opened the study curtains, and had to squint against the light. Slowly I turned back to the bedroom and realized with a sinking feeling that one window was much dirtier than the other.
Not dirty. Sooty.
Leaden feet carried me to the window. With shaking hands I flipped open the latches and raised the sash, then ran my index finger through the greasy, powdery film that coated the outside glass, leaving a streak of sunshine in the grimy shadow.
I drew my hand in and closed the window. Locked it. Then I got the little blacklight out of my backpack, went into the bathroom and closed the door.
My fingertip glowed a bright, spectral blue.
12
i arrived at school early for the third morning in a row. I had searched the online city paper archives for any news from the high school. Except for budget cuts, there wasn’t much of suspicious malevolence. But there were sixty yearbooks in the school library, and a couple of decades of school newspapers archived as well. After my visitor last night, I was extremely motivated to get to the bottom of this.
Was that why I hadn’t dreamed last night? Had the smoke specter decided to get a look at me in person?
Balancing an armload of textbooks and a venti vanilla latte, extra shot, extra foam, I climbed the front steps, wondering why Brian Baywatch was nowhere around when I could actually use a hand. Then, as if the thought itself had conjured him, I saw him standing just inside the glass doors.
He broke off from his friends and opened the door for me, an act of necessity rather than chivalry; my hands were completely full. The Jocks were not the only ones loitering around the foyer. There was a mixed bag of cheerleaders, band geeks, and drama nerds. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Brian glanced toward his buddies, who were staring at him with a kind of astonished contempt. “Jessica called Brandon and told us to get over here.”
The auditorium entrance was closed. I saw no sign of any of the Jessicas—I assumed Brian meant Prime—but I caught a glimpse of the prompter from backstage and beckoned him over. “Is something happening in there?”
“I don’t know, man. I heard some dude over there say they may be canceling the play.”
“Why would they do that?”
The guy shrugged his slumped shoulders. “I don’t know. Sure would suck, though, after all that work.” He slouched off with one last “Dude” and a shake of his shaggy head.
Visions of
Phantom of the Opera
filled my head as I left Brian and elbowed my way through the crowd. I had reached the front when the doors opened and the Three Original Jessicas emerged. Thespica was crying great inconsolable tears, supported by her friends, Jessicas Prime and Minor—their feud apparently forgotten in the crisis. They bore her limp and sobbing form toward the office.
Brian caught my eye. I shrugged, as clueless as he was. Then his pack leader beckoned and they trailed after the girls. Brandon, the alpha dog, gave me one last, long stare. It was almost territorial, which, gladiatorial subtext aside, seemed to say he thought I was a threat to his pack.
With a Nancy Drew determination to satisfy my curiosity, I ignored the closed doors and went into the auditorium.
I expected scenic carnage. Maybe not a smashed chandelier, but the state of artistic chaos seemed the same as ever. The director’s hair was standing on end, as if he’d been trying to pull it out, but I think that was status quo.
“Mr. Thomas?”
He stared blankly for a moment before recognition dawned. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the door. Look, everyone outside is saying you’re going to cancel the show tonight. I just wanted to get the real story.”
A huge sigh rattled his chest. “I hope we won’t. The female lead, Jessica Jordan”—Thespica, obviously—“has come down with laryngitis. She can’t make a sound.”
My brows shot up. “Really.”
“Yes. No amount of tea and honey is going to fix that by
Not dirty. Sooty.
Leaden feet carried me to the window. With shaking hands I flipped open the latches and raised the sash, then ran my index finger through the greasy, powdery film that coated the outside glass, leaving a streak of sunshine in the grimy shadow.
I drew my hand in and closed the window. Locked it. Then I got the little blacklight out of my backpack, went into the bathroom and closed the door.
My fingertip glowed a bright, spectral blue.
12
i arrived at school early for the third morning in a row. I had searched the online city paper archives for any news from the high school. Except for budget cuts, there wasn’t much of suspicious malevolence. But there were sixty yearbooks in the school library, and a couple of decades of school newspapers archived as well. After my visitor last night, I was extremely motivated to get to the bottom of this.
Was that why I hadn’t dreamed last night? Had the smoke specter decided to get a look at me in person?
Balancing an armload of textbooks and a venti vanilla latte, extra shot, extra foam, I climbed the front steps, wondering why Brian Baywatch was nowhere around when I could actually use a hand. Then, as if the thought itself had conjured him, I saw him standing just inside the glass doors.
He broke off from his friends and opened the door for me, an act of necessity rather than chivalry; my hands were completely full. The Jocks were not the only ones loitering around the foyer. There was a mixed bag of cheerleaders, band geeks, and drama nerds. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Brian glanced toward his buddies, who were staring at him with a kind of astonished contempt. “Jessica called Brandon and told us to get over here.”
The auditorium entrance was closed. I saw no sign of any of the Jessicas—I assumed Brian meant Prime—but I caught a glimpse of the prompter from backstage and beckoned him over. “Is something happening in there?”
“I don’t know, man. I heard some dude over there say they may be canceling the play.”
“Why would they do that?”
The guy shrugged his slumped shoulders. “I don’t know. Sure would suck, though, after all that work.” He slouched off with one last “Dude” and a shake of his shaggy head.
Visions of
Phantom of the Opera
filled my head as I left Brian and elbowed my way through the crowd. I had reached the front when the doors opened and the Three Original Jessicas emerged. Thespica was crying great inconsolable tears, supported by her friends, Jessicas Prime and Minor—their feud apparently forgotten in the crisis. They bore her limp and sobbing form toward the office.
Brian caught my eye. I shrugged, as clueless as he was. Then his pack leader beckoned and they trailed after the girls. Brandon, the alpha dog, gave me one last, long stare. It was almost territorial, which, gladiatorial subtext aside, seemed to say he thought I was a threat to his pack.
With a Nancy Drew determination to satisfy my curiosity, I ignored the closed doors and went into the auditorium.
I expected scenic carnage. Maybe not a smashed chandelier, but the state of artistic chaos seemed the same as ever. The director’s hair was standing on end, as if he’d been trying to pull it out, but I think that was status quo.
“Mr. Thomas?”
He stared blankly for a moment before recognition dawned. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the door. Look, everyone outside is saying you’re going to cancel the show tonight. I just wanted to get the real story.”
A huge sigh rattled his chest. “I hope we won’t. The female lead, Jessica Jordan”—Thespica, obviously—“has come down with laryngitis. She can’t make a sound.”
My brows shot up. “Really.”
“Yes. No amount of tea and honey is going to fix that by
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