I was the scariest thing out here tonight.

Chapter Nine

Einstein’s definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. I kept taking pictures, hoping I’d look at one and know its subject was a hallucination. I did my perimeter checks, thinking I’d eventually be able to walk around paranoia-free. I spent every day hoping someone would tell me I smelled like lemons.

If I wasn’t insane by anyone else’s definition, I figured I was at least insane by Einstein’s.

Chapter Ten

The first thing I did the day after the parking-lot incident was look for Miles’s truck at school. Rusty, sky blue, 1982 GMC. Looked like he’d saved it from a scrap heap. It wasn’t there. Marvelous.

My second order of business was with his locker. I hurried into school, checked to make sure no one was around and the ceiling wasn’t wired, then delved into my bag in search of superglue. Two tubes and seventeen Popsicle sticks later, Miles’s locker was well and truly glued shut. I tossed the evidence into the nearest trash can, swapped out what books I needed from my own locker (most still severed from their covers), and left to find a uniform.

The janitors’ closet was next to my chemistry room. When I knocked, there was a crash inside. The door cracked open and a familiar bespectacled eye looked out.

“Oh, hi, Alex.” Tucker opened the door a little wider. His gaze flitted around the hallway behind me. “W-what are you doing here?”

“Uh, they said I could get a uniform from the janitor.”

“Oh, yeah. There are some here . . . hold on a sec. . . .”

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He disappeared and I heard some muted, angry cursing. When he returned, he held a uniform. “It might be a little big, but it’s the only clean one. The others were yellow.”

I took the uniform. “Thanks, Tucker. What are you doing in the janitors’ closet?” I looked behind him, but I didn’t see anyone else.

He gave me a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it.” And then he closed the door.

I forced myself not to take any pictures—it was Tucker; Tucker was not a hallucination, even if he was hanging out in a janitors’ closet—and ducked into the nearest bathroom to change. Tucker had really been playing it down when he said the uniform might be “a little big.” I needed swimming lessons to wear it.

I had to pass through the science hallway on my way to class, and that was when I saw the snake.

Its head hung down between ceiling tiles that had been shifted to the side for some reason. I jumped. I’d only ever seen pythons in the zoo, behind glass—but annoyance settled in when I got over the initial shock of seeing it.

Freaking snake. I didn’t even bother getting my camera out. A snake hanging out of the ceiling was exactly the sort of thing my mind would cook up. I stuck out my tongue and hissed at the python as I walked underneath it.

I slunk to Mr. Gunthrie’s room, hoping I wouldn’t meet Cliff or Celia or, God forbid, Miles on my way. People still stared at me—this hair, this damn hair, why did it have to be so damn red—but I ignored them.

Theo was kneeling outside the classroom door, mixing condiments inside a Mason jar, while Miles stood next to her with his arms crossed. A shiver ran up my spine when I walked past him, but I forced my face to remain expressionless. He didn’t notice me—if he did, he didn’t say anything.

I got a glimpse of Theo’s disgusting concoction. Pickle juice, mustard, what looked like pepper shavings, sour cream, horseradish—basically all the things you put together when you’re thirteen and you want to trick a younger sibling into a vomit-induced coma (Charlie had never forgiven me for that one).

I slipped into my seat, keeping them in my peripheral vision while I did a perimeter check. Theo capped the Mason jar, shook it, and handed it to Miles. Miles watched the cloudy, swirling liquid for a second, then raised it to his lips, and chugged the whole thing in one fell swoop.

I gagged and yanked my collar up over my nose. Ironically, the collar smelled like barf already, so I lowered it. Miles sauntered into the room and dropped into the chair in front of me, his gaze fixed on the whiteboard.

Class started normally. As normally as it could, I suppose, when the first announcement of the day is about a scoreboard, and your drill sergeant of a teacher is yelling at everyone. I tried paying attention to Mr. Gunthrie’s lecture on British literature, but the side of Miles’s face had turned chalky white and was morphing into sickly green.

“. . . THE FACT THAT BURGESS TAUGHT ALONGSIDE THE WOMAN WHO WOULD GIVE HIM IDEAS FOR A CLOCKWORK ORANGE IS VERY LITTLE-KNOWN. HE WAS IN THE ARMY AT THE TIME.”

Mr. Gunthrie stopped in front of Cliff’s desk, leaned over, and got right into Cliff’s face. Cliff, who had been making hand signs across the room at Ria Wolf, jumped and faced forward.

“TELL ME, MR. ACKERLEY, DO YOU KNOW WHERE BURGESS WAS STATIONED?”

Cliff’s mouth popped open like he was going to say something.

“NO? THAT’S A PITY, MR. ACKERLEY. PERHAPS I SHOULD ASK SOMEONE ELSE. DO YOU THINK I SHOULD ASK SOMEONE ELSE, MR. ACKERLEY?”

“Uh, yes?”

“WHO DO YOU THINK I SHOULD ASK, ACKERLEY?”

“Uh . . . Richter?”

“UH, RICHTER. THAT SOUNDS LIKE A QUESTION, ACKERLEY. DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO ASK ME A QUESTION?”

“No.”

“NO WHAT?”

“No, sir!”

“NOW I’M GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN, MR. ACKERLEY. TO WHOM SHOULD I ASK THE QUESTION YOUR INCOMPETENT ASS COULDN’T ANSWER?”

“Ask Richter, sir!”

Mr. Gunthrie straightened up and marched across the room to Miles’s desk.

“RICHTER. COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHERE ANTHONY BURGESS WAS STATIONED WHEN HE TAUGHT ALONGSIDE ANN MCGLINN AND TOOK HER IDEAS ON COMMUNISM FOR A CLOCKWORK ORANGE?”

Miles didn’t answer at first. He was hunched in his seat, swaying a little. Slowly, he looked up and met Mr. Gunthrie’s gaze.

Please throw up on him, I thought. Please, please throw up on Mr. Gunthrie.

“Gibraltar,” Miles said, then he lurched out of his seat and made it to the trash can in time to be violently ill. Several girls squealed. Tucker yanked his collar up over his nose.

“You all right, Richter?” Mr. Gunthrie dropped his book and walked over to clap Miles on the back. Miles spit one more time and put a hand on Mr. Gunthrie’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Must have eaten something bad at breakfast.” Miles wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If I could go to the restroom . . . clean up . . .”




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