10

The day of the protest arrives.

We get off the bus to the sound of chants in the distance. I spot a fellow protester carrying a sign—SAVE OUR CITY. The man spots me, too, giving me a nod from a bandana-clad face. Tugging up my own mask, I nod back and keep following the others toward the store.

I’m in jeans and a dark jacket, nothing too ostentatious. Even though we’re technically hosting this, Jax wants us all to blend in.

From the storefronts, shop owners and patrons watch us with wide eyes. Whether they’re supporting us or wishing we’d go home, I can’t tell. We round the corner and I almost whoop with joy. “Holy shit.”

San Francisco came out. Sure, it’s not like the Women’s March or protests after the election, but it’s a goddamn rally if I’ve ever seen one. Marchers carry handmade signs and sport bright red hats—just as the campaign told them to. Men and women march side by side—I even spot one little girl among the crowd, carrying a sign that says NO MORE BIG BUSINESS. With all the people gathered, I can hardly see the other side of the street where the demolition was supposed to take place.

The Stags got here in waves—Juliet, Cameron, and Mako came early. Kate, Micah, and Nianna are on the other street corner. Kurt is somewhere in one of the buildings above, keeping an eye out for us. Why Jax wanted me with him and Jaws, I’m not sure. The three of us were quiet on the MUNI ride over—Jaws a boundless depth and Jax an arrow, notched and ready to be loosed.

Beside me, Jax comes to a stop, his breath rising in the chilly air. “Wait here a sec,” he says, indicating a spot between a pair of parked cars. “You got everything you need?”

He’s asking if I have the means to protect myself if needed. “Yes.”

“Keep your mask up. Don’t let them take it off you.”

“Okay.”

He nods, then turns to go. “I’ll be right back. Jaws, with me.”

I watch them melt into the crowd. Jax is so different today, I think. I wonder if he’s thinking of what happened at Missions Dolores. Would the Boars try to take him out here? I shiver, and look around at the growing group of people around me. The Boars have blended in seamlessly with the civilians—peaceful for now, but even the tiniest spark will ignite their fury, and all bets about this being a nonviolent protest will be off.

Keeping close to the left side of the crowd between a building and a bus stop, I find a perch on a set of stairs. My phone buzzes—Jax telling me to hang tight. Scanning the throng for the other Stags in their positions, something else catches my eye. I gasp, hands flying to my face.

“Oh my god.”

I see her backpack first—a ratty, aqua-colored JanSport she’s had since freshman year. There’s a BLACK LIVES MATTER pin next to a rainbow heart pin under a Sharpie drawing of a cat that I had done one day when we were bored during pre-calc. I’d recognize the backpack anywhere, and when the girl wearing it turns and tucks a lock of lilac-dyed hair out of her face, I can’t help but call her name.

“Lyla!” I scream. My best friend turns, shrieks, and opens her arms in time for me to run into her.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” she whispers into my ear. “Valerie. Oh my god. Holy shit.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, my face squished against her shoulder.

“Me either,” she replies. “How are you? What are you doing here?”

“Um, protesting,” I reply. “Are you here for the rally? Are you with people?”

“No,” she replies. “I Lyfted over. I’m supposed to meet up with Michelle and Nerrisa, but I don’t know how the hell I’m going to find them…” I nod—those girls are from theater club. She waves herself off, like never mind. “Anyway. You. How are you? I was so confused when you didn’t show up that night. I kept calling and calling, then eventually called Matthew. When he didn’t answer either, I knew something was up. I can’t believe you said yes.” She shakes her head. “What about graduating? What about college?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I really don’t. But I had to join. The Stags are going to help me find the person who killed Leo.”

Her expression changes at the sound of his name. “Do you really think they’ll help you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just scared for you.” Her voice lowers. “Like, are you safe?”

“The Stags aren’t like that. It’s totally different, but in a good way.”

I don’t know how I’m going to cover everything in whatever time we have, but I try. I assure her I’m fine over and over. I tell her what the Stags are really about—stopping the Herons from advancing, and their monthly call for peace. How Jax handles all the dirty work himself, to keep blood off the hands of those in his charge. How we built this rally from the ground up.

Her eyes get wider and wider, until finally she puts her hands up like stop.

“Time-out. You did this?” she says, motioning to the rally. “No one knows the Stags want peace. You’d get so much more support if people knew.”

They still shoot people, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. “It’s not that simple. For now, I’m just doing as I’m told. I have to stay in until I find the guy who killed Leo.”

