34

The school is ramping up for the moment of silence. Only the “moment” of silence has morphed into a memorial. The LGBTQ Club and the Red Ribbon/Suicide Prevention Committee have called a truce and will both be hosting the event. Did I call that, or what? They’re both plastering the halls with their fliers and making announcements on the loudspeaker after the Pledge of Allegiance. Reminding everyone to come to the memorial, guilting us all if we don’t, hyping up the importance of accepting everyone for who they are. Yada, yada, yada.

I see that preppy boy everywhere now, and I wonder if it’s him. He definitely seems to be watching me, but trying to look like he’s not. He looks old—he’s got to be a senior, but someone I haven’t noticed before. Wrestler-like, built rock solid with clean-cut hair. There’s something big brotherly about him, so he doesn’t scare me as much as he should. Still, I’m careful. I don’t approach him. That’d be too risky.

Every time I open my locker I expect to see a new card. My heart catches as the combination catches, and I hold my breath. But all I see are books and crumpled papers. The bomber’s getting trickier. Sneakier. Maybe he knows I’m trying to watch out for him. I find a card, face up, in my lunch bag.

A plain joker with a question-mark bubble coming out of his head. No words.

What does that mean? That he’s questioning himself? That he’s changing his mind?

I find another one stuck in my passenger-side car door. Same thing. A joker, no words, but a telephone stuck to his ear.

He wants me to know that he will be calling.

Soon.

Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing. “You’re up,” Janae tells me. “He wants to talk to you anyway.”

She’s right, I know. We’ve had three hang-ups tonight. Each ten minutes apart. I’m the only one who hasn’t picked up the phone. I know it’s the bomber and I know he’s waiting for me.

I sit down in the swivel chair. “Helpline, this is Tina.”

Pause. At least it’s not a hang-up. “Is that you?” he asks, and I hear the anticipation in his voice. I’m not sure if I feel flattered or sick.

At first I want to play it off, like I don’t know that he’s been waiting for me. But come on, he’s been planting playing cards in my locker and on my car. He knows who I am. What good does it do to play games with a madman? Especially one who’s holding all the cards? So I say quietly, “Let’s talk.”

“I’ve been calling all night. Waiting for you.” His voice is thicker than usual. I try to match his voice to that preppy wrestler boy’s body. Maybe. I’d think that guy’s voice would be huskier than this one’s, but who knows.

“So we’re talking.” I hear an edge in my own voice. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to talk about why you’ve got a cop guarding my favorite pay phone.”

My heart stops for a moment. It figures that Dad would station a plainclothes policeman in an unmarked car by the pay phone, to see if the bomber came back. But wouldn’t Dad know that this kid wouldn’t be fooled by that? “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I guess I’m not too surprised.” He goes on like I haven’t said anything. “But it makes me wonder how much you’re telling Daddy Dearest.”

Ridiculous, but I feel like I’ve betrayed him for a moment. Like I have some loyalty to this nutcase? I ignore the twinge and pick up a pencil to doodle on my note-taking paper. I’m not making anything meaningful, just a series of tiny circles. Around and around and around.

“Did I insult you?” he asks after not too long in this strange, eager sort of way that makes me remember he probably doesn’t have any real friends. I might be the closest thing this kid has to a friend.

“Look. You’re putting me in a tough position here,” I tell him, and it’s honest. “I don’t know what to do. But I do want to help you find a way out of this mess.”

“What makes you think I want help?” he asks softly.

“I can tell.” I match his tone. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t think you do either.”

I can hear him breathing. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t.” I blacken in a circle so there’s not a speck of white. “How do I know you’re not going to blow up this building right now with me in it?”

“I wouldn’t hurt you.” He says quickly, and it feels real.

“Thank you.” The politeness makes it seem like we’re setting up a movie date. “You’ve got to give me something to work with here. How can I help you?”

“I put something in your locker.”

“Yeah?” My heart catches.

“I want you to share it with the rest of the school. Will you do it?”

“What does it say?” Now my heart is pumping again, but at double speed.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? If it will get me to call this game off?”

“Will you call it off?” I grip the phone with both hands.

“Take a freaking look.” There is an edge to his voice again.

And before I can ask another question, he clicks off. I realize then that I’ve ripped the note-taking paper to shreds. My friends are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Janae stands in front of me, gathering my hands in hers. “You’ve got to have your dad trace that call.”

“No. I think he trusts me. I can stop him.”

“Are you completely insane?” Janae’s voice is shrill enough to shatter glass. “You were just talking to a terrorist. You have to trace that call.”

“No.” I say, standing up. “I’ve got to get something out of my locker.”

Janae blocks my path. “More than two thousand students go to this school. We’re all at risk. You might think you’re big shit because your dad’s a cop, but you don’t get to call all the shots.”

I move toward the door. “I need to get something out of my locker,” I say again.

Miguel grabs my arm, hard. “You aren’t going alone.” And what might have once felt protective now feels intrusive. “I’m going with you.”

I ignore him, as much as a girl can ignore a boy twice her size gripping her arm. I push out the door into the darkened hallway. As the door clicks shut behind us, I hear Janae whispering loudly, “Its official. She’s losing it.”

Except for playing cards, my locker is completely empty.

The bomber took everything out. All my books. All my scraps of paper and notes and crumpled-up lunch bags.

Instead, the walls are covered with playing cards. I tug one and realize they have been taped to the sides of the locker. They’re arranged in an orderly fashion, in neat little rows. Like they’re watching a show. And all queens, kings, and jacks. There’s got to be at least forty of them, staring at me.

“Holy shit,” Miguel curses from behind me.

I scan the cards, looking for some clue, some explanation. My eyes catch on one. A joker. The solitary joker in the bunch. Crossed out with a big, fat X. This bomber dude is getting too creepy for me.

I rip the cards off the walls of the locker, in a hurry. Miguel’s breath puffs against the back of my neck. “What the hell?” he whispers.

I notice black envelopes scattered all over the bottom of the locker. In the darkness they sort of blend in. There must be twenty of them. I gather them up in my arms and shove the playing cards in my sweatshirt pockets.

“Here. Help me carry them,” I hiss. I wonder if the bomber is here watching us, feeling betrayed that I brought someone with me. “We can’t look through them here.”

“This is crazy, Gabi. Did that guy put all this crap in your locker? Then he’s been watching you. Watching us!”

“Shut up,” I tell him, harsher than I mean to. I touch his arm to soften it, because I see the sting on his face. “We can’t talk now. We can’t, okay?”

He nods and helps me carry the envelopes back to the office.

Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing.

“It’s him again,” I tell Miguel. I am sure he is calling to chew me out for letting Miguel see the envelopes.

I’m only half right.

“Helpline—”

“Back-stabbing bitch!” He cuts me off, and I hear pain.

“Excuse me?”

“You traced my call?” His voice is shaking, probably with anger. “I thought you were different. I thought you cared. But no—you’re just like everyone else.”

I glare at Janae. She must’ve called my dad when I was searching my locker. Note to self: he was not watching me at the locker. He’s somewhere else, and he saw the cops show up. He hasn’t been captured.

He speaks again, and his voice is still shaking, but the quality has changed. It sounds tight, as though his throat has constricted, like maybe he is crying. “I thought you wanted to help me.”

“I do,” I protest, feeling desperate, as if he’s slipping away from me.

“Bullshit.”