Chris smiled and laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Take it easy,' she said quietly, her head inclined for privacy. 'I saw him heading down for the gym.'
Tracey could only mutter her thanks and rush off, tears of embarrassment filling her eyes. My god, it was that obvious. And if Chris, who didn't know if she were alive or dead, if Chris could see it, then the whole school knew it. And if the whole school knew it, then her freshman sister would too. Oh, god. Dinner tonight was going to be hell.
At the ground floor she was tempted to forget it and go home. This was ridiculous. She had never in her life chased a boy before; it was humiliating, and she had seen the blank look in his eyes when she caught him outside class-there was neither delight nor fear nor even a polite smile. There was nothing. She might as well have been a tree, or one of the wall tiles.
She stepped out of the stairwell and into the corridor. It was deserted, the lights already dim and made dimmer by the lack of windows, the drab paint, and the absence of doors. The gym and the stadium exits were on the other side. He said he was going to run, Chris's comment confirmed it, so she walked slowly toward the doors that seemed a hundred miles away. Somewhere, a group of boys laughed raucously, probably the football team getting ready for practice. A higher voice trilled, choked, blew into laughter; the girl's basketball team heading for the small gym opposite the main one.
And her footsteps on the hard floor, as if there were taps on her heels.
She hurried, feeling nervous, her shoulders lifting a little, her chin bringing her face down.
And behind her, when she slowed again to be sure this was really what she wanted, something followed.
Uneven steps, sounding hollow, sounding loud.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing, looked back and moved on.
A boy, maybe one of the coaches, Gabby D'Amato dragging one of his brooms.
The idea that the grizzly custodian might be following her gave her the shivers and she moved faster. She didn't like the old man; none of the girls did. They suspected he spent more time in their locker room than that of the boys, and they knew damned well he spent hours every day standing in the girls' gym doorway, watching them in their shorts and T-shirts, intently.
Behind her. The footsteps.
She was thirty feet from the exit, and there was no other sound on the floor but her shoes, and her breathing, and the slow trailing footsteps that were hollow, and loud, and moving closer all the time.
Don't look, she told herself; just get to the door and get outside, and get hold of Don and shake an invitation out of him even if you have to chop him in the throat.
Steadily, moving closer-the deep hollow sound of slapping against wood.
Don't look, idiot; and she turned around at the corner.
The corridor was empty.
But she could still hear the footsteps.
And she could see a huge shadow spilling across the far wall.
It wasn't a man; she was sure it wasn't a man, because if it was, he was stumbling, drunkenly careening off the tiles, off the lockers. But there was no sound of anything like a shoulder striking metal, no sound of panting, no sound at all but the steady wooden thump of something moving down there.
Something much larger than a boy, or a man.
She blinked once, the books crushing her breasts, her mouth and throat dry, her lips quivering for a scream.
Then it started around the corner and she did scream, and spun through the door and raced up the steps, shouldering open the upper exit and running for the seats. She was halfway down to the field when she realized the stadium was empty. Don wasn't there. No one was. She was alone.
The school loomed above her, and she hurried down to the track.
What was it?
She didn't know. And she wasn't going to be dumb enough to stick around just to satisfy her curiosity. It might have been a trick of the light, and it might have been her nerves gearing up to face Don, but whatever had started around that corner wasn't human; it couldn't be, unless, she thought so suddenly she stopped, it was the Howler looking for someone to kill.
She ran, then, and didn't stop until she reached home.
The office door was closed, the secretaries dismissed early, and Norman stood at his window, frowning when he saw the Quintero girl race across the street as if a rapist were after her. He leaned forward to see if there was, in fact, anyone following, saw no one and grunted, and sat back at his desk.
'It's a bitch,' he said, pulling his tie loose and unbuttoning his collar.
Harry Falcone was in the leather chair opposite, his legs crossed, his sport jacket open. 'You can say that again.'
'Okay. It's a bitch.'
They grinned, but not for long.
Norman picked up a pencil, turned it, tapped it on the blotter. 'You can't do it, you know. You'll have every paper on your ass, and the board will just tighten theirs, and the parents of the seniors will be out for your heads.'
Falcone made a noise that might have been a grunt, or a groan, and leaned back until he was staring at the ceiling. 'What choice do we have, Norman?'
'Accept the offer that's on the table, for one.'
Falcone laughed sharply.
'Then what about binding arbitration?'
Another laugh; this one bitter.
'Well, then, what, for god's sake?'
'Walk,' Falcone said without looking at him. 'We're going to walk. If the vote's right tonight, we'll walk on Wednesday after the last bell unless someone hands us a contract we can live with and live on.'
'Insane.'
'That,' said Falcone, finally sitting up, 'is your opinion.'
Norman swiveled around quickly, looked out at the lawn, and ordered himself to relax.
'Do you have a statement you want me to read to the faculty tonight?'
'Read the last one,' he said sourly. 'I've got nothing else to say.'
'Christ, Norm, you're an ass, you know that? You're a real jackass. You could be setting yourself up for life, you could be a hero and every teacher in this school would kill for you, but instead you're insisting on cutting your own throat.'
You son of a bitch, he thought; you smug little son of a bitch.
He swung the chair back around, dropped the pencil, and leaned his forearms on the desk. Falcone was smiling.
He picked up Don's test paper.
The teacher's smile didn't waver.
'I know what you're doing,' Norm said evenly. 'And it isn't going to work. God knows, you're not going to get to me through Joyce, and you're not going to get to me through Donald either. It isn't going to work, so lay off, Falcone. Lay the fuck off my son.'
'Oh, my,' the man said, rising, smoothing his lapels as he headed for the door. 'Is that a threat, Mr. Principal?'
Norman considered a mild retraction, a half-hearted apology. He knew what the man would do if he didn't-a statement to the faculty about the principal's accusation, perhaps a judicious leak to the press. Norman becomes the instant villain, the board's henchman in the streets. Norman is losing his cool because he's lost control of his school, and would you want a man like that running this city?
'Harry,' he said, slamming the paper to the blotter, his fist planted atop it, 'let me put it to you this way-I'll kick your balls into your fucking mouth if you pull this stunt again. Trust me, Harry. I'll ream your fucking ass.'
Falcone hesitated before he crossed the threshold, turned only slightly and stared back, not frowning. 'I concede you the kid,' he said, just barely loud enough to hear. 'But I'll be damned, Mr. Boyd, if I know why you're
