Authors: Lynn Barnes
Henry’s voice was low and rife with the implication that he wasn’t really talking about group projects.
“A real man does not coerce. He does not pressure,” Henry continued. “He does not just take what he wants. He
asks
.” Henry kept his eyes fixed on John Thomas for a moment longer, then turned to me and demonstrated. “Would you like to work together
on this assignment, Kendrick?”
If looks could kill, the one I leveled at John Thomas Wilcox in that moment would have put him six feet under.
“I’d love to,” I told Henry, turning my back on the minority whip’s son.
Unfortunately, there was an odd number of students in the class, leaving John Thomas free to tack himself onto our group. Clearly, he hadn’t taken even one of Henry’s words to heart.
He’d taken them as an invitation to spar.
“Shame about Asher,” John Thomas said offhandedly. “Guy’s always been a little unhinged.”
For an instant, I wondered if taking a swing at John Thomas myself might be worth a two-week suspension.
“In a couple of weeks, Asher’s suspension will be over.” Henry’s voice was mild, perfectly controlled. “But you,” he continued, looking at John Thomas like
he could see into and through him and there was nothing to see, “will continue to be an utter disappointment to anyone who has ever given you the benefit of the doubt.”
Disappointment
was a word that hit John Thomas where it hurt.
“What about you, Tess?” John Thomas asked, once he’d recovered. “Are you
disappointed
?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t give the benefit of the doubt to people like you.”
There was another brief, tense moment of silence.
“Did you know Hardwicke keeps records?” John Thomas asked, breaking it. “About medications, diagnoses, mental health risks . . .” he trailed off. “You’d be surprised how many girls at this school say they’re going to summer camp but actually check in to eating disorder clinics. And your little friend Vivvie?” John Thomas continued. “
She
’s an interesting
one.”
Vivvie had told me once that her freshman year had been a dark time. She hadn’t gone into specifics, but I knew antidepressants had been involved.
After everything Vivvie had been through this semester, the idea of John Thomas breathing a
word
about her to anyone was enough to make me wish that Asher had hit him harder.
Henry laid a hand lightly on my shoulder—a reminder that John Thomas
was trying to do to me exactly what he’d done to Asher: bait me into a fight, push me to the edge.
Two can play that game.
My better self fought briefly against the urge and lost.
“It’s funny,” I said, meeting John Thomas’s gaze. “I saw your father Friday night. He was looking pretty cozy with a woman who wasn’t your mother.”
“Tess.” Henry could fit a world of censure into a single word.
Don’t
sink to his level. Don’t play his game.
“Red hair,” I continued. “Blue dress. Enjoys breathing heavily into your father’s hair while he strokes the back of her neck.”
John Thomas’s face went very still. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice taut.
“Why don’t I ask your father about her?” I leaned forward. “I can tell him you let something slip about their relationship
one day in class.”
My words hit their target. The look on John Thomas’s face told me two things: he knew about his father’s relationship with this woman, and Congressman Wilcox knew that he knew.
“He won’t believe you,” John Thomas said.
“I think we both know that he would, especially once I mention the way you’ve been shooting your mouth off about Henry’s family.” I leaned back on the heels
of my hands. “
The congressman is very good at paying attention
.” I repeated the words that John Thomas had said to me at the charity event. “You got your information about Henry’s family from your father, and something tells me he wouldn’t be too happy to find out you’re flapping your lips. Knowledge is power,” I said lightly, “and here you are, just giving the congressman’s away. And for what?
Some high school election you’re not even going to win?”
I’d only seen John Thomas and his father interact briefly, but that was enough for me to guess that the congressman wouldn’t choose to expend even an ounce of political capital on his son’s petty high school concerns.
“You’ll keep your
mouth shut
,” John Thomas gritted.
I smiled. “How hard do you think it would be for me to set up a little
chat with the congressman?” I asked rhetorically. John Thomas had struck at Henry and Asher. He’d terrorized Emilia. He’d threatened Vivvie. I wasn’t above issuing a threat of my own in return.
