Technically, I have a choice. When I turn eighteen, I must choose between college and a normal life or the training academy and the Black Angels. But for me, there’s really only one choice. My parents don’t just hope I’ll go to the training academy. They expect me to go. Everyone does. My name has been at the very top of the academy’s list since I was ten years old. Born to be a Black Angel. The words have been burned into my brain since before my first bra. Even if I wasn’t the academy’s golden child, the pressure to go would be high. The children of Black Angels become Black Angels. It’s a tradition that’s almost never broken. My parents are both first generation but they are the exception rather than the rule. Most Black Angels are third, even fourth generation. Children of Black Angels are trained by their parents from the moment they learn what Mommy and Daddy really do for a living and by the time they turn eighteen, they are more than ready for the academy. There’s no need for CIA training on The Farm when you’ve been practicing martial arts since you were four and shooting high-powered assault rifles since age ten.
There’s honor in what they do. I know there is. They save people’s lives, they rescue hostages, stop terror plots, take down the bad guys. They’re as close to superheroes as you can get. But there’s a list of cons that come with the admirable pros. And after Philadelphia, my secret con list is getting longer.
“Thank God,” Harper yells across the biology lab as we walk through the door. I raise my finger to my pursed lips in an effort to get Harper to zip it. Mr. Bajec is several lab tables away, his back turned to us. He hasn’t noticed we’re late. She gets my signal and presses her lips into an oh-crap smirk.
Luke and I take a few quick steps across the lab, throw our bags on the ground, and hop on our lab stools just in time.
“Don’t forget, test tomorrow afternoon, everybody,” Mr. Bajec says, turning around to face the class. I turn on my best I’ve-been-here-the-whole-time smile and nod. He turns his attention back to the lab.
“That was a close one,” Harper says, letting out a breath.
“What are you doing?” Luke asks with a laugh.
“Yeah, are you trying to get us detention?” I ask, pulling my blue biology notebook out of my messenger bag.
“Sorry, but it’s dissection day and if you think I’m touching that slimy frog, then we might as well take the F on this lab,” Harper exclaims, pointing down at our dead frog, his four legs pinned down, waiting to be cut open.
“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” I say, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and grabbing the lab scissors out of her hands. Harper hops up on the metal stool next to Luke and neatly prints our names on the top of our lab sheet.
“Sorry I’m a pretty shitty lab partner,” Harper says, leaning her arms onto her notebook.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Luke says, watching as I begin to cut into the belly of the frog. “I think you add a certain something to these dissections.”
“Spunk,” she says and smiles.
“And vomit sound effects,” I say and point my gloved finger at her. “I couldn’t get through the lab without those.”
“Thank God you’re going to be a doctor or we’d be super screwed,” Harper says, and I have to stop my muscles from flinching. I’ve been lying my entire life. It’s scary how second nature it is to me but when my friends repeat my lies back to me, sometimes the guilt rises hot and prickly on my skin.
I open up the frog’s stomach to reveal thousands of tiny black eggs. “I guess this one is a female.”
Harper glances up from her notes and doubles over when she sees the glistening cluster of eggs. “Oh my God, that is so disgusting,” she shrieks, then chokes on something in her throat.
“Mac, would you rather have to eat all those frog eggs or…” Luke begins.
“Stop it, Luke. That’s so gross,” Harper says, smacking him hard on the arm with her notebook. “Do your stupid ‘Would You Rather’ game with Reagan later when I’m not wanting to die.”
Harper throws her hands over her eyes as I grab one of the scalpels and scrape out all the eggs.
“When I go to med school, I’ll have to dissect a person,” I say, staying on script. I cut a few inches more and open up the frog to reveal its heart, liver, and stomach.
“Seriously? Oh my God, no lie, I feel runny mashed potatoes coming up my throat. This isn’t fake throw-up. This is real. Please change the stomach.”
“The stomach?”
“The subject. Please change the subject,” Harper says, squeezing her eyes shut and grabbing on to her midsection.
“You are so dramatic, I love you,” I reply and giggle.
“Mr. Weixel, can I see you for a moment, please?” Mr. Bajec says, adjusting his dark-rim glasses and motioning with two quick flicks of his fingers for Luke to meet him at his desk.
An uh-oh look flashes into Luke’s eyes for a moment, but with a quick shrug of his shoulders, it’s gone. “Last name plus the worst words a teacher can possibly utter, all in one sentence,” he says with a smile. Luke hops off his stool, his hands smoothing the front of his uniform. “Lucky me.”
I watch Luke for a beat too long as he walks away. I know it’s too long because I can feel Harper’s eyes on me, a small smile creeping up her face.
I break my stare, remove my frog-slime-covered gloves and take the lab sheet out of Harper’s hand to start working on our notes.
“Why is Mal so into going to Mark Ricardi’s party?” I ask quickly before Harper can start in on me. “She practically burst into tears when she found out I didn’t want to go. There’s got to be more in it for her than spiked cider.”