Incoming call from Terrell
Why is Terrell calling me? He knows today is the day of the ball.
“Hello?”
“Are you at school yet?” Terrell asks.
“Yeah, I’m just waiting for the journalists to arrive, why?” I say, lowering my voice.
“I’m here,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“Hey,” Terrell says, but this time his voice isn’t coming from my phone. I turn and he’s standing there, dressed in black, like he’s here for a funeral. Black shirt, black jeans, black sneakers. I don’t think I’ve seen Terrell wear so little color before.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, still shocked.
It doesn’t feel like he’s real.
“I needed to tell you something… I thought about telling you after tonight, when everything calmed down or when you weren’t asoverwhelmed. But that’s not fair to you. I won’t blame you for hating me after this, okay? I just want you to know I’m so, so sorry—”
“Terrell? What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling breathless.
“I should have told you a long time ago, but… I was scared.” I look at him closely. His eyes are glassy, like he’s about to cry.
“What is it?” I ask. My heart is racing.
Terrell looks away from me for a moment.
“I… I helped your school—I helped Niveus spy on you.”
40
CHIAMAKA
Thursday
Ms. Donovan messages me that she’s here and so I text Devon:
They’re here
I push myself up from my seat and walk toward the door, but as I approach it, the door begins to open.
I step back, looking for somewhere to quickly hide myself. I pull one of the chairs out, ready to duck under the table, my mask falling off in the haste just as the door swings open and Jamie walks in.
There’s a cold expression on his pretty face. His hair is shorter than when I last saw it; his suit is a crisp, dark blue, with a black bow strangling his neck.
“Hello, Chiamaka,” he says, voice filled with venom. He takes his hand out from his pocket and brings out his favorite lighter. When he presses it down, a gentle flame appears, and then disappears.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, proud of myself for not stuttering or stepping back. I stand here, with my arms folded, staring him down in the same way he stares at me.
“Should be asking you that. You’re not welcome here.”
I laugh. “Who made you God? My parents pay my tuition—I’m more than welcome here,” I say.
He steps forward, pressing the lighter down once again, letting the flame come as fast as it goes. The lighter has his name engraved into the gold exterior. His hands are wrapped around it tightly, like he’s scared to lose it.
Jamie and his lighter remind me of a spoiled child and their favorite toy. I always thought his love for fire was born from camp, but I bet his twisted desire to watch things burn and become ash began before then. While other children played with dolls and trucks, Jamie probably played with this. Watched the flame swirl to life and then die, over and over until it became his obsession.
