Malik swallowed hard. If Peejay directed the word don’t at Malik, he might have to listen. This was Peejay Singh, this year’s host, Partyer in Chief, the guy who basically ran the school with charm. Earlier that semester, Peejay had come to the play Malik had acted in, and personally delivered congratulatory flowers to every member in the cast.
“I have to,” Malik said. Then there was enough of a pause to serve as Malik’s window. He examined the keys: small, sure, barely an inch long and thin—but still, in the end, keys. Peejay said nothing. Mr. Gigs gasped. The freshmen cried out in delight and disgust. Malik swallowed all three at once. Someone thought they had seen him chew, which for some reason felt particularly brutal.
* * *
Eli took the keys one at a time, imagining they were popcorn kernels. Moments later, he realized he could ask for some actual popcorn from Master Declan, the head of the school, who was just now noticing Eli and his chains and furrowing his brow. Eli waved him over.
* * *
Joy took hers with chugs of water, coughing them up several times before she finally felt their bumpy surface work their way down her throat. Marisa’s words ran through her mind about melodrama, and Joy played up the cough to the best of her ability. People in her vicinity winced, then craned their necks so they wouldn’t miss too much of the action happening on the court.
* * *
Marisa, who had the largest crowd by far, held her keys up in the air for effect. Butter glinted in the white light shining over her head. She looked out at her audience. All these people who contributed to the sad state of coral reefs around the world, whether knowingly or not. Whose home, however temporary it may be, was being destroyed by the gray-brown water of construction runoff. One of the last remaining spots where underwater beauty could be found was about to be wiped away, and none of them cared, none of them even knew.
She made eye contact with every single person in front of her, not blinking the whole time, so they would know just how serious she was. In that prolonged eye contact alone, she won over at least three of her fellow students, who had barely ever thought about reefs before, much less cared whether or not they had deteriorated. They, plus two teachers who would silently root for Marisa throughout the whole ordeal, though their positions prevented them from cheering on her malfeasance, suddenly found themselves thinking, I’m on her side. The sheer determination on her face won them over, and they each took an unconscious step toward her, as if wanting her to see their gesture of allegiance. This, in addition to the handful of others who were convinced by her words alone.
Two more teachers, Ms. Duli (AP History) and Mr. Sanchez (Spanish, French, Postmodern Lit) took a step forward, too, but they were thinking they would stop her. They, more than anyone else (save for Marisa herself), were getting a sense of where this was all headed, the headaches, inconveniences and scandals to come.
Two other students stepped forward, as well, both of them, Maya Klutzheisen and Michael Obonte, meaning to profess their sudden love for Marisa. They hadn’t known until that moment when she held the keys up to the light that they loved her, but now it was so obvious to them it felt ridiculous to think of a time when they had not loved her. This, they knew, was how love worked. It came with no warning, sometimes because of someone’s appearance, but more meaningfully because of someone’s actions, because someone’s soul was bared, revealed to be stunningly beautiful.
Then Marisa recited the final line of her speech. “CIS, until further notice, consider yourselves locked in,” and she swallowed the keys.
3
8:03PM
Kenji heard two simultaneous commotions. One was coming from downstairs, so he peeked over the banister to his left to look down at the foyer, but all he could see was a crowd near the main entrance. The other commotion was to his right, clearly emanating from the green room down the hallway. The one downstairs was louder, and possibly more exciting. But the one in the green room might concern the showcase, so he waved a flyer at a couple of cute sophomores who were trying to get a glimpse of the foyer, too, before he headed down the hallway.
When he walked into the green room, his first thought was that they’d started the showcase early. He stepped forward, a smile plastered on his face, trying to figure out the specifics of the scene. How fun that everyone had joined in, even audience members. Come to think of it, it was mostly audience members, as most of his team members hadn’t come back from laser tag yet.
Then he saw that Mr. Gigs wasn’t faking a phone call, but seemed to be really talking into his phone. And the new-this-year-but-not-all-that-new American girl who’d walked by with the slightest of smiles was standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, watching with her eyebrows up and not saying anything, so it didn’t seem like she was part of the scene. Kenji examined what he was seeing again.
Huh. Chain props. He didn’t remember ever coming across those, though what with the budget those drama kids garnered, he wouldn’t be particularly surprised. True to his nature, he decided to just go with it, saying, “Yes, and...” to the scene, whether it was improv or not. He stood near Celeste and watched.
* * *
Peejay, deep in the heart of the scene, was yelling at Malik. He knew this would do no good. This hulking, dear lump of a boy had swallowed the keys already and the decision had been made. Whether it was for diesel boats or any other more sensible reason (good God, diesel boats—any other reason would have been more sensible), the boy had screwed with Peejay’s plans. Even now, the DJ equipment, the DJ himself, the booze, the last of the earphones, were waiting on the other side of the door, stacked conspicuously atop each other in a tower. They were in Diego’s sweet but incapable hands, and who knew how long he could hold on to them.
As he unloaded his tirade, Peejay knew he should be yelling at Malik’s organizer. Or not yelling at all, if he were to follow in Hamish’s footsteps. Hamish didn’t yell at people to get his way. Malik was just an underling, and whatever salvaging could be done would have to be negotiated through Marisa. For that reason, though, it was best to yell at this boy instead and have a cool head when convincing the “mastermind” (dear God, boats!) that her cause was worthy and all, but there was no sense in interrupting the lock-in party.
Deep down, Peejay had faith it would all work out. People would stop paying attention to the stunt, and the perpetrators would get bored and cut themselves free to resume the lock-in activities they were missing out on. The lock-in party had always happened, for as long as lock-in night had happened, and Peejay wasn’t going to be the one at the helm when that tradition ended. Quite the opposite; he would ensure it continued to be the most anticipated night of the year. Hamish would wake up to stories of the party, not of its failure.
Still, the yelling needed to happen.
Once all his steam had billowed out, Peejay looked around the room. Most people avoided his gaze. Mr. Gigs spoke on the phone, scratching his beard and looking like he wanted to do almost anything else. Perhaps the administrators Mr. Gigs was speaking to would solve this problem before it grew. A lanky Japanese boy—these freshmen were blessed little cherubs, weren’t they, so much younger-looking than the rest; it was a wonder they weren’t still playing with blocks and taking naps—was smiling wildly.