“Because the next time you come after one of my friends,” I said, leaning forward, placing my face within an inch of his, “I will bury you. And your own father will be the one to throw the dirt on top,
because Henry was right.” I pitched my voice low, barely more than a whisper and all the more cutting for it. “You are a disappointment.”
Henry didn’t say a word about the way I’d used Congressman Wilcox as leverage against his son. In exchange, I didn’t tell Henry that sometimes people like John Thomas just saw
taking the high road
as
weakness
.
If I had to dirty my hands to convince John Thomas that attacking my friends was a bad idea, then so be it. If I could have punished him for what he’d done to Emilia, what he
was
still
doing to Emilia—if I could have made him pay without forcing her into something that she had very clearly communicated that she did not want—I would have, tenfold.
Lunchtime came, but I wasn’t hungry. I bypassed eating and ducked into the courtyard. I’d planned on grabbing a table, but my feet kept walking—past the chapel, past the Maxwell Art Center, out to the playing fields. The
air was cold in DC in November, but I had Montana in my blood.
The chill didn’t bother me any more than the insults of boys like John Thomas Wilcox.
Letting the wind nip at my face, I thought over what I’d said to John Thomas—and his reaction. Ivy had told me once that being a fixer came with a cost. Given what John Thomas had done to Emilia, given what he’d said to Asher and the way he’d smugly
announced that Henry’s father was an alcoholic, pretending like it
grieved
him to impart the news—
I wasn’t going to feel bad about pushing back.
I wasn’t going to wonder what kind of person that made me.
Eventually, my face went numb from the wind. I walked back toward the main building, sure of one thing. If John Thomas said a
word
about Vivvie, if he so much as breathed in her direction,
if I had to follow through on my threat—
I would.
I headed back to the cafeteria but took the long way. Past the computer labs, past the library—I paused. There was a sound, a high-pitched gurgling, like muddy water through a whistling pipe.
The hallway was empty except for me, the door to the library slightly ajar.
What is that sound?
That was when I saw the liquid oozing out from underneath
the door. At first I thought it was water, but then I realized.
It’s red.
My heart thudded in my chest. I took a step toward the door.
Red—it’s red—thick—
The door creaked, and
something
spilled into the hallway. It took me a moment to recognize the shape as human and another to recognize it as John Thomas Wilcox.
Hands. Feet. Eyes. Mouth.
All the parts were there, but the whole . . .
Red. Red
on his chest. Red on his hands.
The horrible gurgling sound was coming from him.
I leapt forward, jarred out of my horror by the realization that if he was gurgling, if he was wheezing—he was still alive. My brain flipped into hyper gear. His white shirt was soaked in blood beneath his Hardwicke blue blazer. I ripped the blazer open, looking for a wound.
“Help!” The word ripped its way out
of my throat, savage and raw. “Somebody, help!”
John Thomas’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, that horrible gurgling sound punctuating each gasp.
I tore off my own blazer and pressed it to his chest.
Stop the bleeding. Have to stop the bleeding.
I yelled for help again. I
screamed
for it.
“Shot.” John Thomas choked out the word.
He’s been shot.
“It’s okay,” I told him, lying
through my teeth. “You’re going to be okay.”
I could feel his blood on my hands. I could smell it.
“Tell.” He managed another word. The gasping increased.
I kept applying pressure with one hand and grabbed my phone out of my pocket with the other. My hand shaking, I dialed 911.
“Didn’t.” John Thomas gargled the word. He surged upward. He grabbed hold of my shirt. His eyes met mine. “Tell.”
A second later, he was sprawled back on the ground, his head lilting to one side, the floor below him soaked in blood.
“What is your emergency?”
On some level, I was aware that the 911 operator was talking on the other end of the phone line. On some level, I remembered making the call. But on another, baser level, all I could think about was the body.
