Wrath

“No, look, he’s got a wire leading up to his ear, and-”

“Nice try, but I think that’s the janitor and his new iPod.”

“Whatever, they must be here somewhere, since he’s coming soon and-”

“Do you think there’ll be a limo?”

“Or, like, a whole motorcade, with cops and shit?”

“Are those sirens? Adam, you hear that?”

“Adam?”

The pale cheerleader hanging off his shoulder was staring at him, waiting for some kind of answer. Adam didn’t have one for her. He’d checked out. It was the only way he was making it through this whole big-man-on-campus act. Hanging out in front of the school with his buddies and three hot cheerleaders-one of whom, he’d discovered the night before, could do this thing with her tongue that…

It should have been awesome. A walk in the park. Instead, Adam was just zoned out, waiting for the bell to ring. If he was going to be bored and miserable, better to do it inside a darkened auditorium, where he could slouch in his seat and stare off into space, undisturbed. Better than here, where something was expected of him. He mustered a smile.

“Who cares?” he asked. “It’s just the governor. Big deal. You aren’t even old enough to vote.”

“God, Adam, did you wave hasta la vista to your brain?” Mini-She gave him a gentle push, and he guessed he was forgiven for chickening out the night before after a couple kisses and a little over- the-sweater action. The whole double-your-pleasure angle had seemed so appealing in theory, but in practice, it had been too seedy, too sordid, too much.

And he had his doubts whether he could have handled even one of them; much as he hated to admit it, he was no longer into the one-night-only thing. Not that he’d admit it to the guys-or even to the girls, at least these girls. But he wanted something more, something better; he just didn’t think he’d ever have it, not again.

“He’s not just the governor,” Mini-Me protested. She snuggled up again him, shoving Mini-She out of the way. “He’s-”

“Here!” Mini-She shrieked, as the sirens blared and a full motorcade pulled up in front of the school. A fleet of Secret Service agents-and they didn’t disappoint, dressed in black suits, sunglasses, cocking their heads to the side as commands issued from their earpieces-swarmed out of the fleet of black SUVs, pushing the gawkers back to create a perimeter for the figure emerging from the long black limo.

It was really him, he’d actually shown up. This was officially more excitement than Grace had seen since the eighties, when a movie crew had shown up, along with the requisite stars, trailers, and paparazzi-and then turned around and left a week later, sets built, extras hired, and funding vanished.

Adam waited to feel some excitement now that the big moment had arrived, but he felt nothing.

Let this be the biggest day in Haven High history.

So what?

For Adam, it was just another crappy day.

Kaia had driven all the way to school before allowing herself to consider whether or not to go inside. She’d scanned the local paper that morning, but there was no mention of a lone, British bachelor found unconscious in his apartment. Not that you’d expect the Grace Herald’s crack reporting staff to be on the case so quickly, not when said staff included only two reporters, one of whom worked from his “office” in the Lost and Found, and the other who restricted herself to items on gardening or fashion (preferably both). And though she’d lain awake all night, listening for approaching sirens, an impatient rapping at the door or even a late-night phone call, nothing had happened.

But Kaia had watched too much TV to be fooled into thinking she was in the clear. No, either Powell had woken up and elected not to tell anyone his twisted version of what had happened, or… he hadn’t woken up at all. And maybe wouldn’t.

Kaia couldn’t decide which option she preferred. She wouldn’t even allow herself to consider the question, since every time her mind strayed to the image of Powell lying there, his blood on her hands, she froze. And she couldn’t afford to do that anymore, not while time was running out.

She could turn herself in, tell the truth, engage in the inevitable he said-she said, and hope things swung her way. She wasn’t stupid-she knew that was the responsible thing to do, probably the smart thing to do. But she didn’t feel very smart right now, and she’d never been a big fan of responsible.

She could waltz into school as if nothing had happened. Maybe Powell wouldn’t remember, or wouldn’t want to implicate himself, or wouldn’t…

There were any number of ways this could come out okay and she could slip away from the whole thing unseen and unsuspected, if only she could get it together and put on the right show.

Or she could get back in her car, drive away, and make a new life for herself somewhere. It was the dream option-the impossible one.

The alternatives were all shitty, and so instead of choosing one, Kaia leaned against her car and pulled out her cell phone. There was one thing she was sure she needed to do, even if it was too late.

The voice mail picked up on the fifth ring, which gave Kaia enough time to collect herself and plan her words.

“Reed, I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I need to tell you that I’m sorry. I was wrong, about everything. I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you, to explain and… just call me back. Please. Because I-” She paused, wishing she could bring herself to say more. “I’m sorry.”

Showtime. The art room was serving as a greenroom for the presenters as they waited for the governor’s entourage to settle themselves on stage and the student body to filter in.

Everyone was buzzing about Powell’s “accident” the night before-thanks to a cryptic announcement, they all knew the dreamy French teacher was in the hospital, but for what, and from what, no one had any clear idea. Fragments had spread, phrases like “stable condition,” “unforced entry,” “open investigation,” and “mitigating circumstances” floating through the grapevine courtesy of the sons and daughters of doctors, cops, nosy receptionists, and taciturn administrators. But no one had been able to piece together the full story, and no one could let it go, wondering: Was his pretty face still intact? Was it a bitter student? A jilted lover? Would French be cancelled? Would the perpetrator strike again?

Beth didn’t care about any of it. She sat off to the side, alone at one of the large drafting tables, watching Harper across the room. Even from a distance, Beth could see her fingers tapping compulsively against the side, her knees jiggling, and, like Beth, she was steering clear of the huddling gossipers, locked in her own thoughts.

She looked nervous-but not as nervous as I am, Beth thought, clutching one of Kane’s little yellow pills in the palm of her hand. She’d done some research the night before and decided one should be enough. And, according to her calculations, it was time. You had to give it some time to kick in, after all.

Beth felt like the room was watching her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and make her move. Two cups of coffee-the lukewarm instant crap courtesy of the faculty lounge. One for her-and one for Harper, with a little something extra mixed in for flavor.

Harmless fun, Beth told herself. That’s all it was. No one would get hurt. Beth would get even.

“What are you staring at?” Harper asked sullenly, when she realized Beth was hovering over her desk. “Just thought you looked a little nervous,” Beth said. “Thought this would help.” She offered Harper a cup, making sure to give her the right one. Harper took a sip and put it down on her desk. Then she lifted it again and took a long gulp.

There’s still time, Beth told herself. I could knock over the cup before she drinks any more. I could forget the whole thing.

“Thanks, I guess.” Harper frowned. “As long as you’re here, there’s something I need to say.”

Here it came. Beth steeled herself. “Yeah?”

“I… I wanted to tell you… well, about… I’m really…” Harper closed her eyes, and a series of expressions flickered across her face as if she was having an indepth conversation inside her head. Then, all at once, she shook her head and her features relaxed into a familiar sneer. “Just don’t screw up, okay?”

Forget turning back.

Beth smiled sweetly.

“Uh, thanks. Good luck to you, too.” Beth backed away, retreated to the other side of the room-but she snuck