Sick Page 4

  “It really shouldn’t be that easy,” Chad says.

  “And yet …,” I say.

  Chad opens one of the orange doors, and we walk down a short hallway dividing the music department on our left from the drama department on our right. We pass a cluster of band geeks on our way, and I can see how unthrilled they are to be headed to the assembly. I can’t help but smirk. Drama and band kids are a lot happier in their native environments.

  We hang a right just as my phone vibrates. I check it as we walk down the drama department hallway, passing the doorways to Golab’s office and a classroom.

  The text is from Laura: You back?

  I type: Yep. You okay?

  Been better, she writes. But okay.

  Our stagecraft class always meets in the Black Box, which is a huge classroom painted black that Golab uses for acting classes, rehearsals, one-act plays—that kind of thing. There’s an outside door to the Black Box that faces the main sidewalk, right under the awning-roof, but Golab only opens it during evening performances. The rest of the time it’s closed, like the main box office doors, and locks automatically from the inside.

  People file into the Black Box while Jaime Escadero, this Latino dude who’s Golab’s favorite techie, stands in the hall taking roll.

  “’Sup, Jay-me?” Chad says, giving Jaime a jab to the shoulder as we walk past.

  Jaime shuts his eyes, like he’s counting to ten or something. “It’s Hi-may, you ass factory. Hi. May.”

  “Well, hi may, or hi may not!”

  Chad cracks himself up. No one else laughs, but Chad doesn’t care. Jaime’s one of those rare people, like Laura, who stand up to Chad all the time and don’t get their teeth handed back to them. I think Chad respects Jaime for not backing down.

  “Sorry, Jaime,” I say as I pass by, pronouncing his name right. “It’s the blue hair dye, makes him crazy, you know.”

  Jaime’s lips press together, but then after a sec, he grunts a laugh. He shakes his head like a horse, his long, shiny black ponytail falling into place. “Just keep that dumb gabacho busy for me today, will you, Brian? I’m not in the mood.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Jaime slaps my back and returns to his grade book, checking people in. Jaime’s a good guy, mostly. As long as we don’t mess up “his” auditorium, and get the work done we’re supposed to, he’s cool. I guess he kind of runs the department, in a way. I hear that Golab’s only teaching these classes because she took an acting class once in college. She was the best they could do. Another big score for our district! So the theater club exists only because people like Jaime and that tall blond guy, Travis, make it happen.

  We have no desks in the Black Box, just rows of folding chairs. I take a seat in the middle of the second row, saying hi to Clarisse, a new friend of Kenzie’s this year, who is so tiny she usually gets assigned nothing more than sweeping the floor.

  In the row ahead of me, Travis is complaining to another guy, Dave, that he got stopped by security and hassled about having a knife this morning. I don’t even try not to laugh, which makes them both look at me. They don’t say anything, though. Not until Chad sits down beside me and kicks out his legs, banging them into Travis’s chair.

  “Oops,” Chad says, grinning. “Sorry.”

  Travis slowly turns around. He’s nearly six feet tall, with blue eyes and movie star looks. Which is probably why he’s always the lead in the plays. All the girls love him. Which is kind of amusing, when you think about it.

  “Do you mind?” Travis asks Chad. His voice is obviously one of the things making him Golab’s favorite actor—I’ve never heard a kid with such a deep voice.

  “Said I was sorry, queerbag.”

  “That’s your best shot?” Travis says. “That’s the absolute best you can come up with? Really?”

  “Yeah,” Chad says. “You’re really a queerbag!”

  “Sweetheart,” Travis says in his natural Shakespearean voice, “if you open this, you’re getting the whole can. Know what I mean?”

  “Awesome,” Chad says, and stands up. Travis does the same.

  Dave starts to get up too. “Hey, hey,” he says. “Can you both not?”

  I yank hard on Chad’s jacket sleeve. “Dude, Chad,” I say. “Seriously.”

  “Hell you backin’ him up for, Bri?”

  “Because if you start a fight and get kicked out, I won’t have anyone to make fun of in seventh hour. Come on.”

