The The Name of the Star by Maureen Johnson Page B

time,” he said. “And we don’t want anyone to see us.”
    I sat next to him on the cold roof. He had everything ready—several windows on his computer open to various news and Ripper sites.
    â€œYou really like this, don’t you?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t like people getting murdered, but . . . yeah, people are going to ask us where we were when this happened. This is going down in history. I want to be able to remember where I was and have that somewhere be cool. Like on the roof.”
    Just the way he looked, the wind lifting up his hair a little, his profile in the low light . . . Jerome was different to me now. He was more than just the friendly and somewhat strange guy I’d gotten to know. He was smart. He was adventurous. He’d been chosen to be a prefect, which had to mean something. I felt the like blossom in me.
    â€œWhat happens now?” Jazza asked, coming over and joining us.
    â€œWe wait,” Jerome said. “Catherine Eddowes was killed sometime between one forty and one forty-five. It’s going to happen soon.”
    1:45 arrived. Then 1:46, 1:47, 1:48, 1:49 . . .
    The newscasters spun on and on, filling time by showing the same film of police cars going through the streets. I started to feel weird waiting on the roof for someone to die. It was obvious that the news people had run out of ways of saying “nothing has been found.” They returned to descriptions of the third body. The early reports confirmed that this was indeed a third Ripper murder. This was the quickest one, just a slash to the neck.
    Two o’clock. Five past two. Jazza got up and began to hop on the balls of her feet and hug herself for warmth. I watched her gleeful pride slipping away with every passing minute.
    â€œI want to go back,” she said. “I can’t stay up here anymore.”
    Jerome looked to her, then over to me.
    â€œDo you want to stay, or . . .”
    There was just a touch of sadness in his voice. This made me go tingly all over. But there was no way Jazza wanted to go back by herself, and really, neither did I.
    â€œNo,” I said. “We should go back together.”
    â€œThat’s probably the best idea,” he said.
    He escorted us back down the fire stairs, to the back door.
    â€œBe careful,” he said. “Text me when you’re there safe?”
    â€œOkay,” I said. I smiled a little. I couldn’t help it.
    The door shut, and we were once again outside in the cold. I didn’t want to take the long way around, for several reasons—not the least of which was the fact that the Ripper was actually in East London somewhere. Cutting through the square was the safest and most direct route—but it also was the one that increased our chances of getting caught by several orders of magnitude. We’d be approaching Hawthorne straight on. Still, I thought we could do it.
    There were lights along the sides of the square, but we could probably stay hidden by keeping near the trees where it was always dark and shady. Even if Claudia were staring out of the window, she’d need night vision goggles to see us creeping along under the trees’ cover. I wouldn’t have put it past Claudia to have night vision goggles, but again, she was probably watching the news with everyone else. That’s where we had last seen her. The common room was in the back of the building.
    Jazza stared at the square, making the same mental calculations.
    â€œReally?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s about fifty feet. Come on. Tree to tree, like a spy!”
    â€œI don’t think that’s how spies work,” she said, but she followed me as I bolted into the dark of the square. We made ridiculous dodges from tree to bush to tree, the leaves crunching under our shoes. When we reached the other side, we had to make the dash across the cobblestone street in front of Hawthorne, then sneak under the windows to the back