My training kicks in and I break out into a slow jog. I bump shoulders with a younger girl. “Sorry,” I yell out without stopping. I don’t want to lose him. I rub my hand on the outside pocket of my messenger bag and feel the outline of my “calculator.” The Black Angels weaponry team designed and built it just for me. A push of a button activates a secret compartment and out slides a serrated knife. I almost forgot it today. I walked out to my car without it, debated just leaving it at home, but turned around and went back inside. My parents’ constant badgering to always be armed no longer seems like one of their annoying ticks. It’s for moments just like this; when every bone in my body feels like it’s splintering and my mind is screaming.
I push past underclassmen and eventually they start to get out of my way. I reach the hallway where he turned. His dark, long hair and large frame give him away in this crowd of freshmen and sophomores. Our eyes lock and his face twists into a scowl. Before I can take another step, he pulls open the door to the gymnasium and slips inside. I jog down the hallway, my heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing through my body. I slip my hand into the pocket of my bag just enough to feel the top of my calculator with my fingertips. I reach the door, pull on the metal handle, and step inside, the door slamming shut behind me with a loud, metallic clang.
The gym is dark and empty. I take a few cautious steps toward the basketball court, my boots echoing against the vaulted ceiling. After a few steps, I stop and listen. My lungs tighten in my chest as I hold my breath. I hear the slight rustle of clothing followed by slow and quiet taps. He’s on his tiptoes somewhere in the black. Most would never be able to pick up on that, but after years of intense training, I recognize the sound of someone trying desperately not to be heard. I slowly let out my breath and take three steps back, pushing my body up against the cinder-block walls. Don’t let him attack you from behind, I hear my mother’s voice in my head. I reach inside the pocket of my bag and push the button at the top of my calculator. Out slides the handle of my knife. I listen again to the quiet tap, tap, tap on the hardwood floors. A door at half-court swings open with a shrieking creak and light pours from the equipment room. A dark image walks into the light and just as quickly dips back into the shadows. The outline of a silhouette has been swallowed by the black, but I can hear heavy footsteps walk closer and closer to my side of the gym. I grab the handle of my knife, pulling it out of its hidden compartment and up to the edge of my bag.
“Who’s there?” I push out from my tight throat, my voice bouncing off the two-story ceiling.
No one answers me. The footsteps get louder and louder. My stomach twists, and fear tingles up and down my arms.
“Who’s there?” I repeat, my voice booming.
I hear a crack and then a soft buzz above me.
“Reagan? What are you doing?”
The dim glow from the overhead light reveals Coach Hutta, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt two sizes too small, standing twenty yards away from me near the massive overhead light switch. My knees lock. I stand there frozen, my hand still wrapped around the handle of my knife, as my eyes scan the gym. I expect to see the stranger cowering in a corner or running out the back door. But he’s gone.
“Sorry, Coach. I just…” My mind races for a quick lie. I let go of my knife and feel the weight of it drop down into my bag. With my free hand, I reach into the pocket of my jeans, pulling out the five-dollar bill I was going to use to buy a brownie at lunch. “I saw one of the janitors drop some money in the hallway. I was just running after him to give it back. I saw him slip in here. Have you seen him?”
“Oh, you mean Mateo?” Coach Hutta asks, his brow furrowing over his beady eyes. “The new janitor? Dark-haired guy?”
“Yes,” I reply, my tense shoulders falling half an inch.
“Yeah, he just came into the equipment room,” Coach Hutta says, his hitchhiker thumb pointed over his shoulder at the open door. He steps toward me, his stride wobbly and wide. When he reaches me, he snatches the five-dollar bill out of my hand with a smirk and puts it in his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to him.”
Great. Out of my mind and five dollars.
The double doors to the gym fly open behind me and a group of freshmen come running inside, their chatter and giggles drowning out the buzz of the industrial overhead lights.
“Better get to your next class, Reagan,” Coach Hutta calls out over his shoulder as he makes his way toward half-court where his students are sprawled out on the floor.
I nod even though he’s no longer paying attention. Coach Hutta blows on the whistle that’s permanently draped around his thick neck, and the chatter dissipates. I turn around and head for the door.
“Aren’t you a lucky group of students? Today we will do your favorite thing in the world. A timed mile run,” Coach Hutta announces. The class groans in unison before erupting into a series of complaints and excuses.
It was nothing, my mind whispers. You’re worked up over nothing.
I pull the strap of my messenger bag tighter against my shoulder. I breathe in deep, trying to release my rigid muscles and untie the remaining knots in my stomach. But they won’t budge.
As I reach the double doors and put my hands on the cool steel bar, those hundred pins prick my back once again. I can feel eyes on me. I whip back around, my long ponytail smacking me in the face, in time to see the edge of a man’s silhouette slipping out the back door and disappearing from my sight.