“I… It went viral. I was going to tell you, but I only just saw when I was coming here. It has over twenty-four thousand likes. A lot of people believe us.”
My eyes widen.Twenty-four thousand?Wow.
“Besides, didn’t you confront that girl who told you about what they’re doing? Don’t you think she might have let Niveus know that we know everything already? Things are already worse for us,” Devon says.
I swallow at the thought of Belle. I hadn’t even considered that. Hadn’t even thought about her, or the fact I’ll be seeing her tonight. My chest squeezes a little.
I need a drink.
I stand quickly. “Do you want a drink?”
“Like, alcohol?” Devon asks.
“Yes, like alcohol,” I say.
He nods.
“Let’s go to the basement,” I say, and he follows me out of my room and down two flights of stairs into the basement. It’s built like an underground bar, with chairs and everything. I open up one ofthe liquor cabinets and I take out a bottle of Chardonnay, placing it on the island.
I get out two wineglasses and pour some into each, before sliding one over to Devon.
I don’t even really like the taste of it, but I know it will help me relax a little. I only poured half a glass so that we wouldn’t betoorelaxed or out of it, just enough to give us some liquid courage. I pick up the glass and raise it toward Devon.
“What should we drink to, Richards?” I ask.
He looks up for a moment before lifting his glass too.
“To destroying Niveus Academy,” he says.
“To destroying Niveus,” I repeat.
39
DEVON
Thursday
We get to the back entrance of the school, our masks covering our faces.
In the distance, there are people screaming, students laughing as they enter the building.
Chiamaka takes out the key for the back entrance and quickly unlocks the door, and we both step in. We agreed to go into Morgan Library and wait there for the journalist, Ms. Donovan, and her camera crew. We chose Morgan both because Chiamaka wanted to grab the yearbook from 1965 to take in with us for physical proof and also the convenience of it having no cameras.
We turn in to Morgan. Chiamaka walks up to the first bookcase and bends down, grabbing a blue hardcover book from the shelf.
“Got it,” she says, opening it up and flipping through some of the pages. She has a small clutch tucked under her arm, holding the posters and printouts for later, when we have to get up in front of everyone.
I swallow, feeling nervous as I scan the huge library.
I feel like someone is watching.
“Could you go and wait outside by the back door entrance, be on the lookout for the journalist and her crew? She said they are almost here,” Chiamaka says.
I nod.
When I get to the back door, the area smells like smoke. The fun and games are already beginning. People love to drink and smoke and pull pranks each year and then tell the lower-years all about it, getting them excited for the day they’ll become seniors and do the same. It’s weird that this is what excites them, as if they don’t already do this at home all the time: drinking, smoking, meddling with people’s lives. But I guess there is something about doing it at school, right under the teachers’ and donors’ noses, that thrills them.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out.
