Endangered (5 page)

GAME . . . NOT SO ON
.

It's been two days since my admirer dropped the gauntlet and I'm dry. I mean, I'm never short on things I can shoot. As Petra Dobrev says, “Life's the photo!” But I've got nothing that trumps that so-incredible-I-hate-it fire portrait. I wasted a bunch of time trying to figure the logistics of
that
shoot. Or, rather, debunk it.

At first I was all “This has to be Photoshopped,” like those fuzzy pictures of Bigfoot or the super-obvious UFO fakers. I looked for telltale signs of overlays, and duplications, and masking. Like out-of-place shadows, odd blurring around the couch suggesting it was cut from some other image and blended into this one. Or a lack of charring on flaming items, which could mean he used a digital paintbrush styled to
look like
flames instead of
actual
flames. Anything that showed I was dealing with a
great digital artist
instead of a photographer with an envy-inducing eye for the most dramatic amateur shot I've ever seen. I found nothing.

Doesn't mean I'm wrong. He could be a
pro-level
digital artist. The kind who's so good he leaves zero clues.

Yeah, right.

The fire is real. So real I expect it to flicker and crackle every time I look at it. Never mind that the temperature had to be like a thousand degrees in the room where the picture was taken, maybe hot enough to melt the camera. How did he get that shot?!
Grrrr
.

“Why are you growling?”

I look across the lunch table. “What?”

Ocie's giving me her WTF squint, curling her lip for extra emphasis. “You were quiet and I thought we were doing the oh-my-God-it's-Thursday-why-can't-it-be-Friday silent dread thing. Then you went all feral and growled.”

“Just clearing my throat.”

“Like a dog?”

Her blue-on-blue ensemble becomes a tempting target for changing the subject. A Smurf joke is too easy. Besides, being a Hall Ghost works in crowds, not at our private, two-(wo)man table in the corner of the cafeteria. Really, I'm never invisible to her.

I make up something while molding my gross mashed potatoes into animal shapes with my fork. “There's this online photo competition. I need to come up with something to win it, and soon. The, uh, organizer's being a jerk about the whole thing. He's won it in the past, and thinks he's God's gift to eyeballs. He—he just irritates me. You know?”

After finishing my horrible version of a potato cheetah, I glance up, expecting Ocie to be infected with my indignation, even more squinty. Instead, she's giving me a portrait-perfect smile that I can never get her to duplicate when I catch her on camera. “What?”

She says, “Is he cute?”

Mind. Blown. “Really? Is that all you think about?”

“Yes. When I don't have to think about World War II and statistics and
Jane Eyre
. What else do we have to think about but school and boys?”

I slaughter the spud cheetah with a fork jab to the gut. “Maybe you should rethink that outfit. You look like the Blue Man Group.”

Her curious grin falls away. Quietly, she says, “You're being so other right now.”

Maybe I am. But, jeez, her questions.

An apology may be in order, but the thought is lost when we're suddenly a party of three. Taylor Durham stands in my periphery. It's like he just appeared. All that's missing is a puff of red smoke and the scent of sulfur.

What's this about? Has he built up some steam to confront me about nearly running him over the other day? He doesn't even look my way.

“Mei, hey,” he says, eyes on Ocie, “thanks for the chem notes.” He passes a binder covered in Ocie's doodles to her.

She hesitates, then accepts her returned property, eyes flicking from him to me. My nostrils flare, like I can smell her fear.

She says, “Uh, thanks.”

“We still on for tomorrow night?” he asks.

Ocie shifts in her seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Sure. Text me when you're on your way.”

She wants this exchange to end, as do I. Now, I have questions—a lot of questions—for her. Only, Taylor's still here. Why?

He says, “Did you two get the Letter?”

Ocie brightens, unable to resist the gossip despite the source. “Oh, God. Yes.”

The Letter. I knew the moment Mom ripped open the envelope that, presumably, the school sent it to every student and parent. A Cover Your Ass mail campaign, if you will. Mom called me downstairs and read it aloud like it was some executive order from the president. For all the drama, it was vague, referring to an “incident of an inappropriate nature,” while reassuring everyone that Portside High was a safe, educational environment where the faculty upholds the highest moral standards. No names were mentioned.