The body that used to be John Thomas Wilcox
but wasn’t anymore.
No more gasping. No more gurgling.
His eyes were vacant.
“What is your emergency?”
“He’s dead.”
I didn’t even realize I’d spoken until the operator responded. “Who’s dead?”
“A boy at my school.” The words burned my throat. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t
breathe.
“Someone shot him. I . . . I tried to help . . . I yelled for help, but no one—”
“Miss,
I need you to stay calm. I’ve got police en route. Do you see any indication that the shooter is still in the area?”
The hall was empty except for me and the body that wasn’t John Thomas anymore.
“Has anyone else at your school been shot?” the operator asked. “Is this a spree?”
I don’t know.
I wasn’t sure whether I just thought the words, or if I actually managed to say them, too. My hand
dropped to my side, the phone with it.
Why hadn’t anyone come when I’d screamed?
What if John Thomas isn’t the only one?
I thought. That was enough to spur me into motion. One second I was standing there, my limbs dead weight, and the next, my phone was on the floor, and I was running for the cafeteria.
For Henry and Vivvie.
I broke through the door into a room filled with unnatural stillness.
People were huddled in groups. I could hear someone crying.
Multiple someones.
“Tess.”
I turned toward Henry’s voice. He was here. He was whole. I took a step toward him.
Henry’s fine.
My brain struggled to process.
They all are.
No one was hurt. No one was screaming.
Henry made it to my side, his stride long and the expression on his face as intense as I’d ever seen it. Something gave inside
me.
“Shot.” The first word I managed to form was the same one John Thomas had said to me. “Someone shot him.”
Henry reached for my shoulder. He squeezed it. “I know.”
Someone shot John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry knows.
“You know?” The words came out in a whisper.
“Everyone knows,” Henry told me, his voice taut. “I am so sorry. I know your families are close.”
Close?
My brain struggled to parse
what he was saying.
Sorry?
Sorry that I had been the one to discover the body? Sorry that I yelled and yelled and no one came?
“Dead.” I meant to ask questions, but that was all that came out. “He’s dead, and—”
“You don’t know that,” Henry cut in.
Yes. I do.
“Tess.” An added layer of strain entered Henry’s voice. I followed his gaze down to my hands.
Blood. John Thomas’s blood on my hands.
Dead. He’s dead—
“Tess,” Henry repeated, his voice soft, “what happened? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, and somehow, staring down at my bloody hands, Henry’s touch warm through my clothes, the dam broke, and words came rushing out at warp speed. “Someone shot him. I found the body. I yelled for help. I tried—”
Henry ducked to capture my gaze. His mint-green eyes held mine. “Someone shot
who
?”
he asked.
“John Thomas Wilcox.” I stared at him, my brain processing the fact that Henry
hadn’t
known about John Thomas, that he’d been talking about something else.
Someone else.
I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. I stared past Henry to a flat-screen television on a nearby wall.
A reporter was talking into a camera. I couldn’t hear her—couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything,
not my arms or legs, not my tongue in my mouth. But as shock set in and darkness bit at the corners of my vision, I could make out the words on the ticker tape going across the bottom of the screen.
Someone shot him
, I’d told Henry.
His reply had been hoarse.
I know.
I stumbled backward, my hands looking for purchase against the wall as I absorbed the message on the ticker tape. When I’d said
Someone shot him
, I’d been talking about John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry had been talking about President Nolan.
President Nolan has been shot. Someone shot the president.
The words played on a loop in my head. They didn’t make any more sense sitting on the floor with my back to the wall than they had in the cafeteria.
We were in lockdown. Less than a minute after I’d heard the first siren, all of us were shuffled into classrooms. The lights were turned out. The doors were barred. Guards were
posted in the halls.
The Secret Service had removed Anna Hayden from the premises.
I’d ended up in a science classroom. Henry was there. Vivvie, too. Two dozen of our classmates were crammed in with us. Some were crying. Some were frantically texting their families.