came back in. Like he’d forgotten I was there.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“There’s only one way out of the office, so if you didn’t see me leave . . . ” I smiled innocently. “I wasn’t dismissed. I figured I should wait.”
“You are now. I think we’ve settled the matter of these claims. Baseless. Enjoy gym class.”
He waited by the door, and so I picked up my bag, placing my notebook inside. The yellow of the post-it within winked at me.
“This has been very educational,” I told him, and he motioned for me to head out.
I made it almost to the end of the beige hall, right before it met Ronda’s guard desk area, before I ran smack into a cluster of four Warheads, coming in where I was going out. So my mention of Hydra had gotten them summoned. Interesting.
Not that I could tell if the four of them minded. I stopped, and they glided past me with that same coordinated movement, like they were part of a single-celled organism. The same smirks, the same overlapping whispers, as they headed to Butler’s lair.
“Uh-oh . . .”
“. . . called to the principal’s office . . .”
“She can’t stay out . . .”
“. . . of trouble, can she?”
I flattened myself against the wall to let them pass. Peeking past into the outer office, I saw that the poor assistant Ronda was at her post, but she had her head buried in her arms, not paying attention to anything around her. No doubt Butler had reamed her out for something, or at least been rude about asking for his favorite sociopaths to be brought to him.
When I heard the principal’s office door shut with a click, I turned to confirm the members of the Warheads were inside, and went back the way I’d come. Hearing what he said to them would be useful. It might help answer my remaining questions.
I pressed my ear to the door, like I did at night before my chats with SmallvilleGuy. All I could hear was the non-dulcet tones of a voice talking. Droning on and on. It was Butler, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
I wanted to.
So I fished out my phone, scrolled to the recording app, pressed it on, and locked the screen to prevent a stray sound from giving me away. I plugged in the earbuds, keeping the ends tight in one hand, then bent and pressed the phone under the bottom of the door. The gap was plenty big enough, the carpet muffling its slide into position.