Two panting overweight male teachers ran through the crowd and approached Melvin from each side. They One-two-three’d and grabbed him together. Melvin kicked them away. They grabbed him again.
“Biter!” yelled one, spinning to the ground like he’d been hit by a sniper.
The teachers backed off, yelling strategy and You go! at each other. More teachers ran in, and then the long-bearded janitor, followed by Principal Rathschild, and they finally pulled Melvin off the table and pinned his arms and carried him flailing out the door that went to the parking lot, and the janitor lay on him on the pavement, whispering into his ear until the ambulance came.
In the cafeteria, no one moved. No one spoke. The air was a sheet of glass that could shatter at any second. Rathschild came back inside, panting, the top of her blouse unbuttoned, her jacket sleeve torn.
“Go to class,” she said.
* * *
—
We shuffled out of the cafeteria. Policemen flew past us, all blue uniforms and gun belts and righteous purpose. I backed away and hit the wall; it felt electrified. There was a humming in the air. Stuart was bug-eyed and breathless, like a cartoon character who’s run off a cliff but has not yet begun to fall. In a daze, we walked past a bathroom, a water fountain, a collection of Mathlete trophies, and a photo display of marine animals that’d eaten too many yogurt containers.
“I’m next,” Stuart said.
“You’re not next,” I said.
“I am. This thing is coming for us. Melvin was our type. The forgettable type.”
“Not that again. You’re not forgettable. You’re not a loser.”
“He was my friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m next.”
“Stuart…”
“Don’t,” he said. “Just don’t.”
A clattering—the janitor turning a corner, pushing his cart. He wore a gray uniform, a black vest covering where his name would be. Only a few patches of skin were visible above his chest-length beard. His hair stuck up in places like he’d just wrestled a kid to the pavement.
He stopped his cart in front of us and stroked his beard.
“You’re scared,” he said to Stuart and me.
“Well, yeah,” I said.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “This is the best thing that ever happened to your friend.”
“But he’s gone,” I said.
“Exactly.”
Stuart’s jaw hung open like a broken glove compartment. The janitor raised his eyebrows with great pity.
Then he left. Stuart moped off to class, after disparaging the janitor’s intelligence, hygiene, and career. I had to jam my hands in my pockets to stop them from fluttering all over the hallway. The sun came through the windows and ignited a floating city of dust. I turned a corner, and there, leaning on my locker, was Megan Rose.
NINE
SHE LOOKED NOTHING like the student-body president I’d met in the cafeteria. Pale, weary-eyed, dressed in disheveled-poet black, she wobbled awkwardly on her long legs, like she’d just found them propped against a wall.
For a minute we looked at each other, too scared to speak. Or maybe I should speak for myself. I was scared.
“Wallace. I’ve been trying to find you all morning,” she said.
I blushed, surprised, and hid it with a fake cough, which became a real cough, which went on for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“Did you hear what happened in the cafeteria?” I said when I could talk again. “Melvin caught it.”
“I heard. It’s upsetting.”
“It was intense. What do you think that’s like, catching it? Is it all at once, or slow? Do you not know until it’s too late, or do you get like a check-engine light a little bit before? And then what?”
I thought these were good questions. Megan Rose didn’t answer.
“I’m leaving, Wallace,” she said.
“Oh.” My heart dropped a sudden distance, like a broken elevator. “Leaving? Really? You sure?”
“I’m sure. Tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“Princeton.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Yes. It’s crunch time for my college applications,” she said. “And I’m falling apart. All these years of tennis camps and five a.m. study sessions…and I’ve lost my last four singles matches. The girl from Lansing who beat me yesterday is legally blind. My practice scores have nose-dived. And Princeton—it’s my first choice and I’m a double legacy there, but my parents haven’t donated nearly enough. My father says the faculty has become too politically correct for him to give in good faith. That’s a quote. He also thinks he has an enemy in the provost’s office.”
Good-faith donations and a double legacy with a provost enemy—I’m not going to lie, I didn’t understand half of that. Nor how they made someone fall apart. I mean, what just happened in the cafeteria, I could see how that did.
Megan Rose saw my confusion. “It’s an SAT workshop,” she said. “I’ve got a singles tournament at Princeton, and then an SAT workshop. And I’ll be meeting with the admissions office.”
“So you’re not leaving town for good?” I asked with relief.
“For good? Who just up and leaves their home for good?”
“Right. Who does that?”
“I have to ace the SAT. With a poor score, my admission will be shot. I’ll probably have to go to Tufts—and I really don’t want to go to Tufts.”
Wait a minute. Getting into Princeton? That was Megan Rose’s concern? Now, of all times? When hysteria was vibrating through the school hallways? Had I completely misunderstood her?
“I’m surprised to hear this,” I said.
“To hear what?”
“Tufts. You’re worried about Tufts.”
Megan Rose’s eyes were suddenly evasive.
“Odd name for a school. Makes you think of old people’s ears.”
“It’s near Boston.”
I felt frustrated. Why was this so difficult? There had to be something she wasn’t telling me. Or something that I was supposed to say.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look tired.”