“LET’S SIT OUTSIDE AT LUNCH,” said Paul in English class. Did he mean Bett, too, or just the other kids at the table? She didn’t want to look like a loser who thought she belonged where she didn’t. Besides, lunch with Hester was not high on Bett’s list of priorities. Still, it was a beautiful day, she had to admit, and while sitting outside was a privilege open to upperclassmen, Bett had not yet taken part because she was afraid being outside would start a chain reaction of Plus thoughts like walking then running then racing until she was panting with exhaustion and she had to fight that kind of impulse, fight it harder than ever.
But nonetheless, at lunch Bett found herself trailing behind the group with her tray to sit on the steps of the school. She sat by the statue, just far enough away that the other kids could ignore her if they hadn’t meant for her to join them, and also so she could look like she didn’t consider herself a part of them, either.
Bett reached out and fingered the coat of the man in the statue. She was sore from yesterday’s forced run. Even her arms hurt as she stretched them toward the hem of the bronzed jacket. There was a grackle on each of the man’s shoulders, but, surprisingly, they didn’t fly away at her gesture. More interested in the possibility of crumbs from her hot dog buns, Bett imagined. Her fingers ran over some of the names of the veterans on the coat, carved in so skillfully they just looked like part of the wrinkles and falls of the man’s jacket and the clothes of the men he was bearing. Bett hadn’t thought about those names in a while, not before Anna’s drawing had drawn her attention to them again.
Now Dan came clattering outside and sat beside her in the space she had left between herself and the group. She dropped her hand from the man’s coat.
Dan read her thoughts. “Think of the ones who were killed,” he said. “Can you imagine? Men and women in our town who would be, like, full adults now with work and families and stuff.”
“Maybe divorced and bored of their jobs and closeted, too,” said Paul.
“You’re ghoulish, Paul,” said Dan. “It’s a waste and . . . sad.”
For the Stays, thought Bett. Twinklers didn’t enlist nearly as often.
Paul shrugged. “It was cool of Anna to include some of the names on her picture. Damn, that girl has talent.”
Dan nodded. “More than I ever could have,” he said.
Bett took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Me either,” she said finally. “But I think it’s good you guys are doing this.”
“Anna’s idea,” said Dan.
Above Bett’s head, the grackle on the man’s right shoulder flew away at last. She thought about Ranger and his wild gesticulations with his friends. He was up to something. She had to tell Dan.
“Listen,” Bett said to Dan, lowering her voice a little. “I’m kind of worried about your brother.”
“Ranger?” said Dan, cocking his head. “He’s the last kid you have to worry about. He’s, like, almost clinically happy. The only thing you have to worry about with him is that he might irritate the hell out of someone with his ‘cakes’ and wind up the victim of a swirly.” He looked at Bett. “Your bangs look nice like that.”
Bett shrugged and shook her head at the same time. What to say to that without sounding like she thought she looked nice, too?
“I don’t mean Ranger getting teased,” she said at last. “Ranger and his friends were running around inside the school the other day and talking at lunch like little maniacs. I think they’re investigating the fire slashing and the devil pictures. They’re racing around making theories and stuff.”
Dan was quiet. Then: “Sounds like the little jerk.”
“Well, I’m worried—whoever attacked the art must have brought a box cutter to school—”
“Or an X-Acto knife,” added Paul. Bett glanced over at him. Since when did Paul pay any attention to what Bett was saying? Huh.
But she continued. “And slashed the hell out of those drawings—I don’t want your brother in any danger.”
Dan shrugged, but then he went still. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll keep an eye on the kid.”
“I will, too,” said Bett. “Just to make sure he doesn’t detect the person and try to march them to the main office himself.”
Dan laughed, but Bett knew he was concerned because his face stayed serious. “Thanks,” he said.
Bett squirmed and said nothing.
Luckily, Paul added, “I’m with you both on this one.”
But they were interrupted by Anna running out of the school, frantic. “It happened again!” she yelled, fists clenched. “Again!”
Immediately, she was mobbed by kids.
“The art again?” everyone was asking—at least everybody who hadn’t abandoned their lunch trays to race inside to the foyer to see for themselves.
“YES!” Anna cried. “My wings! Our work we brought in this morning!”
Bett ran with everyone else back into the school. Green and blue and red paper feathers lay everywhere on the floor. Ripped and shredded to bits, along with torn pictures and shadow boxes smashed. And above the carnage of the wings, above the blue-green burn-curled scraps still stuck to the wall, spray-painted words on the tiles screamed:
I’M GOING TO GUT THIS PLACE.
“Oh my God!” cried Hester. “What kind of asshole would do all this?”
Paul was incredulous. “And why? Why?”
Bett looked at those artworks slashed and smashed into shreds and shards all over the floor, and as awful as it was, she shivered, not because of the horror of it, but because all she could imagine was what it must have felt like, smashing things and slashing those wings. It must have felt like punching the river. Like being free.