The Well's End (5 page)

You can't see the highway from this vantage, so there's no panic or even realization of the soldiers, of what I've seen. There's music playing from a portable speaker someone's lame enough to lug around, and a few groups huddle around cigarettes. Someone even whipped a Frisbee out of nowhere. I can't see Jo or Rob. There are teachers slowly herding us toward Dylan, capturing the milling mass and pushing us through the doors. The snowy quad makes the task easier, because most of us stick to the plowed walkways and don't want to trudge through the deep snow.

All alone in a crowd, I look down at my shoes and the blood there. The wind is cold on my skin, and I shiver and pull out my phone. It rings a few times before he answers.

“Hi, honey, what's up?”

“Dad, the school sirens went off.”

His voice gets real serious real quick. “What is it? Tell me everything. Did you see the reporter again?”

“What?” I say, pulling back the phone to look at it. What did the reporter have to do with sirens? “No, I didn't see him, but he texted me last night to try to meet up again.”

“You didn't, did you?” Dad's voice is aghast.

“Dad! Of course not. Who cares? The sirens are going off!”

He's quiet, but I can hear him fiddling with something in the background for a second. “I just linked to the emergency grid, and there's no alarm in town. Are you sure it's the sirens and not an ambulance?”

I roll my eyes and raise the phone into the air for a few seconds and then bring it back. “Can you hear them now?”

“Yeah, but do you see anything wrong? A fire or something?”

“No,” I reply, biting at a cuticle. “But I see army vans coming down the highway toward the school, and we're supposed to go to an assembly because this ‘is not a drill,' and Mrs. Applebaum's sick, so I don't—”

“What did you say?” His voice is urgent.

“Mrs. Applebaum's sick . . . I don't know with what.”

“Did you touch her?”

“Dad, no! She's in the dean's office lying on the couch. The doctor's with her. Dad, what's going on?”

“Mia,” he says, his voice very clear, intent in a way I have never heard before, “I want you to leave the school. Right now. Come to the Cave—no, wait. This might sound weird, but go through the woods and get to Wilkins's. Tell him I sent you and that you need to get into the Cave.”

“What are you talking about? How would Wilkins know how to get into the Cave?” My hangover is gone, dwarfed by the alarms ringing throughout my body. The one person who is supposed to take care of me is telling me to run. “Why can't you just come and pick me up?” I know my voice is cracking, sounding like a whine, but I don't care.

“Oh, Mia, Mia. I'm so sorry. This must be really confusing. You're right. Listen, you just have to trust me. You have to get off campus and make your way to Wilkins's at the aqueduct, okay? Please listen to me. Will you go?”

“What about Jo? And Rob?”

There's a pause. “They'll be fine, Mia. I'm going to tell you something that may scare you, but you're strong and I think you can take it, okay?”

I don't answer, and hold my breath. The students are almost all into the auditorium now, leaving only me and a few stragglers. Mr. Banner, Jo's father, is making his way toward me to walk me in.

Dad continues. “Mia, all of this has to do with me. If you leave now,
right now,
then nothing at all will happen to your friends, to anyone, and everything will be okay.”

It's hard to take in what he's saying. But just then the phone beeps and loses the connection. I look down at it and have no more bars left, nothing:
Searching.

“Mia,” Mr. Banner says. He puts one arm on my back and leads my numb body toward the door. “Hurry up, now. We have to get in there.”

“But I need to leave,” I say quietly. I believe my father, but I don't believe this is happening.

Mr. Banner pulls up short and looks at me straight on. “Mia, Jo's already inside. So is Rob. I'll be in there too.” He's talking to me like I'm a baby. “I know the sirens are scary; I bet somewhere deep down you remember them from the well, don't you?” That is the farthest from what's on my mind right now, so out of left field that I can only stare at him dumbly. Mr. Banner is an attractive man, tall with prematurely gray but sexy curls and frameless glasses. Jo's been given a lot of hell from the girls about him. Crushes abound in calculus land. But here he looks sallow and thirsty, confused away from his equations.

“Okay, just go on in, and everything will be fine. As soon as we figure out what's going on, we'll get you two girls packed for the swim meet and out of here. I promise.”

