Locked (24 page)

“You finish your toast,” he says, idly flipping a page in his book.

“Your sass is really inspired this morning.”

“Look at you two,” says Mom, sliding another two eggs onto my plate before taking her seat at the breakfast table. He’s in the place Carol always used to be, closest to the cabinets. “Just like brother and sister.”

His eyes slide up over his book a fraction to meet mine. I’m sure both of us are remembering the kiss. Not so much like brother and sister, then.

I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him today.

I’m not scared. Nothing can change this. Eating breakfast together, walking to school together, arguing about nothing, teasing him about being wrong—it’s as permanent as the sky. As puzzle pieces, we fit together and we won’t come undone. We’re Sherlock and Irene. Irene and Sherlock. Nothing I can say could break that. Not even the thing I’m going to say today.

At worst, he’ll laugh.

At best…

After a minute, Mom disappears into the living room, probably to get her purse. She hasn’t said anything about what day it is yet. Keeping her promise, then. I want so badly to get what day it is out of my head that I lean forward, my heart electrified. There’s no point in waiting. “Listen, Sherlock, there’s something I want to say…”

He looks up, but it’s too late—Mom’s already back. Without her purse.

And she’s holding a cake.

“Happy nineteenth birthday, Irene!” she squeals.

The words on my tongue disintegrate into ash. “I said I didn’t want to celebrate it.”

Sherlock drops his book. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

Mom pats my shoulder. Her eyes are sad. The cake has no candles, at least. “I know you didn’t want me to do anything, but I just felt…she would have wanted you to celebrate.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” he asks sharply.

I sigh. I should have known it was too much to hope for, that she would agree not to make a big deal out of it. “It’s been a year,” I say to Sherlock.

“Since your last birthday, yes.”

“Since Carol…” And then my throat closes up, even though it’s been a year, even though my throat should have stopped doing that by now.

Something passes across his face. “She died on your birthday.”

“Yeah, she—we were—she was taking me out to dinner.”

“Let’s cut the cake.” Mom hastily wipes her eyes and slices us pieces laden with chocolate frosting and little white roses. “It’s been a full year since you were old enough to buy cigarettes, Irene! Although you better not have bought any, or I’ll ground you.”

I glance at him—I know for a fact that he currently has two packs hidden in his bag, and I’m expecting a smirk, but none comes. His expression is odd. I can’t quite pinpoint it. Without eating his cake, he stands up.

“Wait for me!” I reach for my shoes.

“Can’t. I have something to take care of.”

“Like what? You’ll be late.”

“Well, I have to go get you a bloody birthday present, don’t I?” he snaps, grabbing his coat and bag, and then he’s out the door before I can protest or tell him I don’t want a present.

“It’s so cute when he uses those British swears.” Mom eats her cake thoughtfully. “Wish he hadn’t dashed away. I took today off, I was going to give you both a ride to school.”

I slump in my chair. “You can still take me.”

“Oh, I know.” She pushes aside her cake, wrinkling her nose at it. “You were right about him. He’s a nice boy. I think I approve.”

“Approve of what?” He didn’t eat his toast.

“When are you going to tell him?” Mom rests her chin playfully on her hands in a way that reminds me of Carol. “That you’re in lo—”

I shove the rest of my breakfast at her so quickly that a sausage flies off the plate. “Eat this. I’m not hungry.”

“You suit each other. You really do. I’m honestly quite glad he moved here.” She looks so…relieved. “He was just the thing you needed.”

I push my chair back and leap up. “I think I’ll walk to school after all.”

“Tell him soon,” she calls as I race out the door. “Nobody lives forever.”

|||

He misses first period.

I don’t see him until second period, when he walks in mid-lecture. He pays no attention to Mr. Jennings’ complaints, sauntering to the back of the room to take his seat next to me.

IA:
For my birthday I want you to stop missing classes.

SH:
There is such a thing as asking too much.

SH:
Your present’s at home, by the way. I’ll give it to you after school.

IA:
I told you I didn’t want anything.