  Travis snorts and grins at my logic. Chad grudgingly sits down. Travis moves over a couple of seats, and Dave follows, slapping Travis’s shoulder and saying, “Just six more months.” They’re both seniors too.

  I almost apologize on Chad’s behalf—which I do a lot in this class, obviously—but right then the last bell rings. We’re all seated when Golab walks in with her quick, short steps. She’s slightly shorter than Chad, who is the second-shortest guy in stagecraft after this pudgy kid named Damon. There are only eight dudes in the whole class. The rest are girls, and most of them are actors, not techies. The only techie girl is this chick Katrina.

  “Phones,” Golab orders, setting a small plastic bin down on her chair.

  Everyone mutters and stomps over to the bin, dumping their phones into it. Damon, the fat kid, walks up to Golab and says, “Mrs. Golab, I must protest this policy. What if I have to order a pizza?”

  Golab isn’t impressed. “I think you can wait,” she snaps.

  “But how else can I maintain my girlish figure?” Damon asks like he really wants to know. The kid’s kind of funny.

  Cells are an enormous no-no during class time. But as I reach into my pocket, my phone vibrates. I know without looking it must be Laura. Golab is distracted by Damon, so I reach down and rustle the phones, keeping mine in my pocket. As long as Golab doesn’t see me checking it, she won’t take it away. Once we get our assignments for the day, I can sneak off and text Laura back.

  Golab starts rattling off a list of jobs to do. Me, Chad, this kid Keith, and this douchebag goth-like sophomore named John are in charge of moving the platforms off the stage and into the scene shop. They just finished up a production of Macbeth last weekend, and most of the set is down, but there are props to put away, costumes to clean and hang, that sort of thing. The girls—and Damon—get to do the easy stuff, of course. Jaime, Dave, and Travis only have to clean the tech booth. Total rip-off.

  We trudge out of the Black Box and cross the hallway to the backstage auditorium doors.

  “I hate this part,” I tell our group of guys as we walk into the auditorium.

  “Well, let’s just give it the old college kick in the nuts,” Chad says. He takes off his leather jacket and drops it carelessly on the stage as Jaime, Travis, and Dave head up the center aisle of the auditorium to the tech booth.

  “Bet that three-pack of juice boxes all make out up there while we’re bustin’ our asses down here,” Chad says, grunting as he and I lift one of the platforms. These things weigh 250 pounds apiece, easy, and are a bitch to move.

  Keith and John laugh as they lift another platform. They’re not techies or actors either, just a couple of slugs like us looking for easy credit. But it doesn’t feel easy as we maneuver the heavy platforms into the scene shop.

  “You think Jaime’s gay?” Keith asks as we muscle the platforms into place. “I don’t think so.”

  “Ask him out and see,” Chad says.

  “What about Dave?” John says. “I don’t think he—”

  “Why are we talking about this?” I say. “It sounds like fucking Maury Povich in here.”

  The four of us laugh, temporary friends united against grunt work. We set the platform down and start kicking the legs closed. When we’re done, Chad and I head back toward the stage. I take a quick glance around for Golab; she’s nowhere to be seen, so I check my phone.

  It’s a text from Laura. Big-time fight at rally, her text reads. Not feeling real good but I am here!!!

  “Big fight at the p
ep rally,” I say to Chad as we reach our next platform. I text her back: Just breathe. You can do it! You’ll be fine I promise.

  “Laura made it?” he says. “She with Kenzie? How’s she holdin’ up?”

  “Holding,” I say. “She didn’t say who the fight was—”

  The public address speakers squeal feedback. Principal Winsor clears his throat, and it echoes throughout the auditorium.

  “Ahem. Um … faculty, staff, and students are requested to remain in their classrooms for the remainder of this period,” Winsor says. “We are in a state of lockdown. Um … thank you.”

  The PA squeals off.

  “Hey, hey,” Chad says as we lift our next platform. “Musta been a huge fight.”

  “Guess so.”

