The Long Game
Page 10
“The floor remains open,” the headmaster declared. “Do we have a third nomination?”
Emilia shot laser eyes at me. After returning her glare, I stood up.
“Ms. Kendrick,” the headmaster said. “Err . . . Keyes,” he corrected himself. “Tess.”
My last name was still a matter of some contention.
“Do you have a nomination?” Raleigh asked me.
I avoided looking at Henry as I answered, “I nominate Emilia Rhodes.”
CHAPTER 7
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher caught up to me on the way back to the main building after chapel let out.
I didn’t answer.
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher repeated. “Because I have some serious doubts that you were overcome by a swell of civic admiration for my twin, lovely though she may be.”
Right now, lovely wasn’t a word I would have used to describe Emilia Rhodes.
“My dearest, darling sister didn’t happen to mention she was running against Henry, did she?” Asher asked.
“She left that tidbit out,” I said dryly.
Vivvie popped up on my other side. “Henry’s been our class president since kindergarten. Everyone figured he was a shoo-in for student-body president this year.”
“You guys had a class president in kindergarten?” I asked incredulously.
Asher nodded. “Henry was the only five-year-old to run on a three-pronged platform.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if Asher was joking or not.
“The third prong,” Asher continued, “was cookies.”
We hit the door to the main building a second before the art teacher came striding out. “Inside,” he called. “Get to class, everyone.” The teacher’s whole body was as tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping.
We crossed the threshold into the building. All up and down the main corridor, teachers were ushering students into classrooms. A feeling of unease slithered down my spine.
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—
Henry appeared beside me. From the expression on his face, it was clear that student council elections were the last thing on his mind. His jaw muscles were tensed, brown skin pulled taut across his cheekbones, his full lips set into a grim line.
“What’s going on?” I asked him as we stepped into the classroom. I could hear murmurs all around me, was vaguely aware of the teacher telling us to take our seats—but my attention was focused on Henry.
Wordlessly, he passed his cell phone to me. I forced myself to look at the screen.
BOMB DETONATES IN DC HOSPITAL
The headline froze the air in my lungs. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale.
No matter what you see, Bodie had told me, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
CHAPTER 8
I had no way of knowing if Walker Nolan’s problem had anything to do with what the media were calling an act of terrorism. I texted Ivy with shaky hands. I needed her to tell me she was okay. Ivy called Adam in on this one. Adam works for the Pentagon. Bodie told me not to say anything—
Ivy texted back less than a minute after I’d texted her. I’m fine. Can you get a ride home from school today?
In other words: she needed Bodie with her.
What’s going on? I texted back.
The reply came an instant later. Can you get a ride home from school today?
My Spanish teacher saw the cell phone in my hand but said nothing. I wasn’t the only one texting my parents.
Yes. I typed in my reply, pressing down on the urge to repeat my question to Ivy the way she’d repeated hers to me. Henry had a car. So did Emilia—and Asher was pretty liberal about “borrowing” it. I could manage a ride home from school.
I’d just spend the next six hours wondering what Ivy was doing that she needed Bodie with her.
Spanish class flew by, then physics. Since chapel had replaced my first-period English class, fifth period—the only class I shared with John Thomas Wilcox—came quickly.
“Word on the street is that you’re helping Emilia Rhodes with her campaign.” John Thomas clearly wasn’t having any trouble shaking off the news of the bombing. The rest of the school was on edge, a pallor cast over the student body at the reminder that bad things could and did happen close to home. The expression on John Thomas’s face was appropriately somber, but mismatched to the glint in his eyes.
“Just like your sister helped President Nolan with his campaign,” John Thomas continued. “And look how well that turned out. Nolan has made a mess of national security. Whatever casualties there are today, that blood is on your precious president’s hands—and your sister’s.”
Emilia shot laser eyes at me. After returning her glare, I stood up.
“Ms. Kendrick,” the headmaster said. “Err . . . Keyes,” he corrected himself. “Tess.”
My last name was still a matter of some contention.
“Do you have a nomination?” Raleigh asked me.
I avoided looking at Henry as I answered, “I nominate Emilia Rhodes.”
CHAPTER 7
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher caught up to me on the way back to the main building after chapel let out.
I didn’t answer.
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher repeated. “Because I have some serious doubts that you were overcome by a swell of civic admiration for my twin, lovely though she may be.”
Right now, lovely wasn’t a word I would have used to describe Emilia Rhodes.
“My dearest, darling sister didn’t happen to mention she was running against Henry, did she?” Asher asked.
“She left that tidbit out,” I said dryly.
Vivvie popped up on my other side. “Henry’s been our class president since kindergarten. Everyone figured he was a shoo-in for student-body president this year.”
“You guys had a class president in kindergarten?” I asked incredulously.
Asher nodded. “Henry was the only five-year-old to run on a three-pronged platform.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if Asher was joking or not.
“The third prong,” Asher continued, “was cookies.”
We hit the door to the main building a second before the art teacher came striding out. “Inside,” he called. “Get to class, everyone.” The teacher’s whole body was as tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping.
We crossed the threshold into the building. All up and down the main corridor, teachers were ushering students into classrooms. A feeling of unease slithered down my spine.
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—
Henry appeared beside me. From the expression on his face, it was clear that student council elections were the last thing on his mind. His jaw muscles were tensed, brown skin pulled taut across his cheekbones, his full lips set into a grim line.
“What’s going on?” I asked him as we stepped into the classroom. I could hear murmurs all around me, was vaguely aware of the teacher telling us to take our seats—but my attention was focused on Henry.
Wordlessly, he passed his cell phone to me. I forced myself to look at the screen.
BOMB DETONATES IN DC HOSPITAL
The headline froze the air in my lungs. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale.
No matter what you see, Bodie had told me, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
CHAPTER 8
I had no way of knowing if Walker Nolan’s problem had anything to do with what the media were calling an act of terrorism. I texted Ivy with shaky hands. I needed her to tell me she was okay. Ivy called Adam in on this one. Adam works for the Pentagon. Bodie told me not to say anything—
Ivy texted back less than a minute after I’d texted her. I’m fine. Can you get a ride home from school today?
In other words: she needed Bodie with her.
What’s going on? I texted back.
The reply came an instant later. Can you get a ride home from school today?
My Spanish teacher saw the cell phone in my hand but said nothing. I wasn’t the only one texting my parents.
Yes. I typed in my reply, pressing down on the urge to repeat my question to Ivy the way she’d repeated hers to me. Henry had a car. So did Emilia—and Asher was pretty liberal about “borrowing” it. I could manage a ride home from school.
I’d just spend the next six hours wondering what Ivy was doing that she needed Bodie with her.
Spanish class flew by, then physics. Since chapel had replaced my first-period English class, fifth period—the only class I shared with John Thomas Wilcox—came quickly.
“Word on the street is that you’re helping Emilia Rhodes with her campaign.” John Thomas clearly wasn’t having any trouble shaking off the news of the bombing. The rest of the school was on edge, a pallor cast over the student body at the reminder that bad things could and did happen close to home. The expression on John Thomas’s face was appropriately somber, but mismatched to the glint in his eyes.
“Just like your sister helped President Nolan with his campaign,” John Thomas continued. “And look how well that turned out. Nolan has made a mess of national security. Whatever casualties there are today, that blood is on your precious president’s hands—and your sister’s.”
