An F3 greets me in the morning. Hello, Lyric, let me punch you behind your eye socket. Did that hurt? Well, get used to it, because I’ll be doing it again any second now. The pain makes me nauseous and I see flashes in my vision. According to the weatherman on TV, it’s going to hit 102 degrees today. By noon I’ll be struggling with an F4.
I get dressed and head into the living room. Dad’s head is in the freezer. My mother is pressing a glass of ice water against her forehead.
“Please!”
They know what I want. We have the same argument every day.
“We can’t use the money, Lyric. We might need it,” my dad says.
I fall to my knees with my hands intertwined. “For the love of God!”
“At least you can go outside,” my mother grumbles. “I’m on house arrest until the mob goes away.”
My dad throws up his hands, then reaches into his wallet. He slaps a fifty on the counter.
“Summer, go down to the dollar store and pick up a couple of window fans,” he growls as he gives us both the stink eye.
“Yay!” my mother cries, seemingly more excited to have the freedom than any comfort a crappy window fan could provide.
“Window fans? They’re just going to move the heat around,” I grumble.
“Window fans,” my father repeats sternly. He plops a bag of frozen peas on top of his head, then turns back to me. “Get ready. I want to get an early start.”
I feel even less inclined to wear something nice than I did yesterday, so I snatch whatever my hand finds, run a comb through my hair, and send a handful of aspirins swimming down my throat. Minutes later we’re walking to school in ninety-nine-degree Fahrenheit sun. I daydream of strapping a window fan to my head.
You would think it would be too warm for a protest, but when we turn the corner, we find even more lunatics than yesterday, and this time they have gotten crafty, bringing huge fish puppets and effigies of mermaids to burn. Some of these creations are easily ten feet tall and grotesque, with exaggerated features and tails. All of them look like devils, sporting fangs and holding tridents. Ah, papier-maché! With a little flour and water, there’s no limit to the hate you can make. Now I’m glad it’s hot. I look up at the sun and dare it to do its worst. Let these jerks roast out here. Maybe the sun will set the puppets on fire and take everyone out in the blaze.
Shadow is in the middle of it all, taping everything on his phone, talking into the lens, and musing on every moment. Bex is nearby, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. It’s more clothing than she wears in the winter. I give her outfit a once-over and then shoot her a questioning look.
“Laundry day.” It’s a lie. I don’t care if she’s worn everything she owns both inside and out, she wouldn’t wear what she has on. If it were true, she would have been pounding on my door at the crack of dawn to raid my drawers. There’s something under those long sleeves that she doesn’t want anyone to see, especially me.
“You’re staying with me tonight,” I whisper to her.
She nods. No argument. She knows better.
When Irish Tommy gives us the go-ahead, we rush inside. Unfortunately, trouble is waiting: fifteen of my classmates in Niner colors. They stand defiant with arms crossed, a small army of red shirts, wanting to be seen, waiting and watching the door. It causes a bottleneck in the doorway that Ervin has to push his way through.
Ervin is speechless.
The Niners don’t have to wait long. Fathom, Luna, and Ghost enter with Terrance and the soldiers. Everyone sees the shirts. Everyone is frozen in place.
Jorge chuckles silently.
The Niners’ message is in every hallway, classroom, and stairwell. One kid has a locker full of T-shirts he hands out for free to anyone who asks, and there are a lot of people asking. The tension is so thick, it feels like a physical object, a membrane of hate that slows your every step. I look up at a camera in the hall and wonder when Doyle is going to do something. I want to shout at him, Hey, wake up! This place is going to explode!
By the time I have to meet with Fathom, I’m almost happy to get away from it all—almost.
“Just breathe,” the female soldier says when I arrive for my meeting with Fathom. “We’re right outside the door, Lyric. By the way, I’m Bonnie.”