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I’M STILL BUZZING with Howl adrenaline by the time I hop a bus heading down Third Avenue. It wasn’t until Spencer grumbled about being out of the game so early and surrendered his target (Madison Winters, who wrote a lot of stories about shape-shifting foxes in my creative writing class—one or two, fine, but seven?) that it hit me, zipping through my veins like some wild drug. If it feels this good to kill Spencer, I can only imagine how it’ll feel to beat McNair.
After Spencer left, I sent the juniors a photo of my coffee cup, was rewarded with a green check-mark emoji almost instantaneously, and then scrutinized the list of clues. The ones referring to specific landmarks stood out right away—the big guy at the center of the universe has to be the Fremont Troll, a statue under the Aurora Bridge in a neighborhood nicknamed the “Center of the Universe.”
It makes the most sense to get what I can downtown before going north. Pike Place Market is only a few bus stops away, not worth giving up my parking spot. It’s probably one of the top three things people associate with Seattle, with the Space Needle being number one and Amazon-Microsoft-Boeing-Starbucks being a combined number two. It’s one of the country’s oldest year-round farmers markets, but it’s also a living, breathing piece of Seattle history. And it’s always packed with tourists, even on rainy days.
“Rowan!” a voice calls after I swipe my ORCA card. Savannah Bell waves at me from the middle of the bus, and at first I hesitate, worried she has my name. But she holds up her hands to indicate she doesn’t, and I wave back to confirm the same while groaning inwardly. Bus law dictates that if you run into someone you know on public transit, you are obligated to sit by them.
“Hey, Savannah,” I say as I slide into the seat across from her.
She pushes her black hair behind one ear, revealing chandelier earrings made entirely from recycled materials. Last year she opened an Etsy shop to sell them. I don’t have strong feelings about Savannah Bell, though I know I’m not her favorite person. In every class ranking, she comes in at number three, right behind McNair and me. Though she joked about it sometimes—“Guess I’ll never catch up to you guys!”—I could sense there was some hostility there.
I attempt some small talk. “Good last day?”
“Not bad.” When she laughs, it sounds forced. “I never really stood a chance against you and Neil, did I?”
“It’s possible we were a little intense.”
Savannah reaches into her pocket and flashes a familiar slip of paper. Her Howl target. “I can be content with some revenge.”
Neil McNair, it says.
My stomach drops, which might be the bus’s sudden lurch forward. We’ve only been playing an hour, and the look in Savannah’s eyes is raw determination. Maybe it was arrogant to assume Howl would end with McNair and me, but it’s not enough to simply survive l
onger than he does. I want to be the one ripping off his bandanna.
If Savannah kills him, I won’t see him until Sunday, his fiery hair sticking out from beneath a graduation cap.
“Good luck,” I offer, though my voice sounds scratchy.
Savannah looks down at her phone, the universal sign for it being okay for you to look down at your own phone, so I do the same.
I’m typing out the message before I have a chance to give it a second thought.
savannah bell has your name, and she’s out for blood
If he ends up dead before I have a chance to take him down, then I don’t know what I’m playing for. I’d have no way to accomplish number ten.
His reply is almost immediate.
McNIGHTMARE
Why should I believe you?
because you want to win this as badly as I do
I suppose you have a point there.
she’s across the aisle from me on a bus right now, heading south from cinerama
“I worked my ass off, you know?” Savannah says. “I can’t remember the last time I went to sleep before midnight. But I never got the kind of attention you and Neil did. All our teachers thought you two were so cute with your little rivalry.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t cute.”
A muscle in her jaw twitches. “Oh, I believe you. It’s just—I could have gotten into Stanford… but I was wait-listed.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Seattle U is a great school.” And I mean it, but Savannah scoffs.
“Pike Street!” the driver calls, and Savannah beats me to pulling the cord.