I think about what my dad said, and how Rob and Jo are inside. Everyone's inside. I can't just take off like this. Mr. Banner would follow, I don't have any snow gear on, and most of all, I want to know what's happening. I'll wait, I'll talk to the others and then I'll go.

“You coming?” Mr. Banner asks, nodding toward the door.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have.

DYLAN IS ONE OF THE OLDEST BUILDINGS ON CAMPUS,
originally built as the school's performance venue and, with the help and ingenuity of one of Westbrook's leading architectural alumni, is now an impressive hybrid building, half old marble, half exposed glass, an enormous room big enough to attract real music acts from across the country. Though, of course, Fentonites are rarely able to secure tickets at face value to see Radiohead or Bruce Springsteen when they come; recently graduated alums return in droves and snatch up the preferred tickets. Only alums and current students get tickets at the first-come, first-served price. I've made a killing selling my seats.

When I get inside, it looks like the students are rioting. Or as close as they can come. Turns out it wasn't just my phone that lost service, but apparently every phone on campus. And for a prep-school crowd at a mandatory school function, that's tantamount to chaos. Paper balls are being thrown everywhere, but mostly there's just shouting. A sort of voiceless swell of complaints and anger from those who are very good at complaining and being angry.

I see Jo and Rob parked near the front, and they wave me into an open seat. Rob's probably more upset about the lack of signal than the others here, but aside from twirling his enormous case in his hands, he doesn't seem to show it.

“What do you think's going on?” he asks me once I'm settled.

Jo beats me to it. “Dad says there's a bad gas leak and that soldiers are coming to evacuate us.” She must be feeling better, because her sunglasses are off and her eyes are shockingly wide open.

“Then why are we all sitting together here?” replies Rob, his usual dubious self making a good point. Today his shirt says
WE MISS YOU TEBOW
. His hair drifts down his face along the edges, like sideburns, and he pulls at a tuft now, something I've come to recognize as distraction and worry. I don't say a thing to my friends about Dad's warning, but only because I don't see any use. Why add speculation to the fire? We're here for a reason, and the professors will tell us what to do.

A paper ball flies past my face, and I search the seats behind me. Everyone is where they should be, sitting with their friends along fault lines that sometimes are too difficult to make out. In the far back are the seniors of high pedigree, and everywhere else is territory worth fighting over. But I'm not interested in just
any
face. I just want to make sure I know where Rory is, so I can plan my escape route after this. And sure enough, there he sits, about eight rows back and on my left, glaring at me from behind a balled-up bloody T-shirt. He's already starting to sport two black eyes, an improvement, if you ask me. Next to him is Jimmy, who leans over and tries to poke his nose. I'm too far away to hear what they say, but Rory isn't pleased and slugs him in the arm, which, for a guy as built as Jimmy, means nothing.

Someone's hand not too far over from Jimmy catches my eye; Odessa's waving at me and then points slowly over to Rory and mouths,
Nice job!
I can't believe she even cares. I hate that she plays all the sides. And now she's gone, already back to her friends, laughing loud enough to be heard over the entire student body. I can make out Todd, arms over the chair next to him, way up top. He tosses me a nod and indicates that I should get Jo, but I don't have the energy to play messenger girl.

I settle back into my chair and glance at Jo, who I realize could probably sit somewhere else. But I'm not ever scared of that type of thing. Since freshman year, she has proved fiercely loyal, and we three basically subsist as our own little clique. Not nerds, geeks, losers. Not even townies. I just think we're good friends. I remember what Dad said, about how he wanted me to leave now without her. Or Rob. She sees me looking and gives me a quick pucker of her red lips, but the tension under her skin is visible. We're all freaking out.

Not so far away from us on the row, I find myself staring at a newly familiar face. The boy from last night, sitting by himself. He's keeping his eyes down, rolling a pencil between his fingers, when he glances up and catches me staring. His eyes are brown, a comforting color, but near the pupils they shift to a bright and vivid yellow. I realize I didn't get a good chance to stare last night. There's something magical to these moments when a new kid doesn't know the cliques and is willing to speak to or hang out with anyone for the first few days. I kinda feel sorry for him; coming into Westbrook junior year and trying to find a way through all the unspoken rules must be a nightmare. And considering how he fared last night, he's probably worried about putting himself out there again. That or he's sitting near us because of Jo. I always have to keep her in mind when it comes to vagrant boys. She notices him too, grabs my arms and squeezes hard, and suddenly I'm wishing I didn't look like a burned-out marshmallow.

