“How much longer?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.” Maybe. “But I don’t. This thing… I’m in the dark about a lot of it, too.”
The breezeway door opens and two kids, probably freshmen, walk out. Vandy and I stop talking while they pass. When they’ve gone through the other door she says, “But you worked it out? With Emory?”
“Yes. It’s all good.” She opens her mouth again, but I hold up a hand. “Just be patient, okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk. You’ve always been the most impatient person I know.”
I stare blank-faced at her for a suspended moment, caught on a precipice between blowing it off and suddenly unloading the reality of my last three years on her. Impatience isn’t sitting in two rooms all day, waiting for your hearing. Impatience isn’t six hours spent on the track, doing drills every Thursday. Impatience isn’t getting popped for contraband and cleaning five bathroom floors with a toothbrush. Impatience isn’t knowing that the life you left behind is hundreds of miles away and not going so crazy with it that you do something dangerous and stupid.
I can’t even remember a life where I could afford to be impatient.
But that’s not her baggage to carry.
I smile tightly instead. “I’ve been working on it.”
The look she gives me tells me she doesn’t quite believe it. “Okay, if you can’t tell me when I’ll know, can you tell me how?”
“You’ll know,” I tell her, as another group comes through the door—this one a mixed group of juniors and seniors. I start walking away. “I promise.”
I don’t know how I know that, but I do. Something about the new Devils has that cloak and dagger thing going on, and I have no doubt that whoever is pulling the strings will make sure they leave an impression. Emory informed us he has a system set up. He leaves communication in a small box down in the bunker and whoever is orchestrating all of this picks them up. After we made our nomination list, Emory left that in the box. Now, we’re waiting on the next step, like everyone else.
It happens on a Friday.
During football season, Fridays are a break in the monotony of school uniforms. Players still wear a button-down and pressed pants, but we wear black ties emblazoned with the PP logo and tiny devils stitched into the silk. The cheerleaders trade short plaid skirts for even shorter cheer skirts, and ramp up their hair and makeup under the guise of ‘school spirit’.
Vandy may be onto something with her antiquated patriarchy stuff.
Not that I’m complaining. Two more inches of exposed thigh and black and red striped tube socks works for me. A lot.
Friday morning, dressed in my Devil tie and completely distracted by a sea of tiny, pleated skirts, I open my locker and see a black envelope taped to the inside of the door. Discreetly, I remove the envelope. There’s no writing on the front, but the back has a red wax seal, a pitchfork pressed neatly into it.
The halls are busy, but I glance down the row and see Emory pulling his own envelope off the metal door. His eyes dart past me and I follow his gaze to the opposite side of the hall. Vandy’s at her locker alone, and at first, seems like she doesn’t even notice anything inside of it. My heart thuds, wondering if for some reason she didn’t pass the nomination process. Did Emory take her name off? Did the people orchestrating this veto her?
I turn and make eye contact with him, but Emory just shrugs, obviously wondering the same thing. I grab my books and slam my locker door, looking back at Vandy one more time. That’s when her eyes lift to the inside of her door, a quizzical expression lifting her features.
Slowly, she removes the envelope, and then begins darting her gaze around. Our eyes meet and I drag my backpack over my shoulder, give her a slight nod, and then do my best to vanish into the crowd.
My heart quickens as I walk toward my first class. Whatever this game is, it has truly begun. A game of secrets, danger, and a crossing of the boundaries I swore to stay away from.
I just hope like hell this doesn’t backfire on us all.
9
Vandy
Getting out of the house isn’t easy.
It’s a Thursday night, so my parents and I are all in the den, watching the tail-end of an interview my mom had recorded with a local janitor-turned-hero. My eyes keep flicking to my phone, watching the time. I still have forty minutes before I have to be at the location, but my palms are already sweating.
I stand up.
Both of their gazes follow me.
“I’m heading to bed,” I explain, slipping my phone into my pocket.
My mom frowns in that special, concerned way that more and more makes me want to scream. “It’s still early.”