is a large, scratched-out D on the wall. Too straight and ordinary-looking to be graffiti. I noticed it this morning, and paused. Zoomed in on the D. Then I listed words that end with it on the back of an envelope on my desk.
Dead
End
Bad
Doomed
I stood up when I realized what it was.
Condemned.
Which could be anywhere in the South. There are hundreds of condemned properties. Even here in the North, close to the river it’s not hard to find block upon block of warehouse space that’s been condemned and awaits the wrecking ball. And then I focused on a tiny, squiggly tag done in metallic-paint pen next to it that looked familiar but was too small to read. I couldn’t quite place it. I still can’t, not quite, but it feels like my mind is circling around it, getting closer.
As I’m fanning out across the studio floor, it hits me at last.
The scrunched letters. The paint pen. The shape of the scrawl.
I know the tag. WrastlDown .
WrastlDown is a Lowlands tagger with a huge mural a block away from Jimmy’s Corner, where Ford and I used to box. In the corner of the mural—all faces and googly eyes popping out of windowed buildings—the artist put his signature in paint pen. The letters scrunched and squeezed tight. WrastlDown. The Leonardo da Vinci of the Lowlands. It’s the same tag. I’m sure of it.
Invisible must have filmed the transmission in the Lowlands, somewhere flooded out and empty.
“Anthem!” Madame’s face blazes with incredulity and irritation and I’m snapped back to the mirrored studio, the candles set up all around the edges, the room sweltering from lack of air conditioning. “My office, now. I need to speak with you.”
“Oooh,” Constance singsongs under her breath. “Miss Prima Perfect’s going down.”
I ignore her and stare at the floor as I follow Madame to her office, still turning the room with the desk in it over in my mind. How many blocks away is Lowlands? Twenty? More?
“No lies. I want the truth. What is it you are taking?” Madame says, her accent crisp, her words precise so there can be no misinterpreting. “This is unacceptable.”
“What?” I search her face, shocked that she would actually accuse me of using drugs. “Nothing. I swear.”
“Nobody can move like this,” Madame hisses, her eyes frantically searching mine. “So high in the air.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s just something I figured out how to do.”
She crosses her arms and leans over me, towering over me in her three-inch character shoes. Her black shawl abandoned over a chair, her bony caramel shoulders tensed, arms crossed over her black cami.
The silence between us is heavy and hot in the airless room.
“Very well,” Madame says tightly after a long assessing pause. “I am watching you very closely. If I hear anything about illegal substances among you girls, the consequences will be immediate. And irreversible.”
I nod, making my face blank and empty. The default weapon of every teenage girl. “Got it. Sorry. It won’t happen again.” My body slouched, my eyes dulled, waiting for her to shoo me back to practice.
In my head, I’m halfway over the river, already flying toward Lowlands.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER 12
I’m prowling the streets of Lowlands, my heart on fire, Serge’s gun pressed between my boot and my sock. It’s 2:33 in the morning.
I’ve told Ford nothing about tonight’s expedition, even though this is the neighborhood where he goes to box. Now that he’s well, he would insist on coming with me, and that’s not a risk I’m about to take, since last time he helped me, he wound up shot.
Everywhere here is marked by a musty dampness that hangs in the air, and by a black line on every structure, just at my shoulders, that shows where the water rose during the last big flood.
I make a loop around the neighborhood,
Dead
End
Bad
Doomed
I stood up when I realized what it was.
Condemned.
Which could be anywhere in the South. There are hundreds of condemned properties. Even here in the North, close to the river it’s not hard to find block upon block of warehouse space that’s been condemned and awaits the wrecking ball. And then I focused on a tiny, squiggly tag done in metallic-paint pen next to it that looked familiar but was too small to read. I couldn’t quite place it. I still can’t, not quite, but it feels like my mind is circling around it, getting closer.
As I’m fanning out across the studio floor, it hits me at last.
The scrunched letters. The paint pen. The shape of the scrawl.
I know the tag. WrastlDown .
WrastlDown is a Lowlands tagger with a huge mural a block away from Jimmy’s Corner, where Ford and I used to box. In the corner of the mural—all faces and googly eyes popping out of windowed buildings—the artist put his signature in paint pen. The letters scrunched and squeezed tight. WrastlDown. The Leonardo da Vinci of the Lowlands. It’s the same tag. I’m sure of it.
Invisible must have filmed the transmission in the Lowlands, somewhere flooded out and empty.
“Anthem!” Madame’s face blazes with incredulity and irritation and I’m snapped back to the mirrored studio, the candles set up all around the edges, the room sweltering from lack of air conditioning. “My office, now. I need to speak with you.”
“Oooh,” Constance singsongs under her breath. “Miss Prima Perfect’s going down.”
I ignore her and stare at the floor as I follow Madame to her office, still turning the room with the desk in it over in my mind. How many blocks away is Lowlands? Twenty? More?
“No lies. I want the truth. What is it you are taking?” Madame says, her accent crisp, her words precise so there can be no misinterpreting. “This is unacceptable.”
“What?” I search her face, shocked that she would actually accuse me of using drugs. “Nothing. I swear.”
“Nobody can move like this,” Madame hisses, her eyes frantically searching mine. “So high in the air.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s just something I figured out how to do.”
She crosses her arms and leans over me, towering over me in her three-inch character shoes. Her black shawl abandoned over a chair, her bony caramel shoulders tensed, arms crossed over her black cami.
The silence between us is heavy and hot in the airless room.
“Very well,” Madame says tightly after a long assessing pause. “I am watching you very closely. If I hear anything about illegal substances among you girls, the consequences will be immediate. And irreversible.”
I nod, making my face blank and empty. The default weapon of every teenage girl. “Got it. Sorry. It won’t happen again.” My body slouched, my eyes dulled, waiting for her to shoo me back to practice.
In my head, I’m halfway over the river, already flying toward Lowlands.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER 12
I’m prowling the streets of Lowlands, my heart on fire, Serge’s gun pressed between my boot and my sock. It’s 2:33 in the morning.
I’ve told Ford nothing about tonight’s expedition, even though this is the neighborhood where he goes to box. Now that he’s well, he would insist on coming with me, and that’s not a risk I’m about to take, since last time he helped me, he wound up shot.
Everywhere here is marked by a musty dampness that hangs in the air, and by a black line on every structure, just at my shoulders, that shows where the water rose during the last big flood.
I make a loop around the neighborhood,
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