“Who's that one?” she whispers to me.

“I met him last night. Didn't you see him?”

She smiles knowingly at my tone of voice, and I roll my eyes. How quickly do the worries of the world disappear when there's a new boy involved?

“What's his name?”

I shrug. “I don't know . . .”

Rob leans over me and whispers to the new kid. “Hey, newbie, what's your name?”

I try to sink into my chair to distance myself from Rob, but the new kid glances at me anyway, a hint of a frown on his face, causing the scar on his chin to flare white again.

“Brayden,” he says, giving a small wave that jiggles the yellow band on his wrist. “I'm Brayden.”

“Cool,” Rob says, and then leans back in his seat, not offering his name or ours. He tugs his sideburn again and leaves it to us. Typical Rob.

• • •

Just then, a door near the front of the stage opens, and out come the professors. All of them. The procession is odd, like we're in some sort of dictatorial regime, because they seem to march to preappointed spots around the room. Mr. Banner is there; he takes a place at the end of our aisle and shoots Jo a smile and a wink.

Dean Griffin steps onto the stage and in front of the podium, a single piece of wood with the school's emblem, a mountain lion, carved into its face. We at Westbrook are fond of carving things from single pieces of wood.

The dean taps the microphone, sending feedback through the speakers, and my head reacts like a tuning fork just went off in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, the place is still. It's the gravity in his voice that gets my attention.

“Students of Westbrook, for the moment, we are not fully apprised as to why we were asked to sound the siren.”

Jo's forehead wrinkles and she looks at her father, who shrugs, clearly thinking his natural gas story had been true. There's a release of breath in the room; now that there's nothing to be reported, everyone can stop caring. As if to emphasize the point, Eric, the guy who mooned me in the pool, raises his arms and goes, “Wooo hooo!” and everyone laughs, but the dean shouts so loud spittle flies from his mouth and past the podium, almost to me.

“SILENCE!”

The place settles, curious more than scared. But there's a growing tension here—it's palpable—and a good chunk of the student body feels it.

“Silence, I say,” he continues. “You don't seem to understand the severity of the situation. I wonder about the merits of full disclosure, but I'll not have your parents assuming we did anything but. We have been, for reasons currently unknown to me and the faculty, ordered by the military to shut down campus activity and classes. I have no news from Fenton, and am not entirely sure whether they are under the same restrictions we are, but I have been informed by several faculty members that our phones and internets are down.” There are some snickers at his obvious lack of modern web understanding, and the dean pauses long enough for them to settle. I imagine him thinking,
Maybe it's just as well. Let them think there's nothing wrong; this might be easier.
He steels himself for what must be the really bad news. “This means that, for the time being, no one is to leave the school grounds and we are to place ourselves in voluntary lockdown.” There's a huge swelling uproar from the crowd. Today is Friday, and half the class probably has trips planned to Vail or Aspen and their families' winter condos. You'd think by the level of indignation that we've been told to eat mud or something. No one gives a crap about what's really going on, but told they can't go skiing, suddenly they think the teachers are fascists. A few kids ball up paper and toss it toward the stage. One hits Rob on the head. He flicks his hair out of his eyes and settles lower into his seat.

“So they
are
always like this.”

I see that Brayden has moved to the seat next to me during the chaos. He's leaning in, a small grin on his face, conspiratorial. It's funny how much you can see when you're close to someone. I can't help but notice the beauty mark under his left eyelid, like a counter to the scar on his jawline. Or the fact that his lips are moist, not dry like most boys' during the winter. Or that his hair is long enough to reveal the beginnings of a cowlick. The small bits that make him a whole. Maybe I should be hungover more often, if this is how observant I am. Ugh, what if he's the same way? What if he can smell my barf breath?

“Who, the teachers?” I ask him, confused. I can feel Jo tense next to me, straining to hear what we're saying. Rob's less subtle and swings his head down to listen.

“The students. Don't you remember our chat last night?”