  We have a lockdown drill every year, which in the drama department doesn’t amount to much. The auditorium’s exterior doors are all locked anyway. All Golab really has to do is lock the double orange doors leading out of the performing arts department; the job falls to her since there are no music classes seventh hour. We’re supposed to all go into the Black Box and wait for the lockdown to be called off, but we never do. If Golab ever came out of her office and told us to go to the Black Box, then maybe we’d take it more seriously, but until then, Winsor’s announcement doesn’t exactly freak us out.

  Still, I’m a little more worried about Laura being there than I would’ve thought I’d be. If anything happens to her at her first assembly … god, she’ll barricade herself in her house for a year.

  We truck into the shop with our platform, only to find John and Keith having a fake sword fight with props from the play, as unfazed by the lockdown order as we are. The swords clang loudly, reverberating through the shop. Chad and I both wince.

  “Hey!” Chad calls. “Hemorrhoids! You wanna give us a hand here? Your other option is I take you outside and get you pregnant.”

  The two dorks stop swinging and put the swords down on a prop table. They walk past us without a word and go back to get another platform.

  “I love my job,” Chad says, and I crack up as we kick the legs closed and stack the platform.

  It takes most of the period to finish moving the platforms, by which point my arms are wiped out. Chad doesn’t seem bothered, but then Chad benches over two hundred anyway.

  We head into the Black Box at about five minutes to the bell. Golab clip-clops her way in behind us, carrying the phone bin. She didn’t come to check on us, and like everyone else, seems unimpressed with Winsor’s announcement. The rest of the class files in, and we all sit again in the folding chairs. My phone vibrates but doesn’t stop; it’s a call, not a text. No way to answer it right now. I let it go to voice mail.

  “All right,” Golab announces. “Tomorrow, we’re going to need to paint—”

  A piercing scream from outside cuts her off.

  Golab stops talking and looks at the door leading directly from the Black Box to the sidewalk outside, the door used only for performances. We follow her gaze, like we can see through the heavy wood.

  “Riot?” Travis says to no one in particular.

  We all kind of snicker only because it could be true, since we did have that riot once. The idea of another one starting is just stupid enough to be possible in this backasswards school. The fact is, the black kids and the Mexican kids do not get along, by and large. The only white kids hurt during the riot were hurt by other white kids, as far as I know. Like those swim team fucks. It’s entirely possible—and wouldn’t be surprising—that a couple of opposing gangs, gathered along racial lines, have gotten into it somewhere on campus.

  A couple of seconds go by. Golab starts to pick up where she left off, but then we hear more screams. Shouts. Cussing.

  And a stampede.

  Jaime glances at Golab, and Golab gives him a nod. When Clarisse and a couple of other girls look spooked, Dave moves to stand protectively between them and the door. Me, Chad, Jaime, Travis, and Keith hop over to the door and stand behind Jaime as he yanks it open. We all puff out our chests, ready to defend the department.

  Having to defend the department is actually a big part of stagecraft class. Since there are so many screwups, losers, gangsters, stoners, and other such fine specimens here at Phoenix Metro High, and so much expensive equipment in the department, Jaime and the other drama kids have, like, a license to kill. I’ve seen Golab slide her key ring down the length of the hall to Jaime based on Jaime doing nothing more than shouting, “Keys!” This, we’ve learned, is a code word for “Someone is in the auditorium/shop/office who isn’t supposed to be, and we need to throw them out and lock up.” Then they do it. Usually, what’s happened is some janitor or security guard has opened a door and then not locked it behind him, letting random students roam the department looking for goodies to take.

  The campus security guards generally don’t care about the performing arts building, because there’s never any trouble from the drama geeks. They assume it’s always quiet here. I rarely see them walking these halls. And that’s probably why Golab’s techies get away with literally throwing kids out of the department.

  Chad takes to this security aspect of stagecraft very happily, grabbing and tossing other kids out of the auditorium when Jaime says the word. It’s sort of practice for his future of taking orders and being a grunt.

  So we man up and put on tough faces, ready to prevent anyone from entering Golab’s beloved Black Box.

  But none of us is prepared for what’s going on outside.

  FREAKING ANARCHY.

