Chapter Eleven

Barrens High School, a squat concrete-and-brick building, is smaller than I remembered and strikes me as surprisingly quiet. I guess I was expecting the raw energy and noise of restless teenagers to be oozing out through the windows and walls, to see kids perched on the hoods of their cars smoking pot, shoving each other into the Dumpsters, shouting to each other in the halls. But of course, it’s still raining, and everyone’s inside.

Freak! I think I hear someone call out from far away. But there’s no one. The windshield wiper whines and snaps, whines and snaps. I shut off the engine, wondering if I have it in me to get out of the car. But there’s something drawing me here, one of those instincts. A hunch.

I cover my head and hurry across the lot to the main entrance; the strangled cry of the front doors rips through me, feels like an old cut torn open.

Survival instinct—that deep, anxious burn I practically subsisted on in high school—shoots adrenaline through my veins.

But all is quiet and still inside, too. They say smell is the sense most closely linked to memory—this place smells like a hundred-year-old stairwell with no ventilation. I’m immediately transported back in time. I peer down the long empty hallway. First period classes must still be in session. The inside looks smaller than I remembered, too—why is that always the case? The ceiling seems lower, but I’ve been five foot nine since I was in the eighth grade so I know it isn’t because of a sudden growth spurt. The walls are still beige, but there is also a faint smell of paint. They must have attempted a makeover. It was a waste of time. The strangle of memories lessens somewhat as my wet boots slap against the tile floors; still, my whole body’s alert, ready to flatten itself against the rusted metal lockers in the event of a stampede, to perform its old magic trick and become invisible.

Only a few days after I swore to myself I would never ask Misha for help, I’ve arrived to do exactly that.

At the main office, I am told that Vice Principal Jennings is in with a parent. I still can’t reconcile the Misha who used to bring vodka to school in a water bottle during Spirit Week with the woman nominally in charge of the students’ education, and I can’t help but wonder what Kaycee would have thought.

I remember the day Chestnut’s collar turned up in my locker, the sudden rage that overtook me, the way Misha slammed me against the lockers after I’d tackled her in the halls.

Did you know what she did? I was practically choking on my own rage. Did you know all along? Did you think it would be funny to remind me?

I’ll never forget how she looked then: scared. Truly scared, maybe for the first time ever.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, she whispered.