SUNNYLAKE PENITENTIARY PERCHES on the edge of our district—fitting, considering the proportion of general population who are Bridgebrookian native, born and bred. You can see a corner of the roof from my high school: a distant promise of what the future holds.
Today’s windier than usual. Breeze rolls off the mountains, caressing Sherman and me with the taste of earth rather than stale food and traffic fumes, billowing my oversize blouse like we’re in the age of sail. After Sherman kills her engine, the bang of a flapping garbage can lid is the only break in the silence.
The apartments around the prison get reduced to rubble with above-average regularity, thanks to all the breakouts. Even so, Blair Homes and Co. haven’t moved in. The pothole-pitted street is deserted. No kids kicking balls or pulling wheelies. Pinched faces peep from between faded curtains, then quickly duck away.
Everywhere I look, I find the scars of another battle. Scorched bricks, dangling power lines. Plastic wrap over empty window holes. The last VC attack could’ve been yesterday or last year. This part of town has the same desolate feel as the war zones you see on the TV. A place that’s forgotten peace.
“This is creepy,” I mutter to Sherman. “It’s not just me, right?”
She’s so tense she’s shrunk a size. What was it like, coming here to visit her dad? I don’t know how to ask. “Yeah. Is that your friend? I wanna get this over with.”
She jerks her chin at a familiar petite figure, leaning against the half-demolished remnants of the prison’s front wall. Jav will get us in. She has the cutest face, the sugariest customer-service voice, and none of my instinctive knack for pissing off authority. But she also has an ear for voices. Assuming she’s seen the video from Meera’s—everyone has by now; the viewer count just keeps climbing—there’s a strong chance she’ll recognize Sherman’s.
Jav eyes her up as we approach. Takes her in, in all her unmasked glory: the facial piercings; the fade around her curly ’fro-hawk; her outfit (zip-loaded stonewashed jeans, a hoodie tied around her middle, scuffed boots and a belly-bar flashing sports bra). Everything about her screams zero fucks given, because that’s the face Sherm shows the world. But I know Jav isn’t judging.
She can get a bit snotty, acting like everyone from Shit Creek should shoot for the stars, but she doesn’t rely on first impressions. I’ll get the lowdown on whether she approves of Sherman tomorrow, after she’s gotten to know her. Until then, her verdict’s withheld.
“Hi,” she says, trotting over. She’s had her hair done in perfect box braids; they pat her shoulders with the swing of her walk. It’s the sort of thing she would’ve messaged me about at the start of summer, along with a million selfies, but I haven’t heard a word. She said we were cool after I came out, that we were still besties. Now, though, doubt tickles my throat like a half-swallowed hair. I wasn’t the only one who went radio silent, after all.
“I’m Jav,” she continues, while I gulp that doubt down. Jav’s here; that’s what matters. “You work with Riley, yeah?”
Sherman nods. “Riley says you can get us in to see the Flamer?”
I hold my breath, waiting for Jav to piece it together, to blurt you’re the henchman from that viral vid. But though her forehead creases down the middle, she dismisses any recollections with a bright smile. “I’ll try. Action plan, though: What do we actually want from the Flamer?”
I count goals off my fingers. “To confirm what Project Zero is. To learn who he’s collaborating with. To make him sorry for everything he’s ever done, in his entire life.”
“Mm. Let’s stick to one and two. A confession, and another lead. Then what?”
Me and Sherman swap matching frowns. “Uh,” I venture, “we follow the lead?”
Jav makes the negative-buzzer noise, like we’re on a quiz show. “Nuh-uh. We get enough information to justify taking this to someone paid to deal with this shit.”
“The Super Squad?” The buildings are too tall—I can’t see their Bridgebrook HQ. I know it’s there, though, a shiny lozenge of a building crouched like a giant chrome roach in our district’s heart.
“Did you miss the bit where I spent half my summer researching how much the Super Squad suck at their jobs? Nah. We find out what we can from the Flamer and present everything to the mayor’s office.” Jav pauses, toying with a braid. “Plus, as well as being ineffective, the Super Squad are dicks.”
No arguments there. And no more putting this off. The three of us exchange nods. Then Jav turns crisply on her heel, plasters on her best waitressing smile, and leads the way.
Sherman hesitates before following, expression unreadable, staring at the long cream-painted oblong of the prison’s facade. I grasp her hand. Just, y’know, to give her a little tug in the right direction. Friendly reassurance and such. Her fingers are stiff and cold, but they soften as I hold on, curling to fit around mine.
“We got this. I promise.”
Sherman has tensed her neck so much she might snap it if she nods. “I sure hope so.”
We approach the gate, a classy ten-foot barbed-wire-edged number that embodies the spirit of the words fuck off. A guard has to buzz us through. He sits in a miniature office box, which comes complete with radio, monitor, and crusty coffee machine. The whitewashed walls peel like sunburn.
Jav code-switches like a pro, explaining our purpose in her best Ralbury accent. I don’t pay attention; Sherman’s grip has tightened, and I’m a little distracted by her attempt to wring the blood from my hand. Still, I catch the odd word: school project and called in advance (which, knowing Jav, she probably did).
The guard—white, steroid shoulders, army buzz cut—looks unimpressed. “What kinda school project makes kids talk to murderers?”
Jav makes her eyes real big. “The lady on the phone said you issue press passes?”
“Yeah, to actual members of the press! Damn Superspotter app. Kids these days will do anything to get gilded.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” I try.
The guard blows steam off his coffee. “Either you girls log in at the visitation office and say hello to the ladies and gents in gen pop, or you scram.”
Jav stirs more sugar into her saccharine smile. She steps up to the window, pushing onto her tiptoes to make herself taller. “Well, Mr.… Palmer, is it? Perhaps I’ll interview you for Voices of Bridgebrook. You can tell the world why you want to stifle the education of an aspiring young girl from the city’s poorest district.” She flicks her braids back from her face. “That won’t go down well at your next promotion.”
The guard stares her down, as if to say, Are you seriously trying this? “I’m doing my job—and you a favor, whether or not you believe it.” He gestures to the wire fences that ring the perimeter. “This isn’t a playground.”
“Damn,” Jav mutters. “That sort of threat always works in movies.” Then, at normal volume: “Look. We just want information about Project Zero.” She narrows her eyes at the guard. “You heard of it?”
She’s taking one hell of a risk, saying that out loud. I’m not sure I impressed on her how dangerous this all is. Still, I can’t tell her about Amelia. Not without revealing how we met.
The guard sips his coffee. “Nope. Don’t much care, either. Now, back up. Last warning.”
He means business. His other hand rests on the butt of his rifle, tucked to one side of his miniature desk.
Me, Sherman, and Jav share a synchronized gulp. We ain’t fucking with that.
Turns out, we don’t have to. As we start our defeated trudge back toward the road, a new voice rings out: “Where do you ladies think you’re going?”
I freeze. We all freeze. Sherman’s brows crunch in confusion, while Jav sucks her cheeks hollow as if she’s tempted to spit at the newcomer’s feet. Me? I curl my fist tight like I’m hefting an imaginary garbage bag, ready for my second swing.
What’s a hero doing here?
And why did it have to be Cooper Hanson?