They’ve moved the barricades even farther back from the school so that now you cannot get within four blocks of the building. Still, to get to the barricades, we have to push through the bellowing masses and their great cacophony of “WTF?” Being pushed so far from Hylan doesn’t sit well with Bachman. I’m sure it’s no fun to put on a show if your audience can’t hear you. This morning she hovers just inside the barricades, near her zealots but not close enough so that they could touch her. She can’t have that.
While Irish Tommy searches Bex’s purse and drips sweat over all her things, the cops move everyone aside to make room for an armored van. The crowd pelts it with rocks and eggs and trash as it rolls into the safe zone.
“Who’s that?” Bex asks.
“It’s the principal,” Tommy says. “He had a little incident outside the school yesterday, so we’ve decided to up his security. He’s going to need even more after today.”
“What’s happening today?” my dad asks.
“Sorry, Leonard. That’s above your pay grade.”
Shadow meets us just before we go in, and he gives Bex a kiss on the cheek.
“So we’re announcing this is a thing?” I tease.
“The poor boy,” she says. “He can’t help but love me.”
He shrugs. He’s not denying it.
There’s a new security checkpoint at the door. They’ve installed a full-body scanner that allows officers to see underneath our clothes. So. Much. Fun. Bex hops in and raises her arms over her head.
“Get a good look, perverts!”
Bonnie is at the door with some other soldiers, directing kids into the auditorium.
“Forget homeroom, students. We’re having an assembly,” she says. I give her a questioning look, and she shrugs. “Just doing what I’m told.”
We find three seats in the middle, where I can look out on the crowd. Our student body is half of what it was on the first day, and when the others notice, it seems to heighten their worries. Doyle has struck fear in even the hardest kids. They sink into their seats with their faces forward, not even whispering to their friends.
I crane my neck in every direction, dreading when I’ll see Fathom but not being able to stop myself from looking. I’ve had three days to think about what I’ll say to him, and what I came up with wouldn’t fill a sentence. He hypnotizes me, but I’m also terrified at how easily violence finds him. I want to kiss his mouth and run away from him at the same time. It’s ridiculous and stupid. I’ve turned into a girl I would absolutely despise. I would mock me behind my back. Even my dreams have been stupid. I’m with him on the beach, cradled into the nook of his body, kissing and making promises, and then it’s a bloodbath where he’s cutting half of Coney Island in two and begging me to help him become more human. If my dreams were a movie, I would demand my money back. I would give it one star.
And yet, when I cannot find his face, I panic. Did someone get the best of him on that beach? Was he killed while his family cheered? Did one of those gang kids hurt him and no one told me?
I need to know, now. I stand, ready to dart off in search of Doyle. He’ll know, but suddenly someone plops down into the empty seat beside me. I look over and see that it’s Gabriel.
“Hey,” I say. He’s blocking my path, so I ease back into my seat.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” he says.
Two days ago he started sending me texts again. All of them were HEY and WHAT’S UP and LET’S HANG. With only slightly less effort he wouldn’t have done anything at all, so I ignored them. Before the roof I would have been checking my phone every ten minutes in case I missed his texts, but now the longing for his attention is gone. I don’t really miss him. I don’t really think about him much at all. Maybe because I realized my bad-boy boyfriend was just a bad person.
“I’ve been busy,” I say, continuing my search for Fathom. Where is he?
Mr. Doyle enters the room and taps the microphone on the podium stand. He has a black eye and a bandage on his right elbow—trophies, I suppose, in his own game. I recall how he took my father’s punch and wonder who was so tough as to give him a beating. It couldn’t have been just one person.
“Too busy for me?” Gabriel says. He’s angry and, it seems, hurt. I can’t believe it.
“Since when has that mattered to you?” I whisper. “Wasn’t it you who wanted to be a part-timer?”
“I might want to be full-time if you were nicer,” he says.
I feel my hostility spark. He only wants me because I’m ignoring him.