SH:
It’s tradition. You know how I feel about traditions.

IA:
You hate traditions.

SH:
Exactly. I have made it a tradition to break all traditions.

SH:
So I’m breaking tradition by giving you a present.

IA:
You just gave me a headache.

SH:
The headache isn’t your present.

I hesitate and starts to type out the words:
By the way, there was something I wanted to tell you toda

The bell screeches, breaking my concentration. Everyone gets up and mobs the hallway at once. I stuff my phone back in my bag as Mr. Jennings calls out next week’s homework assignment and nobody pays attention.

Sherlock is silent until we step into the cafeteria, which is as crowded as it always is, people fighting for the best tables by the window. Then he says abruptly, “After school, let’s go to the graveyard. Pay our respects. Leave flowers. All that.”

“That’s another one of those tradition things you don’t like.” I get in line, pulling a tray off the stack for each of us. “Sherlock, you don’t have to come. I was going to go by myself anyway. It’s pretty sentimental stuff, leaving flowers and whatever. Doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“I’m not going for her,” he says irritably. “I’m going for you.”

I smile down at my tray.

“And afterwards,” he mutters, “maybe we can go on one of those real dates you were mentioning. For your birthday.”

I look up at him. After a moment, he grins uncertainly at me. A warmth starts in my chest and moves all the way to my forehead.

Midway through an attempt to choke down a particularly horrifying lasagna, I give up, setting down my fork and leaning forward. We’re sitting at our own table, our little oasis in the melee, and there’s no one close enough to hear but him. It’s time. “Listen, Sherlock…”

“One moment, Irene.”

And he stands up.

“Sherlock? What are you…”

“Attention, Aspen High!” he calls, his deep voice billowing out. No one else could get the attention of the jungle that is Aspen High’s cafeteria just by shouting. Within five seconds, everyone’s fallen silent, all eyes riveted to him.

“I know most of you hate me,” he says, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Actually, the amount of you that don’t hate me are likely statistically insignificant, so I’ll just say all of you hate me. Many of you also hate Irene Adler, an attitude resulting from her connection to me, so I urge you, for this moment, to remember your opinion of her prior to said connection.”

I’ve shrunk so far into my cafeteria seat that I might as well be part of the plastic. I will live out my days as a cafeteria table, graced by the butts of high schoolers.

“I consider most birthdays ludicrous because most people have not made such great contributions to the world that their entrance into it should be celebrated, but this is not the case with Irene Adler. Irene has helped many of you, whether you know it or not, and so I hope you will all join me in doing that stupid little singing thing people do on birthdays.”

“Sherlock, no,” I whisper, mortified. “No no no no no—”

He inhales deeply. “
Happy birthday to you—”

I expect his voice to ring out into cold silence, but miraculously, almost everyone joins in. Training since toddlerhood to participate when someone sings the birthday song, I suppose. Either way, I want to die.

“
Happy birthday, Irene Adler
—”

I am going to murder him. I am going to buy a castle just so I can erect his head on the battlements.

“
Happy birthday to youuuu
.” The last note draws out, there’s a few laughs, and within a minute, everyone is back to their regularly scheduled gossip.

“Intriguing.” He sits back down. “I should do a study on the mass conditioning of people to harmonize with the birthday song. Essentially, it’s brainwashing. Irene, do you think—Irene?”

“I am going to kill you,” I hiss.

“But that would ruin your birthday.” He smirks.

“Really? Because I think it would
make
my birthday.” I get up, dump the remnants of my food in the overflowing trash, and stalk out of the cafeteria. He follows me.

I’m steaming. “I’m going to do something even worse for your birthday, you wait. When is it?”

“Five and a half weeks ago.”

I stop in front of the English department. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It was when you weren’t speaking to me.”

“Oh.” My heart does a funny twist. “I’ll have to do something for you then. Hey, I know—if you’re serious about this date thing, we’ll make it for both our birthdays.”

“If you’re meaning we do things each of us wants to do, I’ve been fancying a trip to the morgue to collect data on—”

“No.”

