“That’s too late! Half of us will have graduated by then!” Kent exclaims, in the loudest voice I’ve ever heard him use. He flies up from his seat, his cheeks flushed with rage. The fire in his eyes takes me by surprise. “Just admit that the school board doesn’t want us to exist. I mean, if you guys were behind us, then you’d have to accept responsibility for overworking us.”
She says, “Mr. Mathers, Counselor Gorton presented your ideas to the Parents’ Association last night with the school board’s blessing. However, there was a vote and...” She exhales and glances down at her paper again, as though it might somehow help her. “I’m afraid the majority of your parents did not agree that the standards should be lowered or workloads decreased. And, unfortunately, these same parents insisted your group be formally recognized with a charter, which is why you have to disband.”
We sit in stunned silence.
She removes her glasses and rubs her eyes, her tone decidedly gentle, reminiscent of the days when she was still Miss Gottfried. “I’m so sorry. We support you, but our hands are tied. Ultimately, we have to answer to your parents.”
I can’t believe my mother was right.
Jasper stands. “Where’s Mr. Gorton?”
The principal’s expression morphs from apologetic to downright pained. “Counselor Gorton is taking some personal time. Now, students, I have to ask you to please vacate this room.”
37
SIMONE
“I’m taking Warhol out for a little jog around the neighborhood.”
My parents installed tracking software on my phone, so walking the dog is the only way I can leave without suspicion. I’m worried sick about Liam—he disappeared without a word after lunch. I waited for him at his locker and he never showed. I’d hoped he’d attend the Gatekeepers meeting, but there was no sign of him. I can’t try his house, obviously, but I have a feeling he’s not there anyway. Mallory suggested he might be at the bluff, so checking there seems to be the best plan.
“Can’t hear you, be out in a sec,” Mum says from her darkroom. Because we’re leaving so much sooner than we’d planned, she’s been working ’round the clock to get all her photos in line. She said she can do the actual writing back in London, where it’s safer for me. I pointed out the irony of them assuming I’d be more secure in one of the largest cities in the world, currently plagued by the threat of global terror, but no one thought I was clever.
I fought the decision, but ultimately I was outvoted.
I’m heartsick.
Liam believes we can still make it work, him and me. He’s decided to take the University of Florida scholarship. He’s not thrilled about playing soccer, but he says he’d rather be a Gator than be beholden to his father for one more minute.
Even though I’m going back to England now, I hope to return in the fall for college. I’ll apply to U of Florida the minute my ACT scores are in. Wouldn’t that be lovely, to be somewhere balmy with Liam, palm trees gently swaying in the breeze, finally away from all forces trying to keep us apart?
I realize this all sounds vaguely Capulets and Montagues, yet I feel our plan is feasible. And at some point, his parents will relent, once they realize this addiction nonsense is just that—nonsense. Overblown fantasies from watching too many episodes of Dateline, which is Dad’s newest obsession.
Once Dad’s away from the telly and home in an environment that inspires him, I’ll stop bearing the brunt of his artistic block.
Mum emerges from her darkroom and glances out the window. “What were you saying, Sim?”
“I’m taking Warhol for a walk.”
“Bloody freezing out there, isn’t it? You really want to walk him?”
“He’s restless,” I say. “Plus, look at his bottom, see how fat he’s become? He’s porky from all the training treats. Tubby could use a bit of exercise.”
“Okay, but take your phone,” she says.
“Naturally,” I reply.
I bundle Warhol into a bright yellow sweater and clip on his leash. I take my time going outdoors, so I don’t appear too anxious. I don’t start jogging until I’m down the block, then beelining due east to the bluff Mallory described.
Warhol and I are in a full-on run when I spot a bit of Liam’s navy-and-silver North Shore letterman’s jacket from the stone path that borders the bluff. He’s here, with his legs curled into himself, looking out at the lake from under all the branches.
Thank God.
Relief washes over me. I loosen my death grip on Warhol’s leash, shaking out my hand so the circulation returns. Warhol, delighted to be out adventuring, yanks me along, causing me to go even faster. He’s not supposed to pull, but I’m too distracted to worry about proper training.
Liam glances up at us as we make our way down to him. “Hey,” he slurs. “I know you.”
My reprieve from panic is short-lived.
This is wrong. The feeling of dread begins to creep in, quietly nipping at my heels, wrapping its cold fingers around my neck.
“Liam, what happened to you this afternoon?” I ask, trying to keep the dismay out of my voice. “Where’d you go?”
“Hello, doggie!” He tries to scoop Warhol up in a sloppy embrace. The dog isn’t used to such an effusive return of affection and slips out of his arms. Warhol looks at me as if to say, What’s all this, then?
Liam crawls out from under the pine canopy and struggles to his feet. He’s disjointed and rubbery as he tries to give me a hug. He’s moving as though he’s trying to walk through water. His pupils are tiny pinpoints, even though it’s dusk.
“Are you okay?” I ask, searching his face. I want him to say yes, even though in my gut, I know he’s not. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head saying that this is not what okay looks like.
Something is profoundly off.
His lips curl into a grin. “I am out-freaking-standing. I am A-okay. I am Liam!” He throws his arms in the air like that cheerleader at Jasper’s party whenever they played her jam. The motion causes him to stagger before he catches himself.
Something here is very, very off.
“What’s wrong with your voice? You’re raspy.”
“Raaaaaahhhhspy. That? That is a fun word. Raaaaaahhhhspy.”
“Liam, talk to me,” I say. I sound like I’m pleading and Warhol picks up on the stress in my voice, the sharp quick notes. The dog loved Liam when they met the first time, but now seems anxious to move along. “What’s going on?”
“We just went ahead and fixed the glitch,” he says, quoting the Bobs from Office Space, the first movie we ever watched together. I’d not heard of it, but he promised me it was a cult classic in this country and I couldn’t consider myself truly American until I’d seen it. Didn’t care for the film, actually. Made me question why everyone in the school is working so hard to get into a good college so they can get a degree, only to land a job that’s nothing but useless TPS reports and eleven bosses.
With the leash looped on my wrist, I grip Liam’s arms, shaking him to get his attention. “What’d you mean by that? Where’d you go?”
“Met my friend.”
“What friend?”
“Harry Jones.” Then he giggles, but the sound that comes out isn’t like his regular laugh. It’s all high-pitched and shriek-y. Warhol tugs the leash, as though he wants to leave. “Harry Jones. Jarry Hones. Harry Jonesing.”