“No. IV in Wite-Out on their backpacks.” My eye snagged on Viv’s nails decorated with IVs. The school admin didn’t catch subtle clues. Her eyelashes made a slow drop, then snapped open as she shifted into a less comfortable position. I imagined she had stayed up late the night before, guilty and sad.
“The squad burst into my second-period class and hauled Henry up from the seat like he was a criminal. Henry, from the Brass Bandits,” Graham said. “The kid’s never even gotten a warning for being late.”
“Was he wearing a IV?” I asked.
“Headband—commando style. I swear, that kid has spirit.”
Harry’s brow became a ledge. “He come back?”
“I saw him by the band room in between third and fourth. Get this.” Graham slapped his own knee. “They questioned him.”
I dropped the laces of my sneaker I was in the middle of retying. “About what?”
“What do you think?” He held up his hand, thumb folded in. “Full-on interrogation. Henry tried to explain it was a civil liberties issue; he wasn’t actually associated with IV, just you can’t outlaw wearing a Roman numeral and not expect people to cry foul.”
“Poor Henry,” Viv said.
“Poor all of them. They’re dragging everyone they catch with a IV in for questioning,” Graham said.
“I heard they set up an interrogation room in one of the deserted portables near the tennis courts,” Viv said, fighting off a yawn.
“What?” Harry said sharply.
“Yeah. No joke.” She gave a weary smile.
“Is that allowed? Questioning students without their parents?” I wondered.
“If the police aren’t there and they’re asking about activities on campus. Actually”—Graham scratched his head and threw up his hand—“I don’t have a fucking clue. They’ll probably drag you in soon.” Wave to Harry. He elaborated, “Harry’s been writing about IV’s activities. Harry’s been interviewing people. He’s quoted anonymous sources. He’s one of the few people in the position to make an educated guess about IV’s identity. Of course, putting this all together would require the school admin to use reason. Not their anthem.”
Viv blinked at him. “Anthem?”
“It’s slang.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just surprised you do.”
Harry removed his headphones from his backpack. He stared down at his knuckles as they blanched and flexed around the plastic. His hands, the angry focus sharpening his eyes, the shift in his jaw, all made me think Harry was imagining strangling someone. “Let them question me,” he said, voice dead calm. “I’ve got some questions, too, like how come they didn’t question anyone when my dad was attacked on campus?”
He yanked the headphones on. Tapped his phone to play his music. Graham and Viv went back and forth showing each other pictures of Driftwood and Landmark online. Popping up in their feeds were kids at school posting selfies: showing four fingers; donning IV on their T-shirts; video clips of snickered IV’s gonna get you, Seven Hills on a loop. The drone of Harry’s music was the distant clashing of pots and pans. Angry. Not what he usually listened to. The pressure in my stomach pulsed, taking up a little more volume. I had a bad feeling. Nothing like a hunch or premonition. No. A real hunch lay too far beyond my fingertips. A ghost had slipped in one ear and out the other. The echo of its whisper. Important. There are things happening around you. Don’t close your eyes.
“We should sear IV into one of the hills,” Viv was saying.
“Yes. Like a brand on the whole town,” Graham responded.
Who knows why the authorities bothered outlawing IV. It was useless. Graffiti, trespassing, broken windows, and blood splashed on houses were in themselves acts against the law. Telling lawbreakers that they were guilty of one more minor offense, what did it matter? The adults in charge couldn’t fully comprehend that even if they outlawed the symbol from Seven Hills, it existed a hundredfold in everyone’s cells, laptops, and tablets. A space they couldn’t patrol. Seven Hills couldn’t strike IV from social media feeds and from our thoughts—I brushed my fingers along my T-shirt where my tattoo was—or our bodies.
Harry’s phone buzzed where it sat on his backpack between us. My gaze cut down to read Amanda’s name on the screen. My stomach turned. I found her down in the courtyard. Hand hooked on the flagpole, hanging, other hand cupping her cell. The phone quit buzzing. Amanda slid her cell into the back pocket of her jeans.
If she wanted to talk to us, why not mosey up like she had the lunch before? Unless it was not the four of us or a public conversation she wanted. I shook my head at myself. I was Isadora Anne Pendleton, creator of the Order of IV, an army of underlings at my beck and call. That fierce girl didn’t get jealous.
“Lemme see.” I brushed Viv’s ankle. She crawled over, pressing her side to mine, scrolling through picture after picture on her cell, tiny little rebellions that we had inspired.
? ? ?
The day went gray. Graham and I hadn’t had a moment for just the two of us, so I’d texted him asking about the camera footage of the tunnel. He promised to run through what had recorded and to text me if he found anything of interest.
On our way home from school, Graham’s elbows were on Harry’s dash as he scrutinized the clouds crowding the sky. Viv had stayed behind on campus for rehearsal.
“I walked around the square late last night and bagel girl was right,” Graham said, “no cameras pointed on the knoll.”
“You might not have seen them,” Harry said.
“I hope you didn’t look like you were casing the knoll,” I said.
Graham pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his noise. “I’d see the cameras. And no, I didn’t arouse suspicion. But I want to walk around once more. Drop me off.”
“We can go around together,” Harry offered.
“No,” Graham said, hastily gathering up the ever-growing library of books spilling from his bag, dropping a few of the titles, cursing under his breath. “I want to inspect the tracks again and plot our course for tomorrow night.” As he exited without a good-bye or wave, Ritual Madness was braced at his chest.
“Beach?” Harry asked.
“Definitely.”
Harry and I walked along the beach to a spot unblemished by driftwood. He dropped to his knees and scooped out two craters side by side in the sand. We sat in them. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and ignored the throb in the injured one. It was on the verge of cold. The wind threw our hair forward and then off to the right in abrupt gusts. Harry’s arm went around my shoulders, shielding me. “I should have brought my portable record player,” he said, close to my ear.
I wormed my cell from my pocket and balanced it on the top of my sneaker. “What do you want to listen to?”