Haunted by Melinda Metz - Fingerprints - 2 Page A

though she got them wrong as much as the rest of them did.
    “Let’s let Anthony try first,” Goyer answered.
    Then-holy freakin’ miracle-the bell rang.
    Anthony was out of the trailer the class was held in and down the aluminum steps before anyone. His steps slowed as he headed toward his math class. Just three more until gym, he told himself.
    He gave himself the new score after every class.
    Just history and two more until gym. Just drafting and one more until gym. Just freaking tutorial with freaking head-too-big-for-his-spindly-little-body Anderson.
    Now gym.
    Anthony made it from the tutorial to the locker room in less than thirty seconds. The instant he was inside, he pulled in a deep breath. God, he loved the smell of old sweat and feet and mildew. It was almost as good as weed. It actually gave him a minor buzz.
    He headed over to his locker, used the key to open it-he hated combination locks-and changed into his sweats.
    Then he strolled into the gym with five minutes to spare. He decided to run the bleachers until everybody else showed up.
    A couple of stretches and he was off, running straight up to the top of the bleachers, then back down, across the basketball court, and right up to the top of the opposite bleachers. Back down. Back across. Back up. Back down.
    Back across. All the hours of bull he’d had to endure that day faded, then disappeared. His body became his whole world.
    “Fascinelli,” he heard Coach Meyer shout.
    Anthony spun halfway toward the voice, taking the bleachers sideways. A football came spiraling toward him.
    Anthony caught it without breaking stride.
    When he heard Meyer on the bleachers behind him, Anthony swerved right, then left, faked another swerve right-which totally fooled Meyer-and angled up to the top stair, then plunged back down, feet pummeling the wood. When he reached the floor, he turned back and did a little victory dance with the football.
    “Not bad,” Meyer said. But he grinned, and Anthony could tell he was at least a little impressed.
    “If you’d just apply yourself-”
    Anthony’s buzz disappeared. He knew what was coming.
    “To your classes the way you do to sports, your GPA would be off the charts. More than high enough to qualify you for a spot on the team,” Meyer continued.
    “Uh-huh,” Anthony muttered. Like it was just laziness keeping him in the moron brigade.
    “I need a strong running back on the team,”
    Meyer continued. “You’re my first choice. I could talk to your teachers. If they can tell me you’re progressing-”
    “I’m not a joiner,” Anthony interrupted, noticing that about half the class had shown up in the gym and was listening to the exchange.
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Meyer demanded.
    Anthony tossed him the ball, then turned away.
    “I don’t understand you, Fascinelli,” the coach muttered.
    You and Rae both, Anthony thought. If there was a way he could change, didn’t they friggin’ think he’d have done it by now?
    Rae headed straight into Oakvale. Usually she waited for Anthony, but she had the feeling he still wasn’t done giving her attitude for daring to try to help him, and she didn’t see any reason she had to put up with that. She was going to help him with Jesse, but that was it. Unless he managed to pull his head out of his butt.
    She hesitated in the main hall, then decided to go upstairs. She had to pee, and the downstairs bathroom gave her the creeps. She knew it was ridiculous. She knew that the odds of someone planting a second pipe bomb in there were billions to one. But she’d still rather not use it.
    Not that it’s totally creepy free up here, she thought. The second floor was deserted. But at the same time Rae kept getting the prickly-back-of-the-neck feeling that somebody was watching her, through a crack in one of the doors or on some kind of hidden camera. It was a feeling she got a lot lately.
    Not just at Oakvale. Everywhere.
    “Get a grip. You’re imagining