Taylor asks me, “Did you get one?”

He's so casual, like I didn't almost kill him with my car. His nice-guy ruse. I nod simply to hurry this along.

Redirecting his attention to Ocie, he says, “Has anyone seen Keachin since this blew up? Seems like it's getting serious.”

“I heard she's in Alabama,” Ocie says. “She's got an aunt there, the only person who'll take her in because she's shamed her family.”

That's BS. I saw the light glowing in Keachin's bedroom when I rode past her house last night. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“The band,” Ocie says. “Nothing happens in this school that we don't know about.”

Her cluelessness makes me laugh; it's one of my favorite things in the world.

My giggles are the only sound now. Taylor shuffles foot to foot before saying, “Mei, tomorrow then.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I rise and take my tray to the dishwasher window. They can finish this nonsense on their own. When I return to the table, he's gone and Ocie's twisted in her seat, tracking me with her eyes. Anxious.

“Panda, about that—”

“Sorry,” I say. I grab my bag off the back of my chair. “Lunch is over. Gotta get to class.”

There's a full five minutes left in the period, but Ocie doesn't argue. I'm sure she knows there will be plenty of time for that later.

We're all something we don't know we are.

Let me tell you about a girl who didn't know she was a freaking idiot.

It's not a long story; take out the specifics and it probably isn't even uncommon. A gorgeous boy came to her school. A military brat, like she used to be. Even spent time in her mother's birthplace. Long enough to learn the language. They bonded over similarities until they started creating shared moments.

Movies and pizza and birthday parties. His parents dropping him off for dinner with her family. Her sneaking kisses on the couch between her dad's chaperone patrols.

She told him about the camera she wanted for her birthday, and her subscription to
National Geographic
, and how she knew who took the picture of each and every panda on her wall. He told her private things, too, but even now she doesn't share them, because she still can't destroy their old trust the way he did.

Things between them were good. Until they weren't.

One weekend she was home alone. His older basketball buddies brought him by well after dark. They took a trip to her room where it didn't go all the way, but got close enough to frighten her and irritate him.

She got it. She really did. She wanted him.
Bad
. But she was scared. Scared that something would go wrong, something that would last a
lifetime, and chase away all the dreams they talked about so much.

He said he understood, said he wasn't mad. When his friends picked him up, he must've said different things.

By Monday morning, the school was saying them, too.

Things like how she was obsessed with pandas, but not in a real way. Like a freak show.

They called her “Panda Fucker.”

Because she trusted the wrong boy.

That girl is something different now. She won't make that mistake again.

Though she may need to consider which girls she trusts, if they can't recognize the wrong boys either.

OCIE'S TEXTS BLOW UP MY CELL
as I eat dinner with my parents.

Dad's complaining to Mom, for like the thousandth time, about how frightened Virginians get over “a little wind and rain.” There's a bad storm forecast for tomorrow night, and whenever that happens, there's a run on bread and water at all the local stores because folks around here are afraid of flooding and lengthy power outages. Dad drew the short straw tonight and had to brave the crowds for milk and cheese on his way home. Thus, the tirade.

“You'd think they're expecting a category five hurricane,” he says.

Mom smiles. “They? We have been here for ten years. We are Virginians, too.”

“Maybe. We're not the kind that overreact, though.”

Mom glances toward the pantry. “So you suddenly felt we needed three cases of water because . . .”

“I was thirsty. Most Americans are chronically dehydrated.”

I can't help but giggle, even as I'm palming my phone under the table because dinner's supposed to be tech-free. Ocie's messages are all
I know UR mad, but
. . . and
I need 2 explain about T
. . .

What's to explain?

My best friend is consorting with the enemy.

“Lauren,” Dad says, diverting talk of storm paranoia away from himself and peering over the tines of his fork with SternFace, “something pressing on your phone?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

I put it away though it purrs against my thigh. Ocie gets the hint shortly after dinner and stops the thumb groveling. Good. She should take some time to reflect on what she's done. We'll settle up soon.

Tonight, my Admirer problem.

I'm not down for the invisible puppet master act and I'm in just the right mood to make a thing of it. Even if I did have a concept to top his photo, why should I have to prove anything to some anonymous creep? I compose a quick message expressing my dissatisfaction.

