“So, you and Journey, huh…” Lysa says slyly.
“I know. Crazy, right? I mean, we’re just trying to figure all of this out.” A tingling sweeps up the back of my neck and spreads across my cheeks. I flip my hair from behind my ear. I can’t say any more but Spam and Lysa know. The look they exchange this time is a little warmer.
“Just be careful,” Lysa says.
“Keep your head on straight, chica,” Spam adds.
I nod. Their advice is good. I feel comfortable with Journey but I get it, there’s still a lot we don’t know.
At the Green Area we hug, then Spam and Lysa continue on toward the parking lot. I barely have my bag stashed in the seat compartment of my scooter before I spot Mr. Roberts ambling my way.
“Erin, do you have a minute?” He parks his reading glasses on his giant, bald forehead and mimes a batting warm-up move.
I try to look busy, but he doesn’t take the hint. “How is your schoolwork?” he asks. “Are you managing to keep up? I can speak to your teachers if you need extra time for any of your assignments.”
“Thanks, Mr. Roberts. But everything’s fine.” My panic meter starts to rise; Journey will be pulling up in his van any second. Mr. Roberts will immediately alert Rachel if he sees me leaving with him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Lysa and Spam hurrying back from the parking lot.
“Hey, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa shoots me a tiny smile over his shoulder. When he turns, I give her a grateful look and mime begging.
Mr. Roberts scowls. “Excuse me, Alyssa. I’m with another student.” He turns back to me. “Erin, I’m worried about you. Why don’t you come to my office and we can talk about it?”
“I can’t right now, Mr. Roberts,” I say, tugging on my helmet. “I have to get home. Can we do it tomorrow?”
“I need something, Mr. Roberts.” Lysa taps him on the shoulder. “Can we go to your office?” When he continues to ignore her, Lysa regards him with wide, frustrated eyes.
For some reason Mr. Roberts is laser-focused on me and I’m getting desperate. Off to the side, Spam is typing furiously into her phone. Suddenly, nearly every cell phone in the vicinity pings, including my own.
I check my phone. It’s an SOS blast text, something Spam devised to promote pop-up school functions. It reads: “HEY CS’ERS, ANYONE STILL ON CAMPUS REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE GREEN AREA FOR FREE STUFF.”
I gape at Spam.
“It’ll just take a minute,” Mr. Roberts says, still trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t.” I’m looking past him at the stream of students trickling into the Green Area from all points within the school. Spam’s amazing. She gives me a small shrug and a wink before sauntering off to the parking lot.
Mr. Roberts’s eyes widen at the throngs of students showing up. “What’s going on here? Excuse me. There’s no loitering on campus. What … free?! There’s nothing free here.”
I decide to leave before Journey pulls up and our plan is blown. “Bye, Lysa. Bye, Mr. Roberts.” I ease the scooter away from the curb and drive toward the nearest exit. In a show of perfect timing, Journey’s van rumbles up behind me.
Meanwhile, the crowd around Mr. Roberts continues to grow. He might suspect we were up to something, but he’ll never be able to prove it.
With Journey tailing me, I drive around the block to a neighborhood where no one at school can see us. Then I pull over. Journey gets out and comes around to the curb.
“Sorry about that. I had to ditch Principal Roberts.” I slide my helmet off and the static makes my hair stand straight out around my head.
He stifles a laugh. “With your hair sticking up like that and the sun shining through it you look like a Tesla coil.” His voice catches on a shred of emotion.
“Oh. Sorry.” I quickly try to pat my hair back into place.
“Don’t apologize.” Journey takes ahold of Vespy’s handlebars and rolls her toward the back of the van, where he hoists her carefully inside. He even covers her with a tarp and secures her with bungee cords. Then he proceeds around to the passenger side to open the door for me.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and hope I can think of something non-dorky to say. But as Journey pulls away from the curb, he launches into a detailed story about a series of mystery novels he likes where the main character is a reluctant detective who wants nothing to do with solving a crime. Clues and evidence give him an actual rash. But he keeps stumbling over corpses and suffers from a strong moral obligation to get it right.
Journey glances at me with a somber expression. “I kind of think we’re like that. We want to make sure no one decides we had anything to do with this … but at the same time we want to get it right for Miss Peters.”