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She leans forward and picks up her golden pen, points it at me. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that, Mr. Sharpe?”
I widen my eyes. “Well, I guess there are some people here who do look like they’re stoned all the time, I’ll give you that. But I always figured they were just—”
“Mr. Sharpe!” She looks like she’s ready to actually stab me with the pen. “It is my understanding that the agents handcuffed you. Would you like to change your story?”
I think of sitting in this same office last year, begging to be allowed to stay. Maybe I’m still angry about that.
“No, ma’am. They just wanted to give me a little demonstration of how safe I would be working with them, although I can see how someone observing it might have come to a different conclusion. You can call the agents yourself,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I pull out the card Agent Jones gave me and set it down on Northcutt’s desk.
“I will do that,” she says. “You may go. For now.”
The agents will back me up. They have to. They’re not done with me yet. And Agent Hunt doesn’t really want to explain why he was slamming around a seventeen-year-old with no criminal record. So I get the satisfaction of their having to agree to a silly story. And I get Northcutt’s annoyance at having to accept a story she’s pretty sure isn’t true.
Everyone wants to get out of a situation with dignity.
* * *
The HEX meeting has already started by the time I get there. The desks in Ms. Ramirez’s music room have been rearranged into an impromptu circle, and I see Lila and Daneca are sitting together. I pull up a seat next to Lila.
She smiles and reaches over to squeeze my hand. I wonder if this is her first meeting. I haven’t attended enough to know.
On the blackboard, there’s the address for the worker rights protest Sam promised we’d attend way back when school started. Turns out it’s tomorrow. I guess that’s what they were talking about before I got here. Rules are written below the protest information: stick together, no talking to strangers, stay in the park.
“I’m sure that many of you didn’t see yesterday’s speech, since it ran during study hall,” Ramirez says. “I thought we could watch it together and discuss.”
“I really hate Governor Patton,” says one of the sophomore girls. “Do we have to see his face spewing more crap?”
“Like it or not,” says Ms. Ramirez, “this is what America sees. And this is what New Jersey will be thinking about in November when we vote on Proposition 2. This or a speech very like it.”
“He’s ahead in the polls,” Daneca says, biting the end of one of her braids. “People actually approve of his performance.”
The sophomore gives Daneca a horrible look, like Daneca was suggesting people should approve of Patton.
“It’s a stunt,” says one of the boys. “He just acts like he cares about this because it’s a popular issue. Back in 2001 he voted with worker rights. He goes where his bread is buttered.”
They talk some back and forth, but I lose the thread of it. I’m just happy to be here, not getting yelled at or handcuffed. Lila’s watching the discussion, gaze flashing to each of the speaker’s faces, but her hand rests in mine and she seems more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a long time.
Everything seems possible.
If I just think hard enough, plan carefully enough, maybe I can solve my problems—even the ones I was considering unsolvable. First off, I need to actually figure out who killed Philip. Once I know that, I can engineer the steps to get the Feds off my back. Then maybe I can figure out what to do about Lila.
Ms. Ramirez pushes a television in front of a chair on one side of the circle. “Enough! Let’s leave some discussing until after watching, okay?”
She presses a button, and the screen flickers to life. She points the controller at it, and Governor Patton’s pasty face fills the screen. He’s at a lectern, with a blue stage curtain hanging behind him. The few white hairs he still has are slicked back, and his whole vibe screams benevolent tyrant.
The camera pulls back so that we can see the press pit in front of him. Lots of people in suits raising their hands like it’s high school all over again, just waiting for the teacher to call on them. And at one side there’s an aide standing on the narrow steps to the stage, like he’s guarding them. Beside the aide is a woman in a severe black dress, her hair pulled into a chignon. There is something about her that makes me look again.
“You’re hurting my hand,” Lila whispers.
I let go of her, ashamed. My glove was pulled tight over my knuckles, like I was trying to make a fist.
“What?” she asks me.
“It’s just hard to listen to,” I say, which seems to be true, since I wasn’t actually listening at all.
She nods her head, but there is a pin scratch line between her brows. I wait interminable minutes until I think I can safely turn to her and say, “Be right back.
“Bathroom,” I say to her frown of inquiry.
