Not that I want to handle marijuana. I would just prefer not to touch—let alone move—a more serious drug.

My hands are so sweaty, they slip off the combination lock twice, but I finally get the door open. Just as the Voice predicted, underneath the gym bag, I find a Ziploc. It’s filled with dried green buds. The skunky smell drifts up, the same scent that had me scrambling out of a darkened den at a party last month.

Weed. My shoulders sag, even as my stomach flips. I’m grateful I found the lesser of possible evils—but why is my older self embroiling me in something illegal?

“Now what?” The question is rougher, my tone harsher, than I intend.

“Proceed to locker number 200. Open the combination. Put the baggie inside.”

I don’t have to guess. I don’t need to, because I was just there. I know exactly who uses locker number 200.

Lalana Bunyasarn. My best friend.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The hallway suddenly darkens, as though the sun has ducked behind a cloud. In the distance, the intercom crackles while Ms. Bui, our principal, reads the morning announcements. I can no longer swallow. My throat’s blocked by a lump the size of the Samoan Islands.

Clearly, the Voice knows the locker belongs to Lalana. That’s why she didn’t bother giving me the combination. She knows I’ve been using my best friend’s locker as overflow storage, and vice versa, since freshman year.

“No,” I whisper. The word is hardly audible, a syllable shaped more in my mind than on my tongue. But my older self hears me anyway.

“I get it, Alice.” Her voice is as soft as mine. “This is as hard for me as it is for you. Maybe even more so—you’ve only had Lalana a few years; she’s been by my side more than half my life. She’s a true sister to us both.” My older self stops. Takes a breath. “But we have to put our feelings aside. I swear to you on everything we hold dear—the hairbrush Mom used to brush our hair, the penguin Archie won by calculating the number of jelly beans in a jar. This action is integral and necessary to preventing millions of deaths.”

“How? What does putting weed in Lalana’s locker have to do with anything?” I ask, my voice shrill. “Are you trying to frame her? Get her kicked out of school?”

She doesn’t respond, which is answer enough.

Last year, Lalana’s dad moved to the West Coast. Her mom agreed to stay with her in Maryland so she could finish high school, on the condition that she behave perfectly. One lousy B or a single detention, and her parents promised she would be shipped to California quicker than she could pray to the Phra Buddha Chao to forgive her.