Who are you? Tell me or I'm not shooting anything
.

When I send the email I'm sweating. It's a big bluff. The last thing I want is for him to expose me, not while the Keachin-Coach stuff is getting hotter by the day. I mean, I
never
want to be exposed, but especially not now.

Coach Bottin's sure to lose his job soon, and talk of jail if Keachin was underage when they started is still circulating. Here's the thing: if Coach Bottin broke laws, he should go to jail. Me and Mom are in 100 percent agreement on that. But . . .

Jail is full of thieves, and murderers, and child molesters. People are lumping Coach into that last category. When I hear
molester
, I think of
creepy guys in nondescript vans scoping out playgrounds. I had Coach Bottin when I was a sophomore, and he was one of my favorite teachers. He never freaked if you really didn't understand how a three-man weave goes, or couldn't get a softball all the way from the mound to home plate. I never got the vibe he was ogling us like some porn scout. And trust me, the uniforms us girls get duped into wearing—little booty shorts and tight shirts, like the school orders them from a Vegas burlesque emporium—probably would've drawn him out. It sure did for other teachers.

I'm thinking about you, Mr. Mitchell, aka
GawkEye
. Really, what possible reason does the Automotive Arts teacher have to walk through the gym two to three times a week?

My point: Coach Bottin was not the one I was after. He shouldn't have done what he did, and maybe I somehow
saved
Keachin from a monster who manipulated and took advantage of her. But when I think about Coach's life in shambles, why don't I feel like a Panda the Vampire Slayer badass?

My computer makes this weird, unfamiliar
ding
ing noise. A window I've never seen before flashes in the center of the screen.

SecretAdm1r3r wants to chat. Do you accept?

Oh, fu—

I snatch my hands from my MacBook like it's grown teeth. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my door is closed. I cross the room on gummy legs to make sure it's locked, and my palm is slick when I jiggle the knob.

I'm slow returning to the machine. My bluff's been called.

Forcing myself into the seat, I reread the message flashing.

SecretAdm1r3r wants to chat. Do you accept?

I do.

I click the YES button and a new window opens.

It's the messenger program that came with my computer. I never use it, had forgotten it existed. My default username,
PandaD
, occupies the chat window next to an impatient flashing cursor. My parents' caution voices whisper across time, warning my eleven-year-old self never to chat with strangers, in person or on the internet. I won't let this go anywhere skeevy.

Joshua is a sleaze. That bit of petty larceny got him a few hundred hours of community service, which included him apologizing to a bunch of underprivileged kids. Nowhere near Keachin-gate level, but good enough.

On this, I'm slow to respond. When the pause lingers, another message comes through.

It's still hard to type. The last time I told the story—the
real
story—I pretty much dropped a nuke on my life.

Until it didn't.

I start to type something snarky, but epic. The ultimate comeback. Only, before I get a word down, my computer sounds an angry buzz.

SecretAdm1r3r has left the chat
.

The hell?

I wander downstairs, dazed. A million thoughts and questions remain in the aftermath of my abruptly ended chat with my Admirer.

How is it possible for someone to seem so creepy and cool at the same time?

Dad's upright on the couch and Mom's stretched sideways like a lazy cat, her feet on the cushions and her head wedged in the crook of his shoulder. On the TV, a grayish-green blob swirls in from the Atlantic Ocean over a zoomed-in map of Virginia and North Carolina. The weatherman points excitedly at the storm spiral.

“—we can expect upward of three inches of rain with wind gusts as high as fifty miles per hour tomorrow afternoon—”

Drifting into the kitchen for a snack, my confusion persists.

Who IS this guy? How do I show him I'm the superior shooter?

My phone buzzes again. Ocie's doubling down on the apologies, insisting I respond. In the same moment, the weatherman's voice turns all doom and gloom (“—expect dangerous lightning strikes near the coast—”), and I'm thinking about beating my admirer's
Dante
. Talk about the perfect storm.

Pun intended.

I nearly drop the milk when the idea hits.

It's so exciting—so awesome—that I'm trembling when I text Ocie back.

I think on it a moment, then send a follow-up text.