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Mace hoods her eyes, clearing her throat. “We weren’t trying to kill you the other night. That was mostly the Pirates. Farrow scratched up his own truck trying to run one of them off the road before they ran you off.”
She narrows her eyes. “He did?”
She looks impressed. She won’t be when he tries to send her the bill for all these damages.
Arlet climbs off to help them with the fireworks, but I rev the bike, starting to inch away. I don’t need to be here for this.
“Wait,” Dylan tells me. “I need you.”
For what?
But she turns to Mace. “Give me ten minutes. If I’m not out by then, go ahead and light it.”
Dylan charges over and pulls my arm.
But I resist. “What are we doing?”
“Hurry,” she says. “We have to go now, before the next bell rings.”
She pulls me, and I relent, turning off the bike, pressing down the kickstand, and throwing my leg over, following.
She scales the fence, and I climb over as well.
“What are you doing?” I bark, walking across the field with her.
“Just look casual.”
I look around, spotting a girls’ P.E. class running the track around us, and I glance over my shoulder, making sure the Rebels are hidden under the trees.
Dylan opens the door, and I follow her inside my old school.
The smell hits me immediately. Fresh paint, perfume, and the leather from jackets, handbags, and car interiors. The scent I grew up with.
Weston High smells like damp wood and school hamburgers.
We walk, our shoes squeaking against the clean floor, and Dylan heads toward the front of the school, hands in her pockets. Everyone is in class, but we pass a couple of people here and there. They look at her, meet my eyes, and then move on. The lockers are new. Orange against black walls.
I prefer the Rebel colors.
Dylan halts in front of the display cases—right next to the front office—and starts to slide open a glass door.
“What are you doing?” I ask again in a low voice.
“Help me.”
She starts to pry what looks like one of our old yellow lockers out of the case.
“No,” I reply. “Why arewe—”
“Hunter!” She stops, glaring at me.
The urgency in her eyes makes me shut up.
“It’s Piper Burke’s old locker,” she whispers.
I drop my eyes, taking in the rusted edges, chipped paint, and the number 1622 etched into the plate on the front.
I lock eyes with her. “Why’s it in here?”
