You have no idea how many times in the last few weeks I’ve written a letter to Bucky, asking what to do about the attention I’ve been getting from Rémy Lamar. But Bucky Beaverman is just our imaginary friend from childhood, so the answers actually come from inside me. Still, it’s good to get it out on paper. Dear Bucky is a lot less odd than Dear Diary. We all have our separate ways of coping. Birdie uses him in the comic strip she draws. Blue turned him into a furry creature she stitches into her needlework like a signature. The only one who doesn’t remember our obsession with him is Mother. She insists he didn’t exist, even as a figment of our imaginations. We all think that’s a strange and unnecessary stance. I mean, what’s the harm?
“Is it true, Mr. Whitlock?” Shawna asks. Whines, actually. “What Honey said about the bees?”
He blinks blue eyes twice, three times, four, like he’s flipping through index cards in his brain for facts. “I teach chemistry and biology, Miss Mooney. And although I have no doubt Miss Juniper knows a thing or two about bees, the fact is after the female honey bee stings it dies. They have to be careful who they choose as a viable threat if they want to survive long-term.”
He lights my torch with a quick nod before moving to the next table.
“Ouch. Roasted by Mr. Whitlock?” Rémy says. “That had to—sting—a little.”
Shawna giggles, of course. And it is funny, if I’m being honest. But when I glance Rémy’s way, I make sure my eyes and thoughts are aflame to dissuade him.
THREAT ASSESSMENT:
RÉMY LAMAR|5’11” AVERAGE–STRONG BUILD|CLOSED SOCIAL GROUP|TRUSTING
MOST LIKELY TO: marry a ridiculous trophy wife.
LEAST LIKELY TO: seduce me with his charms during art class.
7/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
CASUALTY POTENTIAL: medium
Mr. Whitlock interrupts my mental evaluation by announcing we’ll need to use ear protection for the experiment. I like Mr. Whitlock and I think he likes having me as a student. Was he roasting me? I don’t know. He’s young and new this year. I know a lot about what it’s like to be new at a school. I doubt the initial feeling of uncertainty changes whether you’re a student or a teacher. I think he was just making a point.
I pick up the rigid earmuffs while Mr. Whitlock instructs us to proceed balloon by balloon, starting with oxygen and making notes along the way.
“I wish I could just use my Beats,” Rémy says. I don’t know what that means, but I think he’s talking to his lab partner, so I ignore him again.
“You’re on notes, then,” I tell Shawna.
She nods and we secure our earmuffs. Shawna probably wasn’t trying to be a jerk before. I just read her comment that way. I do that sometimes. Maybe too much, like it’s part of my ingrained survival instincts. The Reaction part of the three Rs.
I can’t get the earmuffs to rest flat on my head because my messy bun is getting in the way. I have to push the big topknot out of position to get the earmuffs fully secure.
Messy bun. My big effort for fitting in with the Outsiders today. That and a gray lace-trimmed tank top, fully exposed. We can’t wear loose clothing during labs, so I had to ditch my oversized burgundy cardigan. Let it be known that just because I wear loose clothes and Doc Martens doesn’t mean I sport underwear made for grannies.
I can make an entire dinner start to finish from what’s growing or living in our backyard. I think that’s something grandmothers used to do. Maybe they still do. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any.
I hear Mr. Whitlock say, “Fire when ready.”
These earmuffs are NRR 26 dB, meaning I can hear seventy-four percent of all sound.
“You ready?” I ask Shawna.
She nods again and fiddles with her gold, heart-shaped pendant as I inch the lighted torch toward the droopy red oxygen-filled balloon. When the flame makes contact with the latex, it pops like a tiny pistol firing. Easy. And oddly satisfying.
Balloons are popping all around us, followed by gasps and ahhs. Shawna and I remove our earmuffs at the same time as Mr. Whitlock, following his lead. He explains oxygen is denser than hydrogen and asks if we think the hydrogen-filled balloon will make a bigger or smaller explosion.
I know the answer, but I’m much more inclined to pop the fully erect hydrogen-filled balloon and let it speak for itself. Everybody puts their earmuffs back in place before giving the next balloon a go. I wait for Shawna to finish jotting down notes before bringing the torch into contact with the swaying white balloon. It pops at least twenty times louder than the oxygen-filled balloon. Flames burst into the air with a whoosh above our heads and dissipate quickly, making Shawna’s green eyes pop in shock. I, on the other hand, love it.
This time, when Mr. Whitlock asks about the chemical reaction, I decide to answer. “The hydrogen in the balloons is reacting with the air we breathe. When we add heat into the mix, it makes water, only the reaction is happening so fast it causes a small explosion.”
A+ assessment if I do say so myself. My lab partner is going to freak when we get to the combo hydrogen-and-oxygen-filled balloon.
“Correct,” Mr. Whitlock says. “Now let’s see what happens when you combine oxygen and hydrogen.”
Yes. Let’s. I start to put my earmuffs on but hesitate when Mr. Whitlock pumps his hand like he’s dribbling an invisible ball. A similar explosion reaches us from another class. Then pop, pop, pop. I wasn’t aware there was another chemistry class doing this experiment at the same time. It sounds like the Fourth of July. What I don’t get is why our teacher looks so stricken.
My answer comes from an unexpected buzz blasted over the loudspeaker that startles everyone in the room.
Principal Weaver’s strident voice. “This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Follow full lockdown protocols. Authorities are on the way.”
Mr. Whitlock rushes to the classroom door and locks it. He peeks out the rectangular window before pulling the shade and moving to the bigger windows on the opposite side of the classroom, doing the same.
Reactive.
In under ten seconds, everything clicks into place. Those pops weren’t balloons. This is the real deal. I get my own butt in gear.
“What’s going on?” someone asks.
“Were those gunshots?” another student inquires.
Fireworks and popping gas-filled balloons can both sound like gunfire. I don’t have time to wonder who’s asking questions because I’m already digging through my EDC for my flashlight and multi-tool. Calmly. Steadily. Reactive and Ready. Following my training, even though my head is playing out active-shooter scenarios.
I remind myself I have one objective. Meet Birdie and Blue in the room most equidistant for fifth period. I can’t let my fear slow me down. I tune out the classroom panic and chatter to think. Birdie will be in PE and Blue is in geometry, which means our meet-up point is in the northeast stairwell that connects the academic buildings to the gymnasium. Getting there will take me ten minutes tops overhead.
I slide into my bulletproof vest, sling my EDC onto one shoulder, and place a metal stool on the lab table before climbing up beside it. The expression dotting the faces of my classmates is one of abject horror.
In a split second, I understand they’re afraid of me. They think I’m part of whatever is happening outside of this room, like it was planned. People are ducking under lab tables, cowering, hiding behind each other. Even Mr. Whitlock is holding up his hands like I might reach for a gun and start shooting.