“Oh.” I’m starting to sweat; my lip tastes salty as I chew it. “Okay. Well. Like that.”
I leave him to cabling while I start clearing the walkway of plastic tubs and broken lights and whatever detritus is in the way. The fire code says there has to be a clear path to the ladder in case of a fire, not that anyone is ever up here except during shows.
The work goes quicker with two. Liam gets the hang of wrapping cables, while I do all the little things it takes to make the catwalksafefire code compliant. I keep my space, because the catwalk wasn’t built for tall swimmers with broad shoulders who are too nice for their own good. Who help when they don’t have to, just because.
Who like my sister.
I’m tightening the last Leko down on the rail, just to get it out of the way—it’s got a broken reflector, but for some reason we’re not allowed to throw it away, the district has to “remove it from inventory”—when Liam comes up to me. He’s got a smear of black dirt under his left eye, so it looks like someone punched him.
“One of the lights get you?”
He cocks his head to the side. I point at his eye.
“What?” He pulls out his phone to study it in the front-facing camera. “Oh. Oops.”
He pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe at his face, giving me another front-row seat to his abs and left nipple.
I realize he said something.
“Huh?”
He drops the shirt and scratches at his arm. “Sorry. Are there somethingsomething? My arms keep itching.”
“It’s the lights.” I pinch the Leko’s power cord. “Fiberglass insulation. We’ve got scrubby soap downstairs.”
“Thank god.” He fingers the long sleeve of my black shirt. “I guess this makes sense.”
I nod. He’s hunched over me to avoid hitting his head on an air duct. Looming again.
I clear my throat. “You get all the cables?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s go before—”
The house lights in the theatre snap on. I lean over the rail to see. The principal, Mrs. Bashir, is crossing the stage, leading a man in black pants and a white polo shirt with a red-and-white patch on his chest. The fire marshal.
We’re trapped.
“We need to hide,” I say as quietly as I can. At least I hope it’s quiet.
Students aren’t allowed in the catwalk without teacher supervision.
Liam glances back toward the ladder, but I grab his hand. “No time.”
I lead him around the catwalk, trying to balance speed with stealth, until I come to one of the panels on the south side of the theatre.
When Riverstone High School was originally built, it didn’t include the second level with the Little Theatre; that got added on as an expansion in the 1970s. There are still weird hidey-holes in the catwalk, from where they connected the new part of the building to the old; most were drywalled up, but some were left with covers instead. I open the panel—a thin sheet of aluminum or something—and gesture Liam inside.
It’s dusty and small, just enough room for the two of us to sit inside, shoulders pressed together. I pull the panel closed, shutting us in darkness.
My whole side is pressed up against Liam, and I try to lean away so we’re not touching so much, because otherwise I will hyperventilate and die and that will definitely not be up to code.
But the sharp points of nails that weren’t completely filed off keep poking me, so I’m trapped against Liam’s firm side.
The air is getting hotter, Liam’s body heat turning the tiny space into an oven. He shifts against me and whispers something in my ear. I jerk away before he can cause any feedback in my hearing aid; not only is it painful, but it might give us away.
I pull my phone out and open the Notes app.
