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“It’s not just the administration,” Ms. Ramirez says. “Students dropped out of the trip too. No one wants to be seen getting on the bus.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Daneca mutters, then louder she says, “We could have done something. Met somewhere other than here.”
“Some of them are actually workers, you know,” I say. “It’s not just a cause for them. It’s their actual lives. So maybe they’re worried about the actual consequences of people guessing their secret.”
Daneca gives me a look of loathing. “How do they think anything’s going to get better with that attitude?” She clearly thinks they means me.
“Maybe they don’t,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Ramirez says with a heavy sigh. “I know you had your heart set on this.”
“What’s going on?” a soft voice asks from behind us. I turn to see Lila, backpack over one shoulder. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and big, clunky boots. I feel that same odd shock that I always feel when I see her, like an electric current passing through my body.
“Trip’s canceled due to administrative cowardice,” Sam says.
“Oh.” Lila looks down at her boots and kicks a clump of dirt. Then she looks up. “Well, can the four of us still go?”
Daneca stares at her for a long moment, then turns to Ramirez. “Yes! She’s right. We already turned in our permission slips, so our parents have already agreed to letting us out.”
“On a school-supervised trip,” Ramirez protests.
“We’re seniors,” Daneca says. “We’ve got our parents’ permission. Northcutt can’t stop us.”
“I don’t recall Mr. Sharpe turning in a permission slip.”
“Oops,” I say. “Left it in my room. Let me just run back and get it.”
Ramirez sighs. “Fine. Give me that form, Cassel, and the four of you can sign out and go to the protest. But I want your word that you will be back in time for study hall.”
“We will,” Lila promises.
After a little bit of forgery on my part, we’re heading to Sam’s 1978 vintage Cadillac Superior side-loading hearse. Lila stops to read the bumper sticker.
“This thing really runs on vegetable oil?” she asks.
The afternoon sun bakes the asphalt of the parking lot, making heat radiate off it. I wipe my brow and try not to consider the sweat beading at Lila’s collarbone.
Sam grins proudly and slaps the hood. “It wasn’t easy to find a diesel hearse to convert, but I did.”
“Smells like french fries,” says Daneca, climbing in. “But you get used to it.”
“French fries are delicious,” says Sam.
Lila scrambles into the backseat, which is custom—scavenged from a regular Cadillac and installed by Sam—and I slide in after her.
“Thank you guys for coming,” Daneca says. She looks in my direction. “I know you don’t really want to go, so let me just say—I appreciate it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say, and take a deep breath. I think of my mother at that other rally with Patton. “I’m just not that into politics.”
Daneca turns around in her seat to look at me incredulously. “Oh?” She doesn’t seem mad, more amused.
“Deathwërk’s playing later,” Sam says, steering the hearse out of the parking lot as he steers the conversation away from me. “We’ll probably get there in time for Bare Knuckles.”
“Bands? Really? I was imagining less fun, more marching with placards,” I say.
Daneca grins. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of placards. The march goes past city hall to Lincoln Park—that’s where the bands are supposed to perform. There are going to be speeches, too.”
“Well, good,” I say. “I would hate to think we’re giving up valuable studying time for anything less than a—”
