briskly as one can in a leather miniskirt too tight to allow full range of leg motion. She stops in front of a microphone, then taps it twice, sending interference through the speakers, which makes everyone groan.
“Quiet, please,” she says. “Thank you all for joining me. I’ve asked you here this morning for a very important issue.A tragedy has befallen one of our own.” She pauses. “Mrs. Hornby’s daughter has gone missing.”
Shock slams into me as the gym falls completely silent.
Mrs. Hornby is the coach of the girl’s soccer team, and ever since Ms. Jenkins died (or rather, was killed by Leo), she’s been filling in as the cheerleading coach. All I know about her is that she loves soccer with a passion and has been nicknamed Horny, on account of her unfortunate last name. I didn’t even know she had a daughter.
Mrs. Malone allows a moment for the shock of her statement to wear off before continuing.
“Samantha Hornby, a junior at John Marshall High, hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.” Mrs. Malone covers the microphone with her hand and speaks to a janitor. In a moment, a picture flashes across the drop-down screen behind her. The girl in the picture smiles brightly at the camera, her brown hair pulled into a glossy ponytail at the top of her head.
“Samantha was last seen by her parents at ten to eight yesterday, when she left for school with a friend. She was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. All efforts to contact her via phone and social networking have failed. Her family says this is very unusual for Samantha and they’re very concerned for her welfare. Please, everyone take a close look at this photo. If you have any information that could help in the search for Samantha, anything at all, please come forward to speak to one of the officers, who will gladly take your report.”
I stare at the picture. Something niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s like I’m trying to grab hold of rubbery fish: every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it wiggles out of my grasp.
I remember the news report Aunt Penny was watching the other morning about the redheaded boy. That makes two teens gone missing in the course of a few days.
Chairs squeak against tile as the gym empties out, but I don’t move, just keep staring at the picture. There’s hardly anyone left in the room when I finally figure it out.
Wipe away the smile, pull down the ponytail, and smear dirt across her cheeks—and that girl becomes the one in the back of the van in Los Demonios.
10
I t doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Mrs. Hornby’s daughter be doing in an alternate-dimension prison?
The lack of sleep and the guilt must finally be catching up with me, I decide. It can’t really be her. I’m superimposing her face on the girl I saw because I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to her after I left her in that van, Cruz unconscious or worse, and with Bat Boy on the loose.
Yes. That’s it. It’s not her. I say it so many times that I almost convince myself it’s true.
Back in math class, I wait for Mr. Lloyd to turn his back before digging in my purse for my phone. I cradle it in my lap under the desk and open the web browser, sneaking glancesdown to type in the search bar whenever the opportunity strikes. I’ve gotten as far as “Samantha H” when Mr. Lloyd suddenly stops his impromptu lecture on the importance of good math grades for getting into a decent college and not failing at life.
“Yes, Bianca,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lloyd. I’m trying to pay attention, because college is, like, super, super important to me, but I’m just really distracted by Indigo on her phone.”
I stiffen, blood rushing to my face. The classroom calls out “Oooh” in unison as Mr. Lloyd’s shoes slap down the aisle. He holds out his hand, under my nose. Exhaling, I hand over my cell.
“You can pick it up at the end of the day,” he says.
“What?” I shriek.
He
“Quiet, please,” she says. “Thank you all for joining me. I’ve asked you here this morning for a very important issue.A tragedy has befallen one of our own.” She pauses. “Mrs. Hornby’s daughter has gone missing.”
Shock slams into me as the gym falls completely silent.
Mrs. Hornby is the coach of the girl’s soccer team, and ever since Ms. Jenkins died (or rather, was killed by Leo), she’s been filling in as the cheerleading coach. All I know about her is that she loves soccer with a passion and has been nicknamed Horny, on account of her unfortunate last name. I didn’t even know she had a daughter.
Mrs. Malone allows a moment for the shock of her statement to wear off before continuing.
“Samantha Hornby, a junior at John Marshall High, hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.” Mrs. Malone covers the microphone with her hand and speaks to a janitor. In a moment, a picture flashes across the drop-down screen behind her. The girl in the picture smiles brightly at the camera, her brown hair pulled into a glossy ponytail at the top of her head.
“Samantha was last seen by her parents at ten to eight yesterday, when she left for school with a friend. She was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. All efforts to contact her via phone and social networking have failed. Her family says this is very unusual for Samantha and they’re very concerned for her welfare. Please, everyone take a close look at this photo. If you have any information that could help in the search for Samantha, anything at all, please come forward to speak to one of the officers, who will gladly take your report.”
I stare at the picture. Something niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s like I’m trying to grab hold of rubbery fish: every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it wiggles out of my grasp.
I remember the news report Aunt Penny was watching the other morning about the redheaded boy. That makes two teens gone missing in the course of a few days.
Chairs squeak against tile as the gym empties out, but I don’t move, just keep staring at the picture. There’s hardly anyone left in the room when I finally figure it out.
Wipe away the smile, pull down the ponytail, and smear dirt across her cheeks—and that girl becomes the one in the back of the van in Los Demonios.
10
I t doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Mrs. Hornby’s daughter be doing in an alternate-dimension prison?
The lack of sleep and the guilt must finally be catching up with me, I decide. It can’t really be her. I’m superimposing her face on the girl I saw because I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to her after I left her in that van, Cruz unconscious or worse, and with Bat Boy on the loose.
Yes. That’s it. It’s not her. I say it so many times that I almost convince myself it’s true.
Back in math class, I wait for Mr. Lloyd to turn his back before digging in my purse for my phone. I cradle it in my lap under the desk and open the web browser, sneaking glancesdown to type in the search bar whenever the opportunity strikes. I’ve gotten as far as “Samantha H” when Mr. Lloyd suddenly stops his impromptu lecture on the importance of good math grades for getting into a decent college and not failing at life.
“Yes, Bianca,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lloyd. I’m trying to pay attention, because college is, like, super, super important to me, but I’m just really distracted by Indigo on her phone.”
I stiffen, blood rushing to my face. The classroom calls out “Oooh” in unison as Mr. Lloyd’s shoes slap down the aisle. He holds out his hand, under my nose. Exhaling, I hand over my cell.
“You can pick it up at the end of the day,” he says.
“What?” I shriek.
He
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