“Just dinner, then.” He clears his throat. “I know a better place than Adolfo’s. Parisian-style. You’ll like it.”

I pause. The hallways are still empty. The only other human being in sight is the freshman biology teacher, sleeping at his desk in the office across the hall. Now. I can do it now. “Sherlock? There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you all day, and I just want to get it out—“

The bell shrieks again, interrupting me and scattering my concentration.

“What?” He’s watching me closely as people begin to trickle out of the cafeteria, complaining about the classes they have next. “What did you want to tell me?”

I lose my courage. It slips through my fingers.

“I’ll tell you during our date.” I smile and casts around for some way to change the subject. “So what was the contribution I made?”

“Hm?” He steps to the side to avoid the flow of traffic.

I do the same. “You said that most birthdays weren’t worth celebrating because most people hadn’t made important contributions to the world. So what’s my contribution?

“I have a genius IQ,” he says. “That’s a fairly rare occurrence and my impact on the world will undoubtedly be large, whether it be negative or positive. I’ve always thought I would make a fairly efficient criminal.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“But I won’t be. You’ve made me different, Irene. You’ve made me…” He furrows his brow as if he is still confused by the concept. “Human.”

“No, Sherlock.” I can’t help it. I reach up and touch his face. And for a brief second, it’s like everyone else fades out and we’re alone. “You were always human.”

Then the people fade back in, so many of them rushing to class, and we have to break apart. Late. I’ll be late. It’s Thursday. I don’t have third period with him on Thursdays.

I smile. “I’ll see you after school.”

He smiles back. “Happy birthday, Irene.”

|||

Third period today is unbearably boring. I spend most of it staring out the window but not seeing anything. I’m going on a real date. With Sherlock Holmes. I have to thank Mom for telling him about my birthday.

I also have to think of something exciting to do with him after the date. Just dinner won’t be thrilling enough for him. I want him to remember tonight. Maybe we can break into the pool at the gym. Or see if there are any more notes for Ares. Although the notes for Ares had essentially stopped. Murder makes people a little more nervous about getting a stranger involved in their personal lives, I guess.

The light filtering in through the glass is so warm. I lay my head down on the desk. Maybe I’ll just sleep for the rest of the period. Doze off. When I wake up, I’ll be with him.

It’s been a year, Carol. And things are finally okay.

I’m almost asleep when a noise blasts me awake.

At first I think Mr. Dalton, the third period teacher, has slammed a book on my desk to wake me up. But when I open my eyes, Mr. Dalton’s still at the front of the classroom, behind his desk. Holding his pointer frozen in the air. He looks—terrified.

I sit up. What was that noise? It sounded like a car backfiring.

“What the hell was that?” asks someone in the front row.

“That sounded like…”

BLAM.
The noise, again. Closer. It’s so loud that I flinch.

In another part of the school, someone screams.

Then someone else.

And I know what the noise is.

“Everyone remain calm.” Mr. Dalton’s voice is shaking furiously. His whole body is shaking. I want to grab him and make him stop. “There’s protocol for this. All of you, get to the back of the classroom as far away from the door you can, sit on the ground, remain still. Silence your cell phones.”

And he crosses to the door and locks it.

“Mr. Dalton,” a girl is stammering, her voice alone in the silence. “What’s going on?”

A guy in the center of the classroom, Chandler from the basketball team, stands up. “That was a gunshot. Those were
gunshots
.”

Someone bursts into tears and the word
gunshots
reverberates around the room. Reverberates through me. Gets inside my muscles and numbs them. One other word joins it:
Sherlock.

And then someone says the one thing everyone is thinking.

“It’s a school shooting—”

Pandemonium.

“Stay calm, everyone, stay calm,” Mr. Dalton is chanting over the avalanche of panic. A school shooting. I know about school shootings. They’re in the news almost every week now, so often I barely notice them anymore. But they aren’t supposed to happen here. Not in Aspen.

The gunshots had come from the left side of the school.

Sherlock’s in French.