I spent the rest of first period and all of second in the nurse’s office, watching Animal Control pass through the hallway. I had to answer a lot of questions, then talk to my dad on the phone. (Apparently my mother thought I’d hallucinated the snake, but then she found out half my English class was now paranoid as hell, and the other half was so excited they couldn’t stay in their seats.) Miles helped Tucker get rid of the snake food fridge, but they refused to tell me exactly how they snuck it out past the teachers and Animal Control. Miles looked grim. Tucker was sweating.
“What’d you have to do, kill someone?” I asked. “Did you have to hide a body, too?”
They glanced at each other. Tucker pulled on his collar. “Not exactly.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Miles said at the same time.
I decided to leave that one alone.
I went back to class during third period and was bombarded with requests to retell the story. It was so bad that the teacher decided we weren’t learning anything and we got a free study period instead.
The problem with retelling the story was that it made me relive it, and I didn’t want to remember the feeling of coming close to having my ribs crushed. I didn’t want to remember how that python had gone from fake to real in five seconds. Looking back on an event and realizing how easily you could have died—without even comprehending the deadliness of the thing that killed you—was a little like getting a bucket of ice water thrown in your face. Mostly harmless, but no less shocking.
I spent my lunch period combing my food for poison and thinking about how I could have been gone forever.
Poof. Kaput.
Forget college—bye-bye, all the other years of my life.
I would have died in this lobster tank.
Chapter Forty-six
I was working at Finnegan’s on Friday when a swarm of East Shoalers stormed the place. Everyone from the club to Cliff and Ria showed up, cramming every corner of the restaurant.
Finnegan himself always stopped by on Friday nights, and this royally screwed me over because I couldn’t take pictures or do my perimeter checks or my food inspections. He sat in his office and made sure we were doing what we were supposed to. He was an average-looking guy—average height, average build, average black-brown hair and gray-blue eyes. He reminded me of a vulture, his neck too long and bent at odd angles.
Miles wandered in and took a seat with the rest of the club. Gus slid his burger and fries through the kitchen window before I could ask for it.
“Thanks,” Miles said when I set the food in front of him. Art and Jetta sat across from him, the triplets at the next table over.
“Sorry I can’t stay and talk,” I said. “Finnegan’s here. He’ll crucify me if it looks like I’m not working.” I tugged on Miles’s white shirtsleeve with two fingers as I said it. A sorry replacement for a kiss, but the best I could do under Finnegan’s watch.
“Pretend like we’re ordering something else,” Theo said. “And answer this question: You’re going to prom, right?”
Miles rolled a french fry between his thumb and index finger.
“I—no, I can’t.” I pulled out my notepad and pretended to write something down. “I have to work that night.”
“Oh, but Jetta could make the perfect dress for you,” whined Theo. “Please? Please go. Ask off work. I did, and I never ask off.”
“I really can’t, Theo; I’m sorry.” I didn’t have the money for it, and neither did Miles.
“Don’t look now,” Art whispered. “Cliff’s giving you the evil eye.”
In my peripheral, I noticed Cliff and Ria staring at me from a few tables over.
“They can do what they want,” I said. “They probably just want to make some more jokes about me being a snake charmer.”
I didn’t expect anything else from them at this point. After the snake incident, I saw them in the cafeteria, reenacting what had happened for their friends. According to them, I’d fainted straightaway, and Miles had tried to beat the snake to death while it was still wrapped around me. A-plus performances, really, but if they were going to make fun of my near-death experience, they could have at least gotten the details right.
I ignored them and returned to the counter, pretending to look for another notepad but actually searching for the Magic 8 Ball. Was that snake real every time I saw it, or only sometimes? Were there other things I had thought were hallucinations, but were actually real? Even if the answer to that one was yes, it wasn’t like the 8 Ball could tell me exactly what they were. . . .
The 8 Ball’s usual spot beside the register was empty. I grabbed Tucker. “Hey. Where’s the 8 Ball?”
“What?”
“The 8 Ball. Finnegan’s Magic 8 Ball. I can’t find it.”