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“You look all squinty,” he says.
I’m not sure what he’s insinuating, but I wasn’t staring at him. He just happened to be in my line of vision, looking different from how he usually does. It was natural for my gaze to linger.
Standing up straighter, I gesture to his T-shirt and jeans. “Casual clothes? Did the robot that controls your body get overheated in the suit?”
“Nah, we’ve mastered temperature regulation. It’s just not worth it to have a robot without that ability these days.”
“And here I was looking forward to watching you run around Seattle in twelve cubic feet of polyester.” It’s a relief to spar like this after the yearbook debacle.
He crosses his arms over his chest, as though self-conscious about how much of him is on display. It makes his upper arms appear even more muscular. God, does he lift weights? How else would he achieve that kind of definition?
“Don’t insult me,” he says. “That suit is a cotton-wool blend.”
We’ve inched close enough for me to read the Latin on his chest: QUIDQUID LATINE DICTUM, ALTUM VIDETUR. He’s probably dying for someone to ask him what it means. I plan to google it later.
He zips his backpack and swings it over one shoulder. There’s a pin on it, a shiny enamel basket of corgis and the words FREE PUPPIES! I have no idea what this means either, only that I’m 98 percent sure he isn’t running an underground dog-breeding operation.
“Is everything…?” I wave my hand to indicate the word “okay,” unsure if finishing the sentence would indicate some kind of closeness we’ve never had.
“Curvy?” he asks. He taps his chin. “Twisted? My charades skills are a little rusty. How many syllables does it have?”
“No, I—I ran into your friends at lunch. They said you had an emergency?”
The tips of his ears turn scarlet. “Oh. No. I mean, yes, but everything’s okay now.”
“Good,” I say quickly, because if his friends don’t know much about his personal life, I know even less. I’ve always imagined he does homework in his suits, eats dinner in his suits, sleeps in his suits. Then wakes up and does it all again. This T-shirt and the revelation about his arms have poked holes in my McTheories. “That it wasn’t serious, I mean. I’m glad you can still play. Then I don’t have to feel bad when I beat you.”
“Even though you won’t deign to sign my yearbook?” He says this with a lift of his brows, like he knows exactly how shitty I feel about it.
Now it’s my turn to blush. If my bangs were longer, I could hide behind them. “I wasn’t—I mean—”
He holds up a hand to indicate it’s fine, though his remark makes me uneasy. “I’m going to find the rest of the Quad.”
McNair and his friends call themselves the Quadrilateral, abbreviated as the Quad, and yes, it is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard. But it does make what they said about his personal life even stranger. Almost like the Quad is more of a triangle with an extra appendage hanging off it. They’re splitting up next year too, Neil to NYU, Adrian to one of the UCs, Cyrus to Western, and Sean to the UW.
Kirby and Mara wander back to me. Mara is frowning down at her phone. “It’s 12:02. Are we sure we’re in the right place?”
“Unlikely that all three hundred of us got it wrong,” Kirby says.
Another few minutes pass, and a nervous energy pulses through the crowd. I can’t help wondering if one of the juniors made a mistake. The game is different every year; the juniors spend most of their last quarter in student council planning it. Despite all our behind-the-scenes bickering, McNair and I executed a flawless Howl last year. Our clues, when connected on a map, formed the outline of a wolf.
“It said noon sharp,” Justin Banks yells.
“Did they forget about us?” Iris Zhou asks.
From a few yards away, McNair’s eyes snag mine, asking a silent question: Should we do anything? And I’m not entirely sure. We’re not presidents anymore, but we’re used to taking the lead.…
“This is bullshit,” Justin says. “I’m out.”
As he stomps off the field, nearly three hundred phones buzz, chime, and ding at once. A text blast from an unknown number.
WELCOME, SENIOR WOLF PACK
Surprised yet? We’re just getting started. Only the first 50 players who make it to our secret location will remain in the game.
Here’s your riddle:
2001
