“… when certain chemicals are mixed together, the wrong reaction can take place. For example, we hear about celebrities overdosing all the time. But it’s not necessarily because they taketoomuch of a particular drug…”
Something slides toward me—a note. I open it, looking at Jamie’s messy handwriting:
SORRY FOR LAUGHING ABOUT ACES.
I reply:
It’s giving me anxiety. I don’t know how you can find all of this funny.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as Jamie reads the note.
SORRY—AGAIN.
He seems sorry enough. I take the note between my fingers, and I hold my index finger out.
“Shake my hand and you will be forgiven.”
He smiles and shakes my finger like it’s a hand.
“… Sometimes it’s a matter of mixing things that don’t react well together. One popular example is alcohol and sleeping pills, which can trigger symptoms such as extreme drowsiness, memory loss, and in some unfortunate cases, death.”
I look up when Mr. Peterson says that.
“Besides,” Jamie continues, in a whisper, “I think Aces targeting other people is a sign. They know what your wrath looks like.”
My mind is still spinning as Mr. Peterson’s words echo inside. “You’re right,” I say, trying to shake off the sudden strange feeling I got. This sense of déjà vu.
But as soon as I say that, I hear the wicked green laugh of the universe, and, like a switch being flicked, a reprise of phones goes off.
I reach into my pocket, my heart hammering away against my shirt, and my stomach convulsing even more. I scan my phone. One notification from Unknown. I hear the hubbub of chatter around me as everyone starts to dissect the text.
[One picture attached]
We have a gangster among us, folks! Devon Richards, look at you. Hanging about on the wrong side of the tracks. What can be expected, when he makes frequent visits like these to very influential, and not to mention good-looking, drug dealers. Be careful, Vonnie, Juilliard isn’t too keen on criminal records. I hope he’s worth it.—Aces
There’s a photo of Devon standing by some building.
I read the text over, drumming my nails on the table. Who’d be that interested in Devon? This almost reads like an angry or jealous ex…
I tap my screen, selecting a contact I haven’t spoken to in months.
Hey, Scotty, it’s Chiamaka
I watch my screen, only looking up to check that Peterson’s focus is away from me. We are allowed to use our phones in school—just not during class. Apparently, they cause distractions. I bet the teachers never imagined anything likethis, though, when they made that rule. How can anyone concentrate when there’s a snake on the loose?
I drag my finger down the screen, tapping the table impatiently.
“Who are you texting?” Jamie whispers, startling me.
I whack him lightly. “None of your business. Focus on your work,” I say, before tilting the phone a little to block Jamie’s prying eyes from seeing.
The three dots appear, indicating that Scotty’s typing, and I sit up.
Long time no speak.
Just texting to ask a question, and I want a direct answer.I try to sound intimidating. I probably should have spoken to him at lunch, since my intimidation works better in person. But I wasn’t in the right headspace.
Ask away.
