“Let’s go,” says Salma, and the bathroom is nearly empty by the time we get there. Like Tiffany, she opts for the skirt version of the uniform, only hers is all black, including the button-down shirt.
Sal gets a lot of stares when we enter the dining hall, but she’s used to her outfits drawing attention. While she and Tiffany strut to our table like models on a runway, I lag behind, pulling my heavy wet curls into a sloppy bun on my head.
There are only fifteen minutes left before first period, and the boys have finished their meals. Zach waves us over, and I’m surprised our chairs are still available, considering how many admiring looks Trevor is getting.
“We saved your seats,” says Zach.
That explains it.
The bags under their eyes are as pronounced as Salma’s and mine. If Tiffany has any, they’re buried under layers of foundation.
Once the three of us have stocked up on food and returned to the table, Zach leans forward. “Anyone get any sleep?”
“Not much,” says Salma, spearing a strawberry with her fork.
“How are you?” Zach asks me, and my stomach clenches.
“Fine.” I scoop a spoonful of milky cereal and bring it to my mouth as an excuse not to talk.
“What did you see?” Trevor presses me.
“Nothing,” I say after swallowing. “I just tripped, and when I got up, I ran.”
When Salma rests a hand on my back, guilt sizzles in my stomach like battery acid, and part of me wonders if the demon’s mind control is at work on me still.If Iwantedto tell the truth,couldI?
“Then how can anyone explain the coffin opening?” asks Trevor.
“Maybe it was a gimmick,” says Salma. “Like the love seat.”
“Then explain this.” Zach removes the strap from around his neck and sets his camera on the table. “Look at the photos and videos I took last night.”
We all lean forward to stare at the screen, except for Trevor, who seems to have already seen this. Zach clicks through the files, but the screen remains dark.
“I don’t see anything,” says Tiffany.
“They all came out like that,” says Zach. “Pitch-black.”
How is that possible?
“But how?” asks Tiffany, echoing my thoughts.
“Maybe there’s a strange electromagnetic energy,” says Salma, sitting at the edge of her seat. “Like paranormal activity. We should try a séance!”
I know I should speak up. I need to warn them of what happened to me. If there’s a predator here with us, they need to know.
“Attention, students.”
Saved by Minaro.
“It was brought to my attention that I forgot to mention laundry yesterday,” says the director, addressing us from the staff table. “Fabric bags will be placed outside your room, each with its owner’s name. There will be large hampers in your bathroom where you can deposit the bag with your soiled clothes on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Your clean clothes will be delivered to your room the following day.”
A bell goes off, and we all look around.
“You have five minutes to find your first class,” she says, and there’s a flurry of movement as we all rise from our seats and march out.
The whole school is headed in the same direction, so I’m just going with the flow as we arrive at a grand staircase and climb to the second story. What kind of power could prevent images from imprinting? I picture the fanged face and shiver—If he could control my body, can he also control technology?
We cut down a hall punctuated by parallel doors featuring small vertical windows, each classroom bearing a burnt gold plaque with a number engraved. Salma and I already compared schedules, and we share four of sixperiods. We’re only apart for math and science. Since every class but physical education is located in this hall, it’s easy enough to figure out where we’re going—which is a good thing because my memories of last night are making focusing impossible.