  From the Black Box door we can see all the way down the main sidewalk to the gym, with all the classroom and admin buildings on each side. It looks like the entire student body is running around in all directions, like they’re trying to get away from something. About ten yards away, this gangster guy is skipping backward, heading toward us, but his back is to us, his arms out as he screams, “What’s up! What’s up!” to this other guy in a blue shirt who is bearing down on him. Getting ready to fight.

  “Hell’s all this?” Chad says, smiling a little at the prospect of combat.

  The gangbanger takes a wild swing and catches the other guy square on the face. The other guy doesn’t break stride. He swings at the gangbanger with one massive, clubbed hand. The fist catches the gangster on the mouth.

  I hear a chilling crack as the gangbanger is spun toward us. It’s his jaw, hanging loose from his skull. It’s been wrenched out of its socket. Blood floods his mouth and splashes against the concrete.

  “Holy shit!” Travis gasps.

  It takes the gangbanger a second to register what’s happened to him. Then his eyes open wide and he gargles on a cry of pain, reminding me of that screaming chick on the poster for Pink Floyd’s The Wall. His jaw hangs down, flopping grotesquely against his neck.

  The guy in the blue shirt reaches out, grabs the gangster, and pulls him close to his face. There’s a wet, tearing sound, and then the gangbanger spins toward us again. A fist-size hole in his throat gapes wide. He falls to the sidewalk and twitches, thick blood pooling around his head.

  The guy in the blue T-shirt, mouth dripping gore, spies us and starts tearing ass toward the Black Box door.

  Blue T-shirt …

  “Hollis?”

  I look at Chad. His eyes are wide, and I see him swallow hard.

  I barely recognize Hollis … because Hollis’s face has melted. Like fishhooks have dug into the skin under his eyes and dragged it three inches down his skull. Shards of the gangbanger’s throat sway from his maw. The flesh on Hollis’s arms is inflamed, his forearms and hands the size of footballs. His skin seems to … glitter. Like his chest did earlier at Chad’s. His lower lip juts from his mouth, swollen and distended, past his chin, giving the impression his teeth have elongated. Something beneath his shirt, something jagged, forms sharp peaks along his collarbone and chest.

  “Close the door,” Keith says, choking. “Close it. Close the door. Travis? Jaime? Close the door. Oh, god, pl
ease.”

  Jaime swings the door forward to shut and lock it. Keith leans with his back against it, panting, as Jaime backs up into the Black Box. We all look at each other.

  “Did, um … everyone else see that?” Travis asks, running a hand across his mouth.

  Yeah.

  We saw it.

  “What is going on out th—” Golab starts to say, but is cut off by someone—Hollis, probably—slamming his full weight into the Black Box door from the sidewalk. Keith jerks forward from the force. His face pinches with terror—probably imagining, as I was, the monster wanting to get in.

  No—not monster. Hollis.

  The other stagecraft students, a motley crew, get to their feet and slide hesitantly toward the hallway, away from the door. They didn’t see what we did on the sidewalk, but the sound of students screaming and running outside is all they need to know. They’re drama geeks, not fighters.

  “Oh, god! Help me! Please!” someone screams outside.

  “Jaime?” Golab says, putting her hands on her hips. She’s not even fazed. “What in the world is happening out there?”

  “That guy,” Keith burbles. “That guy, he tore his throat out, man, he tore it out.”

  Jaime opens his mouth to answer Mrs. Golab—then closes it. Shakes his head, ponytail shimmering. He dry heaves once. Then again.

  Golab doesn’t get it. She eyes Travis. “Would you please tell me what is going on?”

  Travis says, “Um …”

  And then it’s over.

  THE DOOR CRASHES INWARD, CATCHING KEITH square on the head and sending him onto his ass. Hollis bursts into the room, strings of red saliva swinging from his swollen lip, his eyes yellow and bulging.

  “Holl!” Chad shouts. “What the fu—”

  Keith is dazed, shaking his head, trying to get to his feet. Hollis springs, grabs Keith’s left forearm in both hands, and snaps his head forward, burying his teeth in Keith’s arm.