whisper to the car. Josh waits until I pull out of the parking lot.
The streets are pretty empty. I drop a ticket off at Moch’s place and drive home. Lillian looks up from her book. “After nine? On a school night?”
“A new study group for the AP tests this spring,” I say casually, trying to mask my limp. I don’t need Lillian to kick into parental guidance mode right now. “Good night,” I say, closing my bedroom door behind me.
My memoir notebook is open beside my bed. I pick it up and write:
Remember when yesterday and tomorrow disappeared?
Chapter 14
I SHOULD SLEEP.
But this is too big, too important.
I surf for a while, trying to drum up good ideas on how to spend the twenty-five hundred dollars. It’s student body money, money the whole school should be able to enjoy.
I flip through the yellow pages.
Fly-Me-a-Message.
It’s almost ten. I doubt anybody’s there. I call the number. Someone answers. He doesn’t sound happy until I offer double the normal rate. Cash.
“Gotta get FAA approval.”
“Okay. I’ll give you two and a half times the rate to speed up the approval process.”
“I’ll need the cash first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Done.”
“What’s the rush?”
“It’s a last-minute gift to the school,” I say. “From the student council.”
He laughs. I’m relieved that he doesn’t ask any more questions.
I spend the rest of the night organizing the Commandments.
It takes me forever to decide whether or not to text Josh with my plans until I finally decide to talk about it the next day instead. If we get caught, they’ll go through our texts and connect the dots, and then good-bye, U-Dub. It’s three in the morning by the time I get everything organized.
I fall asleep and wake up before my alarm goes off. My head feels heavy, my thoughts fuzzy. I can’t tell if the tingly feeling I have is from sleep deprivation or excitement. I’m afraid I won’t make it through first block without slipping into a coma. Time for caffeine overdrive.
“Good morning,” Lillian says. “You’re early.”
“Good morning,” I say, grabbing a cereal bar, skipping the coffee to avoid any kind of prolonged exposure to her inquisition stare. “Study group. Gotta rush!”
I get the pamphlets printed out, drive south to Minden, then shove them in the door slot of Fly-Me-a-Message’s offices with the money he asked for, and pray nobody sees me. I am back at school a little after seven, just in time. Thank heaven for twenty-four-hour Kinko’s and a relatively police-free morning. I can’t afford a speeding ticket.
At school a crowd has gathered around the ski bus. Student council even took the time to decorate the bus with cloudlike powdered slopes and skiing cherubs. Mrs. Martinez paces around the patchwork crowd of students. Seth is weaving his way through the crowd, trying to get the inside scoop.
I feel a twinge of guilt, because I can tell some kids really wanted to go. Some probably saved up awhile to buy those tickets.
Josh is waiting for me on the bench, facing the parking lot. He nods at me, holding up a supersized coffee. Thank God . The crowd grows. More kids. More tickets. Mrs. Martinez is on full-blown fluster now and has been joined by Mr. Holohan, Mr. Randolph, and a few other teachers. A police car pulls into the lot.
Oh crap.
Josh whispers, “We’re cool.”
Icy, more like. My leg bobs up and down and Josh presses his hand on my thigh, the warmth like an electric shock. I feel like I’m being branded, the palm of his hand searing my jeans, and I do all I can to not pull my leg away.
By the time the first-period bell rings, everybody’s heard about the robbery, the letters. The hallways are electric. Everybody wants to talk about Babylonia. First block, most teachers end up doing holiday-style work because nobody’s listening. The news is short-lived; at lunchtime the buzz has died, and most kids don’t even care about Babylonia or ski trips. I
The streets are pretty empty. I drop a ticket off at Moch’s place and drive home. Lillian looks up from her book. “After nine? On a school night?”
“A new study group for the AP tests this spring,” I say casually, trying to mask my limp. I don’t need Lillian to kick into parental guidance mode right now. “Good night,” I say, closing my bedroom door behind me.
My memoir notebook is open beside my bed. I pick it up and write:
Remember when yesterday and tomorrow disappeared?
Chapter 14
I SHOULD SLEEP.
But this is too big, too important.
I surf for a while, trying to drum up good ideas on how to spend the twenty-five hundred dollars. It’s student body money, money the whole school should be able to enjoy.
I flip through the yellow pages.
Fly-Me-a-Message.
It’s almost ten. I doubt anybody’s there. I call the number. Someone answers. He doesn’t sound happy until I offer double the normal rate. Cash.
“Gotta get FAA approval.”
“Okay. I’ll give you two and a half times the rate to speed up the approval process.”
“I’ll need the cash first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Done.”
“What’s the rush?”
“It’s a last-minute gift to the school,” I say. “From the student council.”
He laughs. I’m relieved that he doesn’t ask any more questions.
I spend the rest of the night organizing the Commandments.
It takes me forever to decide whether or not to text Josh with my plans until I finally decide to talk about it the next day instead. If we get caught, they’ll go through our texts and connect the dots, and then good-bye, U-Dub. It’s three in the morning by the time I get everything organized.
I fall asleep and wake up before my alarm goes off. My head feels heavy, my thoughts fuzzy. I can’t tell if the tingly feeling I have is from sleep deprivation or excitement. I’m afraid I won’t make it through first block without slipping into a coma. Time for caffeine overdrive.
“Good morning,” Lillian says. “You’re early.”
“Good morning,” I say, grabbing a cereal bar, skipping the coffee to avoid any kind of prolonged exposure to her inquisition stare. “Study group. Gotta rush!”
I get the pamphlets printed out, drive south to Minden, then shove them in the door slot of Fly-Me-a-Message’s offices with the money he asked for, and pray nobody sees me. I am back at school a little after seven, just in time. Thank heaven for twenty-four-hour Kinko’s and a relatively police-free morning. I can’t afford a speeding ticket.
At school a crowd has gathered around the ski bus. Student council even took the time to decorate the bus with cloudlike powdered slopes and skiing cherubs. Mrs. Martinez paces around the patchwork crowd of students. Seth is weaving his way through the crowd, trying to get the inside scoop.
I feel a twinge of guilt, because I can tell some kids really wanted to go. Some probably saved up awhile to buy those tickets.
Josh is waiting for me on the bench, facing the parking lot. He nods at me, holding up a supersized coffee. Thank God . The crowd grows. More kids. More tickets. Mrs. Martinez is on full-blown fluster now and has been joined by Mr. Holohan, Mr. Randolph, and a few other teachers. A police car pulls into the lot.
Oh crap.
Josh whispers, “We’re cool.”
Icy, more like. My leg bobs up and down and Josh presses his hand on my thigh, the warmth like an electric shock. I feel like I’m being branded, the palm of his hand searing my jeans, and I do all I can to not pull my leg away.
By the time the first-period bell rings, everybody’s heard about the robbery, the letters. The hallways are electric. Everybody wants to talk about Babylonia. First block, most teachers end up doing holiday-style work because nobody’s listening. The news is short-lived; at lunchtime the buzz has died, and most kids don’t even care about Babylonia or ski trips. I
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