I remember him getting kicked out of Odessa's party. Things going sour for him just like he predicted. “They only get this way when you take away the gifts Mommy and Daddy bought.” Of course, this kid doesn't live here, so he's from somewhere else—he's probably rich himself, and I'm putting my size-six shoe all up in my mouth.

“I call mine Mum and Dada.”

I can't help it and let out a burst of laughter, which, I must say, is worth the jackknife to my headache.

“Miss Kish!” The dean's shout finally bursts through the noise of protesting students. “From them, yes, I get it. But from
you
? What if your father is in danger? What if
you
were in danger and your father had no way of knowing? And yet you
laugh
! All of you laugh!”

The place goes silent, everyone staring at me, and the wave of fear and embarrassment hits me at the same time. I can't breathe, and I double over in shame, which makes my head and stomach hurt and matters much worse. He's just making an example of me to the other students, but he's right. The siren went off here, but Dad seemed to know what was going on. And here I am, ignoring both my father and the dean, laughing in their faces. I try to stand, and Mr. Banner comes over and helps me. I can see him scowling at the dean. He takes me out a side door into the cold and scoops up some snow and gives it to me to suck on, an odd gesture that somehow is exactly what I need and probably wouldn't have been done by any other teacher. Jo's there, and so is Rob, but not Brayden. Won't ever be speaking to him again.

“Don't worry about the dean, Mia,” Mr. Banner says. He's got one hand on my shoulder, and he crouches in front of me, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Nothing's going on at the Cave. Nothing's going to be a problem here, either, okay? Griffin is just a testy old—”

“But why is the army here, then?” My voice doesn't feel like my own. It's weak and sad and soft, and it dribbles from my mouth like spit. I don't know why I'm all worked up, but the sirens are still going, and I can't help but think of Mrs. Applebaum and the way she looked. Dean Griffin said
lockdown,
but what does that
mean
?

I can hear the dean's voice through the brick wall. Now he's telling us that class is canceled but will resume on Sunday to make up for it. We'll have Saturday off, but are not allowed to leave campus for any reason. The crowd is none too pleased. There's some shouting, then loud applause from the student body, and a couple seconds later, the door bursts open and a senior, Devin Harris, strides purposefully out. A large group of his friends are close behind, cheering him on. A few of the teachers from the room try to impede their progress, but there are just too many kids. Devin gets to his Mercedes SLS and hops in, and so do a couple of his friends, who immediately roll down their windows and lean halfway out, cheering and raising their hands and sticking out their tongues. One even does a mock Taylor Swift “heart” gesture, and the crowd cheers.

Devin spins his tires and peels out, fishtailing on purpose in the snow, drawing an even larger cheer from the crowd. The whole student body must be outside now. The dean is near the door, watching with disdain. I turn around, looking for Brayden, but can't spot him. And then I feel ashamed to have shifted my thoughts so quickly from my father to him. I grab Jo's arm, and we watch the boys together. Rob leans in, sticks his head between the two of ours and rests his chin on my shoulder. I guess it's that easy. Just get in a car and drive away. I don't have one, of course, but Rob has an old 4Runner, and I'm sure we could take that. Dad said to go through the woods, but it would be so much faster by car.

“They're idiots, you know?” Rob says, his voice so close it echoes in my head.

“Yeah,” I respond automatically, though maybe they aren't. For the moment, I don't feel the need to participate in Rob's perpetual negativity.

Devin has reached the end of the parking lot and zooms down the long entrance to the school, a small tree-lined road that runs three-quarters of a mile before it hits the campus's surrounding brick wall. Beyond the entrance is a roundabout that leads to the nearest county road, but you can't see it, as there is a row of pine trees in front of the towering wall, so that from this far away, the border of the school looks like a forest. The only drivable way in and out of the school is through the front gate, a wrought-iron fence, intricately shaped and perpetually open. We all watch Devin and crew streak for freedom as if we were in a movie theater at the closing credits, except when Devin hits the roundabout beyond our view, something must've gone wrong. At first we can hear him honking, long impatient hand-on-horn honks. Then there's a series of loud pops that echo harshly around the mountains, and the whole school, all assembled in front of me, ducks involuntarily.