“You’re going to be a huge help.”
“Can I go?”
Doyle nods, and I’m out the door in a flash, slamming it behind me. I run down the halls toward an exit door, but a soldier is stationed there. I turn and head for another, but it’s guarded too. I lean against a bank of lockers to catch my breath and calm my mind. I’m in trouble, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Chapter Eight
Back in the halls, I’m a rock star. The story of my arrest spirals into a ridiculous mythology in which I faced down the justice system and spat in its face. I doubt they’d think I was so hardcore if they knew what really happened, or how I dread the final bell when the doors are opened and I have to share my “most wanted” status with my parents. My dad is going to erupt. Three years of carefulness, and I jeopardized it all before I even got out of homeroom.
Bex meets me at my locker at the end of the day and demands a high-five. “Fight the power,” she says.
I grab my things, and together we step outside into the waiting wall of noise. The crowd is bigger now and more hostile than this morning. Standing in the heat all day has soured their moods even further. Luckily, the police got wise and moved them back thirty feet so we don’t have to fight our way down the steps to go home, but they can’t protect me from my dad. He is waiting, arms crossed, eyes like charcoal briquettes.
“The Big Guy looks mad,” Bex says.
“The Big Guy is mad,” I say.
“What’s the point of being a teenager if you can’t get arrested every once in a while?” She laughs.
“This isn’t funny,” I grumble.
He stomps toward us. “It wasn’t even fifteen minutes, Lyric. Fifteen minutes and you got yourself wrapped up in this crap.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Bex crows. “She was trying to stop a fight. She’s a hero.”
He’s not listening. “We have to have a serious talk. Bex, will you be okay on your own?”
“She’s staying over.”
“Not tonight. Absolutely not! I’m sorry, Bex, it’s family—”
“No big whoop. Phone, please,” Bex says with outstretched hand.
“Dad—”
My father waves me off and reaches into his pocket. He hands her two, one for her and one for Shadow. Bex promises to get it to him.
“Bex, wait!” I cry.
“It’s cool,” she says, though her face looks panicked. She waves down Shadow, who is waiting nearby, and the two of them dart into the crowd and vanish.
“Russell’s back.”
My father looks incredulous. “You should have said something, Lyric.”
“And interrupt your lecture?”
He snarls. “I’ll go by tonight and check on her and Tammy. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know he was home.”
“You should look before you leap,” I shout. “Sound familiar?”
He spins around on me and grabs my wrist. “Do you think this is a joke? I’ve done everything I can to get you to understand how serious this is, and you fight me at every turn.”
“What was I supposed to do? Let that kid get killed?”
“You’re supposed to grow up, Lyric. Every choice you make in the Zone has a ripple effect. This time it has turned into a tidal wave and we can’t get out of the way.”
“Why? What happened?”
He sighs in frustration and makes a path for us through the crowd.
My mother is camped on the floor in the hall. She’s got her phone, her bottle of water, and her panicky eyes. When she sees us, she lets out a long exhale. I bet it’s her first of the day.
“What happened?” she begs, leaping to her feet and clasping my hands in hers.
“It’s fine,” I lie, and pull away. “They didn’t take me to jail.”
“It’s not fine,” my father growls as he stomps us down the hall to our apartment.
My mom flashes me a pained look. “What did you do?”
A door opens, and Mrs. Novakova’s head pops out. “What’s going on out there?” she croaks.
“Nothing,” my father snaps. “We just got home from school with Lyric, Mrs. Novakova.”
She glares at us for a moment, then disappears back into her cave.
My father turns to us and holds a finger up to his mouth, reminding us that there are ears everywhere. He leads us into our apartment, where he locks the door, slides the chain, and bolts the deadlock. Then he stuffs a towel under the door to keep our conversation from seeping into the hallway.
“Mr. Doyle called me at work,” he says.
“Who’s Mr. Doyle?” my mother asks.
“He’s the new principal,” I explain. “And a cop.”
My father shakes his head. “He’s not a cop. He’s military, maybe CIA. I don’t know yet.”
My mother sits down on the couch. “What did he want?”
“He wants our good Samaritan here—”
I frown. “I stopped a fight. One of the kids was a Nix and—”
“Oh no, Lyric,” my mother moans.
“I had to do something.”
“What exactly did you think you were going to do against a Nix?” my mother cries. “I’ve told you about them, Lyric!”
“I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem, Lyric,” my father says. He falls into a chair like it reached up and yanked him down. “Now this Doyle is poking around our lives. He called me at work. He knew everything about my career. He knew how long I’ve been on the job, who I report to, and how many times I’ve been passed over for promotions. He knew your grandfather was a cop!”