The rest of the marchers are slowly coming closer. There is no blood on their shirts. None on Bishop or El-Saffani, either. This group has had an easier time than mine, it seems.
“An accident,” I say, and glance back at the others—especially Spingate—silently telling them to stay quiet. The new people don’t need to know about Yong, at least not right now.
Bishop shrugs. He smiles wide, a smile that would be more at home on the face of a little boy than on the face of a grown man. His chest puffs up, straining the last button of his too-small shirt.
He raises the spear high until the point almost touches the glowing ceiling.
“Savage, I like you. You and your friends can join my tribe.”
Tribe: a word of power.
He charged us, screaming, furious, weapon in hand—ready to attack, I’m sure of it—and now he acts like this is recess and we’re all pals?
“Why are you raising the spear?” I ask.
My question confuses him for a moment.
“That’s how we make announcements,” he says, as if that is completely obvious. “When you raise the spear, everyone has to listen. Those are the rules.”
O’Malley takes a step forward, stands shoulder to shoulder with me. He seemed so big when I first met him. But compared to Bishop, O’Malley doesn’t look that big at all.
“Join your tribe?” O’Malley says. His blue eyes narrow. “Maybe you should join our tribe.”
Bishop stares at O’Malley like those words make no sense.
“But I’ve got the spear. That means I’m the leader.” He holds it up, not threatening, but rather showing it to us as if we had somehow missed seeing it altogether.
O’Malley gestures to me.
“So?” he says. “Savage has the knife.”
Something about all of this makes my stomach churn. Spears and knives. Tribes. The beginnings of an argument…an argument about who should lead. That’s how it started with Yong. Things are heading in a bad direction. I have to do something to prevent that.
“No one needs to join anyone else’s tribe,” I say.
My words confuse Bishop even more. He’s getting mad.
“Someone has to be in charge,” he says. “There have to be rules. That’s how things work.”
His fingers flex on the spear handle. I know, somehow, that if R. Bishop gets angry enough, my friends could get hurt.
A girl gently pushes through the marchers. Her skin is pale, but without Spingate’s pinkish hue. The tone is hard to define, a brown-tan that borders on white, but is clearly not. She is my height—does my skirt look as short as hers? Her long muscles flutter with even the slightest move, especially on her powerful legs. Her hair is unlike anyone else’s: long, kinky curls that puff out wider and wider before they end at her smooth, toned shoulders. She’s not smiling now, but when she does, I know it will be stunning.
She has a circle-star on her forehead.
There is no blood on her shirt, but there is a big, bluish bruise on her right cheekbone. Other than that, she appears to be fine—except for her lips, which are dry and chapped just like ours.
I realize that all the new kids have dry lips, even Bishop.
“Do you have any water?” the girl asks.
Bishop scowls at her.
“Shut up, Latu. I do the talking.”
She glares back at him, defiant. “Maybe you should do less talking and more leading, Bishop. We’re thirsty.”
He sighs. “Do you want what happened last time to happen again?”
“I don’t know,” Latu says. “Do you?”
She is solid and could probably beat me to a pulp, but Bishop is nearly twice her size. Anger pours off her: so does fear. Has she already fought him and lost?
“I’m a good leader,” Bishop says. “You don’t see blood all over our shirts, do you?”
Bishop is trying to act like Latu doesn’t bother him, but he’s not a convincing faker. He’s getting angrier by the second. El-Saffani watches him, as if the twins are waiting to see what he does. They are wound up tight. They look ready to attack, just like Yong was. Are all the circle-stars like that?
I need to get Bishop thinking about something other than O’Malley and Latu.
“Bishop, where did your group come from?”
He points behind him, to the new hallway. “From there.”
Obviously they came from there. That’s not the information I was hoping for.
“We keep turning,” says boy El-Saffani.
“Bishop said it’s good to turn,” says girl El-Saffani.
Another boy laughs, a cutting sound that makes me feel stupid even though I have nothing to do with their group.
Bishop turns, stabs a finger toward the source.
“Shut up, Gaston. I told you not to laugh at me.”
A boy slides through the marchers packed in behind Bishop and Latu. He’s small, even smaller than I am. His white shirt fits perfectly. All the buttons are buttoned, his sleeves are the right length, and his red tie is nice and neat. His left eye is puffy and bruised.