2

Mom’s chin goes all taut when she’s tense. She’s thin anyway, but when she juts her chin forward, her skin has to stretch further and her whole face looks tight. Like an ad for plastic surgery gone wrong.

Chloe and I have parked ourselves at the kitchen table, eating grapes. “We’re okay, Mom. Relax. It’s over,” Chloe tells her and pops a couple grapes in her mouth. She never washed off the black makeup, so I can’t look straight into her eyes.

Mom sits perched on the edge of the kitchen chair, looking like a nervous little bluebird. “Dad won’t be home until late tonight. They’ve called him out to the school to help with the investigation.” She clasps her hands together and flexes and un-flexes her fingers. I’m tempted to reach over and place my hands on hers to make her stop, but I don’t.

“Okay, so Dad might get blown to smithereens, but he’s not around much anyway, so we won’t really notice.” Chloe gets this ridiculous half-smirk on her face like she thinks she’s hilarious. I kick her under the table. Mom’s hands flex. Un-flex.

“The whole thing’s probably just a hoax, Mom. Some stupid freshman on a dare,” I tell her, pulling a grape off the vine.

“Hey, hey!” Chloe complains. “Don’t knock freshman. Frosh rock.”

“Sorry. I forgot your boyfriend is a freshman,” I tease.

She throws a grape at me. It bounces off my shoulder. Mom’s not supposed to know Chloe has this thing for a little stoner boy … He’s actually her age but he got held back a grade. Quality dating material. She always picks winners.

“Oh. Uh, just kidding.” I mouth “sorry” to her when Mom isn’t looking.

Mom stands, her chin still stretched tight. “It’s late. I guess you’d better get dressed for clinic, Gab.” Flex. Un-flex.

Clinic. The low-fee medical clinic, my volunteer opportunity because it looks good for college apps. My stomach drops fast and hard. Don’t I deserve the day off?

“Uh. I don’t think my head’s in the game today, Mom. I’d rather just stay home with you guys.” Plus, I want to scream, I’ve already submitted my top-five early action apps. Mom wants me to get into Georgetown University in the worst way. She had a brief stint there herself, but she dropped out junior year to marry my dad. I have no idea why she didn’t just finish her units in California when they moved here.

Not being conceited or anything, but my chances of getting in (to at least one of my top-five schools) are pretty high, what with my four AP classes, my rocking GPA and SAT scores, my place on the cross-country team, and my dizzying array of life-broadening volunteer experiences. Just saying.

Mom nods too fast, like she is disappointed but doesn’t want me to know. “Oh. Okay. Can they manage without you?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, my stomach dropping again but knowing I will go. Because it’s the “right thing” to do. Good little Gabi Mallory, always does the right thing. Dependable. Responsible. Disciplined. Boring, yes, and social life submerged in the toilet … but destined for success, preferably at an elite East Coast school. Yuck.

Mom nods again, and I can see her breathe a tiny sigh of relief. She’s seriously got this internal master plan for me, and if I don’t follow the Perfect and Elite-University-Destined Daughter rule book to a T, she thinks the world will crumble into dust.

I look at Chloe and set my grapes on the table. The black mess under her eyes is ugly but intriguing. She looks like a model for some kind of creepy artistic magazine.

“Oh, stay home. Rebel a little!” Chloe advises, her smirk back full force. “It’ll make your boobs grow.”

“Very funny.”

I survive a four-hour shift at the clinic. Then I run on the treadmill (while listening to an audiotape of my AP government textbook) for fifty minutes. Good girl, Gabi.

I’m toweling my hair dry from my post-run shower when my cell vibrates on my dresser. I peek. Gabi, are you there? It’s my bestie and study buddy extraordinaire, Beth.

Yea. Just got back from clinic.

Can you believe today?

Not really.

Me neither. I’m not going to school tomorrow.

Seriously? You never miss school.

There’s a first for everything. What’s detective daddy say about all this?

Don’t know. I think he just got home. I’ll go eavesdrop.

I like the way you think.

I tiptoe over to the banister and lean against it. Little drips of water roll down my back from my still-wet hair.

My parents’ voices are low, rumbling, like they don’t want anyone to hear. Of course this makes me even more curious. “… clear message,” Dad is saying, his voice tired and soft. “… professional job.” Dad must be facing away from the stairs, because it’s hard to make out his words. Or maybe he just doesn’t want me or my sister to hear. “Took our best guys over an hour to ensure the bomb we found was disarmed.”

“Do they think it was a staff member?” Mom’s voice, somehow much clearer, and with a sharp edge. I can just imagine Mom facing him, arms crossed, demanding information.

“… not ruling it out …”

“Who else could it be? Who would want to do such a thing?”

“… looking into it … full investigation … possibly ex-employees or ex-students … could even be a current student, but the sophistication of the layout makes that unlikely … You never know though. Some of these kids are really bright.”

I creep down the top two stairs to hear better. I can see the light reflecting off Dad’s bald head. He’s still wearing his work clothes, which look a lot more like business clothes since he got promoted to lead detective.

Mom sighs and suddenly she sounds tired too. “Between this situation today, that note you found, and that poor girl who hanged herself after all that teasing, I’m beginning to think private school is a better option.”

Note? What note?

Wait—private school? No way! My ankle cracks as I shift my position.

Dad pauses for a moment but doesn’t turn. He’s no longer whispering. “Listen, Susan, these things happen at many large high schools. Westmont High had a suicide last year and a big drunk-driving accident with all those cheerleaders. And Blackbury had that six-hour lockdown last semester when there was a domestic shooting in the neighborhood. When you’ve got two thousand people on the same campus, you get exposed to all walks of life. It happens everywhere.”

“You’re not comparing apples to apples, Al, and you know it.” Mom’s voice sharpens. “What happened today is of a whole different caliber. This wasn’t just a bomb threat. There was an actual bomb on campus. We could’ve lost both our girls in one afternoon!”

I rest my head on the banister. My temples are starting to throb.

“Let’s not overreact. I don’t think this guy actually wanted to harm anyone.”

“How the hell do you know?”

I need to take some aspirin. I rub my fingers against the sides of my head.

“This is what I do for a living, Suze. If this guy wanted to blow the place to smithereens, he would’ve. He chose not to. He carefully orchestrated the whole setup so that the bomb wouldn’t go off. He wanted to send a message.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘he’?”

“Because nearly every perpetrator of school violence has been male. I study this crap, hon. I know what I’m doing.”

“It’s just …”

Suddenly his voice softens. “I know you were scared today.” I peek down and see him wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He’s facing me now, and I shrink back against the banister. “I was too. But early tomorrow morning I’m going to meet with the assistant principals, and we’ve got some plans about how to proceed.”

“What do you mean?”

“That part is highly confidential. But the school realizes they need to do some preventive outreach. The bomb threat and the note were warnings. We’ve got to catch this guy, and until we do, we have to hold him off by showing him his message was heard.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?”

“Confidential.”

“Since when has that stopped you?”

“There are ears everywhere.” He dips his head to the right, toward where I am crouched, my hair dripping down and soaking into the carpet.

Damn. Sometimes I hate having a detective for a father.