Pete leads me out of the classroom, down a corridor toward where the auto shop is. He swipes a card to unlock a door to a room I’ve never been in and opens it for me. I know this place: the Makers’ Space. I look around: computers, printers, scanners, some big lights, a green screen, what looks like a darkroom, and more. A bunch of students are working away busily, in their own worlds, and take no notice of us at all. There’s a whole section for woodworking equipment and long tables, tools, saws, the works, and I see one girl sliding a long piece of wood into a saw to slice it in half. Another girl is on a laptop, editing something. She turns around, and I see that it’s Dee. She gives me a nodded greeting and returns to her work.

“Whoa,” I say.

“Yeah. Usually—but not always—reserved for upper-year students, but since you’re into the media stuff, I wanted to give you a chance to get your hands dirty here. Maybe you can make some of your videos even better.”

My face burns, and I mumble a thank-you.

“No problem. Here.” Pete reaches into his pocket and hands me a card.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a key. It’ll get you in the back door from outside or from inside the school. You can come whenever you want. Who knows when the creative muse will strike, right?” He pauses while I stare at the card. “I trust you with it. You’re smart, Stevie.”

“For me? Really?” I ask, not trying to tempt Fate, because lately Fate has been a spiteful, vengeful bitch who I like to keep at arm’s length.

“Really.” Pete puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.”

“Huh?”

He holds the door open for me, letting it swing shut behind us. “I told them they shouldn’t have canceled the Latin program.”

Part 2: April

MAY

Chapter 8

8

Two months and a world later.

It’s spring and everything is still fucked.

I walk to school trying to call back that feeling that maybe things will change, maybe today will be different. I have been riding the tide of collective hatred for two months now. Something has to give.

They find me whenever I’m alone. I am a pariah. The catcalls, the comments, even, humiliatingly, the occasional object thrown at my head while walking to school. Whatever was set in motion, whatever match was lit, has become a full-blown forest fire. I am under constant, unrelenting attack.