I hear the door to the closet open and close as I whisper-shout his name again. Was he holding bolt cutters? He didn’t raise one caterpillar-thick brow or bat a green eye before taking off. We all have our own protocols to follow. Maybe he heard someone coming and couldn’t stop. I can’t waste any more time guessing and risk getting caught.
I’m above the vestibule that connects the academic building to the gymnasium within a hundred feet, the vent cover left open for me. My sisters are probably waiting, wondering why I’m late. I can see it now, Birdie with her arms crossed and Blue chewing the end of her hair. I crawl past the opening and lower myself into the void, feet first. Once I’m dangling and supported by my forearms, I stretch one arm out for my EDC, resettle, and throw it down. I take a nice deep breath before dropping lower, hanging five feet above the floor by my hands before I let go and land less than gracefully next to Blue. She’s wearing her Kevlar vest. Seeing it makes my thoughts fly to Birdie’s typical comment this morning.
“You’re bleeding,” Blue says, staring at my knee.
I pull on my matching Kevlar vest. “I’m fine. It’s a surface wound.”
“That’s more than surface.”
I shrug it off. My knee is the least of our problems. “Those sounded a lot like gunshots. Where the hell is Birdie? Her classroom is the closest one to this meet-up point.”
“She’s hiding,” Blue says matter-of-factly.
“What? Why? What makes you say that?”
“I just know. If Birdie’s not here, she’s hiding.”
My youngest sister is weird. Let me just put that out there. There’s no denying that fact. I don’t particularly like when people refer to us as those weird Juniper sisters, but when Blue spouts her opinion, it’s always absolute. There’s never a maybe or perhaps or possibly. I used to think she was a know-it-all when we were younger, but I’ve learned to trust her. She has a stronger gut response to situations than anyone I’ve ever met. If Blue thinks Birdie is hiding, she’s probably right. It still sends a sinker into the pit of my stomach. But dreadful thoughts of Birdie being hurt or worse will only incapacitate us.
We need to change our plan, but not the goal. Meet up, confirm everyone’s intel, assess, and move out. Fast.
“We can’t wait around,” I tell Blue. “We have to find Birdie ASAP.”
This is one of many situations where having more than one cellphone among the three of us would be helpful, but we have to share. It’s for us to call home only, and it was Birdie’s turn to carry it. In the event of an EMP, the electromagnetic pulse would render cellphones useless anyway, so we train to get by without the conveniences most people take for granted. That’s why we prepare plans for different situations.
“Come on,” I tell Blue. “Let’s cut through the gymnasium. Maybe her teacher made it too hard for her to leave. You know how Ms. Pennick can be.”
Pen-cap, as everyone calls her, is the worst pseudo drill sergeant in the history of physical education. I bet she’s never run a mile for time in her life. That doesn’t stop her from loving two things above all else: her stopwatch and calling out kids with a crappy mile time. We aren’t those kids. Ever. We’re the well-under-ten-minute milers. The ones coaches are desperate to have on teams we’ll never join. Team Survival. The Nest. Those are our only affiliations.
“Did Birdie mention what they were doing in her PE class today?” I ask Blue. “Maybe they were outside on the field.”
“She was too focused on finding her EDC to talk about anything else.”
“True. Come on, then.” I grab Blue’s arm and she steps into a jog beside me.
The gymnasium is completely empty when we get there, save for the sweaty stench lingering like a million scent ghosts. We’re halfway across the basketball court when we hear, “Go in! I’ll flank you.”
Blue stops short beside me and one of her Converse squeaks on the high-gloss basketball court, making us cringe. We duck under the bleachers right as the wide double doors open. A portly town cop with gray hair and a mustache enters, followed closely by a younger, slender version of himself. It’s our luck that two out of the six cops we have in this tiny town walked into the gym at the same moment as us.
Blue and I lie as flat as possible under the center bleachers. Tucked deep enough we’re out of sight if we don’t move. I’ve had my fill of cramped, smelly spaces, but there was nowhere else to hide. It stinks under here like chewed gum and sweaty socks. I hold my breath to get a few seconds’ break.
“All clear,” the younger cops yells, his bowstring-tight voice ringing louder than necessary, tainted with the fear of inexperience. “I think the incident was contained to the roof and the west parking lot.”
“Stupid fucking kids,” the older one replies. “Let’s check out a few hallways.”
The walkie clipped to one of their shoulders crackles, allowing an authoritative woman to enter their conversation. “Circle around to the front. We caught one of them and have the point of origin.”
My immediate thought is it could be any number of stupid fucking kids in this Podunk town. As long as it’s not anyone from our group, we’re good. Blue’s eyes widen, but she remains motionless. If she lifts her head, her shock of cobalt hair will give away our position. She knows better than to move, but the spacey look in her eyes tells me one of her Blue-isms is bubbling in her brain.
“Roger that.” Cop One tsks at his partner. “If these kids think this kind of thing is a joke, they’re in for a rude awakening.”
I spread my fingers to indicate five minutes. The approximate amount of time I think we should wait before going to find Birdie. The cops should, if protocol is followed, be checking all the classrooms. And when they survey ours, each class will be short one student with the last name Juniper. Not to mention if one of these cops realizes it’s faster to circle back and cut to the front the way they came in, we’re screwed. Backpacks, cargos, and Kevlar usually make a statement that begs people to assume the worst and ask questions later.
Waiting the full five minutes in silence, though, is another story. I can literally hear my eyelids click when I blink. Have you ever watched water boil? It takes forever. I stare at my watch and try not to get hypnotized by the second hand. When it finally ticks the last second, I’m the first one up and ready.
“Where do you think she is? I saw your face when those cops said they caught someone.”
“In the locker room,” Blue says.
Locker room it is.
Of course, she’s right. We find Birdie pacing in front of a row of porcelain sinks that have been cracked and stained from years of abuse and clandestine smoking. She’s chewing her nails, looking like she could use a smoke herself. Not that any of us smokes, even though we stockpile tobacco in case we need to use it in trade when money becomes useless. Birdie’s thick bangs are sticking straight up like she’s been running her fingers through them, her wavy, jaw-length bob frizzy from the misty weather.
When she sees it’s just us walking in she sighs, “Oh Jesus,” like we scared her. “You found me.”
“Of course we did,” Blue says. She glances around the floor and under the benches. “Where’s your EDC?”