She shakes her head. “A year is such a long time.”

“I know,” I reply. “And I barely know what I’m doing, but we’re both here. Protesting for what we believe in. I’m in the Stags, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer me. I’m still the same Valerie, but now I have a chance at getting the one thing I want more than anything and standing up for something more important. I get to do both.”

Her eyes look to the ground as she thinks. For a moment, I think she’s going to run for the hills. Instead, she pulls me into a hug.

“I don’t exactly agree,” she says into my ear. “But I love you. You’re my best friend. And you’re talking like the Val I like best.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re talking like you give a shit,” she replies. “Like, you’re alive again instead of sleepwalking, and this is what you want to do. And you’re doing it. And that’s good.”

“Thank you. Lyla, I mean it. God, I’m so glad I found you.”

“Valentine!”

I turn and see Jax sauntering toward me, a scowl on his face but his expression curious.

“Is that guy with you?” Lyla whispers, gripping my shoulder. “Is he a Stag?”

“Technically, I’m with him. I gotta go,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “You’re the best, Lyla.”

“Stay safe!” she says. Then louder, she says, “You better take care of her, okay?”

My best friend is yelling at the leader of a gang—a guy who has killed people, no less. It’s the most on-brand thing Lyla’s ever done.

Jax gives her a salute but pulls me toward him forcefully. “Don’t wander off,” he says. “We have a job to do.”

“I know.” Avoiding his gaze, I smile. Lyla’s words seem to wrap around my limbs, giving me strength. I can do this.

The crowd around the site has doubled in the few minutes I was with Lyla. Catching a glimpse of a girl’s cell phone, I see Twitter opened on it. #HaltTheHerons is trending.

“The people were already mad,” Jax says, nodding toward the girl with the phone. I guess he saw, too. “All you have to do is give them a voice. The Herons think they can get people to love them. That’s their mistake. They forget how much easier it is to motivate around hate.”

I follow closely behind Jax as he shoulders his way through the crowd. Bodies rock into mine but I keep my head high.

A girl on a megaphone stands on the top of a newspaper stand, her fist raised. She stamps her black combat boots. “Whose city? Our city!”

She lowers the megaphone, and as a roar of assent follows, I realize it’s Juliet smiling at me from that newspaper stand. Fighter.

I catch Jax grinning before joining the chant himself.

Across the street, the police have set up a barrier and are holding firm. A cop blares on his own megaphone, telling us to disperse—but our chants are louder. Out of nowhere, a black object goes whizzing from our side to the police, followed by a pop.

Shouts turn to screams as the flare explodes. It’s all the crowd needs.

People scatter—or try to—some toward the cops and others anywhere but. Someone slams into me and I’m knocked back just as the smoke from a tear-gas canister begins wafting over to me.

Jax warned us about them, and I do my best to follow his training. Don’t take big breaths, I remember. Cupping my hand over my bandana, I keep to the edge of the chaos as best I can, but fear tugs at my heart. Lyla.

Desperate, I search the people ahead of me and those already fleeing down the street for a glimpse of lilac hair. I can feel my phone buzzing in my hand—probably Jax telling us to get the fuck out—but I can’t go unless I know Lyla’s okay.

Wind cuts through the smoke of the tear gas, and I see her. She’s bent over on the ground with someone else who’s trying to tug her out of the way as a Boar rushes forward and slams into the riot gear of a cop who’s materialized from the crowd.

I run straight toward her.

Battling through the crush of bodies, I snap my goggles over my eyes. Another Boar—his tattoo proudly showing from his shoulder despite the December chill—sprints up from behind me, drops to his knees, and slides a flare or a bomb or something glowing with the telltale light of a fuse. I reach Lyla and yank her up by the shoulders, her red and tearstained eyes meeting mine just as the explosion goes off.

If my friend screams, I don’t hear her. Debris from the street and branches from the tree above rain down on us, and I squeeze my mouth shut to keep the dust out. Lyla and I make it a few strides when suddenly a firm hand grips down on my arm, yanking me back. I turn and see unnerving, blank eyes and midnight-black riot gear. SFPD. I scream again, shoving Lyla in the other direction and begging the universe for her to get away. The policeman drags me down, shoving my cheek into the concrete sidewalk of San Francisco.

I’m coughing, crying, and choking for air as the cold metal of handcuffs snaps cruelly over my wrists. If any of the Stags are near, they’re not coming for me now. I’m dizzy and defeated as the officer recites my rights, and I’m hauled away.