“Yeah, but it’s ice cream, Mongoose. Ice cream calls for rule breaking.”
Ellie hums while looking over the massive menu. Me, I have my hands jammed in my pockets, trying to avoid the million and one worst-case scenarios I’ve dreamed up, most of which end with either me puking or Ellie losing a limb. We both order our cones—hers with sprinkles, mine without—and I insist on paying because, dammit, I’m standing by my belief that this is a date and that’s what guys on dates do.
We sit at a nearby bench, where Ellie and I both take out our laptops. She also has a spiral notebook with her and flips through a dozen or so pages already filled with meticulous notes on the files in Stranko’s cloud.
“Wow, you make me feel like a slacker,” I say.
“Why? How much have you read through?”
“Er, only some.”
“Meaning zero. But that’s okay. I’ve been doing it all week during second period while I’m in the office. I have a lot more time than you anyway, with you doing work crew and all.”
The next fifteen minutes are as un-date-like as they can possibly be. Ellie takes notes on files, commenting when she finds something interesting, while I make lame jokes and try to look at her while keeping my head pointed toward my laptop screen. Question: Is it possible to pull an eye muscle?
“Oh, here’s something,” Ellie says. “Look at this.”
I scoot close enough that our hips touch.
The file Ellie’s talking about is named AHS PR Plan, and it’s a bullet-pointed list on how to raise the school’s image in the community and beyond. Most of it’s standard bureaucratic nonsense, like increase the number of National Merit Finalists, offer more AP courses, a Celebrate Asheville festival, etc. But it’s the final item that stands out.
“Did you see this one about the aerial shot of the student body coming up?” I ask. “Have you heard about that?”
“No, why would they want that?”
“Maybe for the website? Or yearbook? I’m not sure.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, but we’re looking for opportunities, right?”
After another ten minutes of eye straining and file reading, first one, then two and three cars trickle into the parking lot.
“The game must be over,” Ellie says. “Maybe we should get out of here.”
We pack up our stuff and leave the picnic bench. On the way to the car, I text the other three about the aerial photo, figuring maybe one of them can figure out an angle.
“So where to, Mongoose?” Ellie says.
“You’re the driver, Puma.”
“Well, we can either do more research or we can quit for the night.”
The last thing I want to do is more reading, but Not Max certainly doesn’t want to go home. Who knows when I might be out with Ellie again? If there is an again.
“Is there a third option?”
Ellie bites her lower lip, thinking it over.
“Do you trust me?”
Like she needs to ask.
? ? ?
Soon we’re heading back through town, passing the bright lights of the emptying football stadium. Eventually the subdivisions give way to cornfields and—God forbid—actual nature. I have no idea where we’re going and don’t care. Ellie’s singing along to the Grease soundtrack, and I join in, not embarrassed at all that I know all the words due to Mom’s addiction to musicals. After ten minutes, Ellie slows and turns onto a small dirt road bordered on both sides by Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted signs.
“Um.”
“Relax, Mongoose. The coast is clear.”
We follow the road and soon enter a forest I never knew existed. We weave our way up a large hill, the dirt road now nothing but a set of beaten-down tire tracks.
“You’re not taking me here to kill me, are you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Ellie says. “If I were going to kill you, I’d have poisoned your ice cream.”
She pulls into a ditch on the side of the road by a bullet-ridden sign now warning Trespassers Will Be Shot.
“Ignore that one too,” Ellie tells me, killing the engine. “Bullets can’t stop Puma and Mongoose tonight.”
I follow Ellie as she hikes up the hill through the trees. It’s so dark, I can barely make out her silhouette in front of me and have to trust in the crinkling leaves to keep up. If she is about to murder me, at least I won’t see it coming. Suddenly, the rustling stops, and Ellie puts her hand in mine. Warm electricity crackles up my arm. Her hand is cool but soft as she pulls me along.
“Close your eyes,” she says. “It’s just up ahead. No peeking.”
I do as I’m told, allowing Ellie to guide me for a dozen or so steps until the ground becomes softer.
“Okay, now you can look.”
I open my eyes and my mouth drops. We’re standing at the edge of a field at the bottom of a large hill. On top, where a full moon is rising, stands a twenty-foot platform with a massive radar dish pointing straight into the sky like a monstrous metal spiderweb. It’s something right out of a painting.
“Wanna race?” Ellie says.
Without waiting for my answer, she blazes away.