The Epidemic (15 page)

I look up and accidentally lock eyes with a tall, long-haired boy. I’m quick to dart my gaze away, but not soon enough. He sits down and leans toward another guy. Both look at me. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and twitch my mouth to the side as I wait impatiently.

The bell rings, and the teacher still isn’t in class. But with half of the room now checking me out, I decide to move forward and slip into one of the empty seats nearest the back. I’m starting to regret thinking school was a good idea.

But at least now that I’m seated, the other students must feel more comfortable, because most go back to chatting among
themselves. The boy in front of me turns around and smiles, wide-mouthed. His hair falls over his left eyes in a goofy yet endearing way.

“Mr. Roth’s been late a lot lately,” he says. “But he eventually makes it.”

I nod and smile as if this is a conversation I’ve had before. He turns back around, and I take the time to look around the room, analyze the students who are in here.

I notice a girl on her phone, texting. At that moment another girl pulls her phone out of her backpack. And they’re not the only ones. I assumed phones weren’t allowed, but I guess it doesn’t count if the teacher isn’t here yet.

I take out my phone and text Deacon.
IS IT NORMAL FOR THE TEACHER TO BE LATE TO CLASS?
I ask.

UH . . . NOT USUALLY. NO.

I look up again and check the time. The teacher is five minutes late into a fifty-minute period. No one else seems to care, but I find it strange.

YOU DECIDED TO ACTUALLY GO TO SCHOOL?
Deacon writes.
SO HOW’S THE FIRST DAY?

WELL, NO VIRGINIA YET. AND I’M THE WEIRD NEW KID.

HA!
he writes.
THINK ABOUT HOW THEY’D REACT IF THEY KNEW WHO YOU REALLY WERE AND THEN ENJOY BEING THAT WEIRD NEW KID.

GOOD POINT
.

The door at the front of the room suddenly opens, and I watch my classmates scramble to put away their phones. The teacher walks in, and I’m surprised by how young he is—early
twenties. His hair is disheveled, and his tie isn’t quite knotted correctly. He holds a stack of papers, and, without making eye contact with any of us, he hands some to the first person in each row to pass back.

“Answer these questions,” he says in a low voice. “When you finish, just turn them over on your desks. I’ll collect them after you leave.” He doesn’t notice me at all.

A few students exchange looks, and I read that this is out of the ordinary for Mr. Roth. He sits at his oversize desk and stares at an empty desk near the front. After a moment he puts his head in his hands. I see a boy next to that desk sniffle. A girl wipes her eyes.

I bet Roderick was in this class. That was his seat.

The guy in front of me passes back the paper and, to my relief, asks if I need to borrow a pencil. I thank him when he hands it to me. When I look down at the paper, I’m surprised that it has nothing to do with math.

In the past day have you felt lonely or overwhelmed?

Unease crawls up my arms at the invasiveness of the question.
What sort of quiz is this?
I turn to look at the other students, each of them also seeming perplexed and uncomfortable. One boy raises his hand, but the teacher ignores him.

“Uh, Mr. Roth,” a girl toward the back calls. When he lifts his head, his eyes are rimmed in red, and he seems to stare
right through her. I hear the boy in front of me curse under his breath.

The sound of the fire alarm blasts through the room, and I jump so hard I bang my elbow on the corner of the desk. It’s enough to break the spell in the room, though: Mr. Roth gets up from his seat and tells all of us to head outside.

So much for the normal high school experience. This place is messed up. They have no right to ask those questions. And more importantly, who gets to interpret the answers?

I pass through the doorway where Mr. Roth is standing, lost in his head. His eyes drift to me, but he doesn’t register that I’ve never been his student before. I wonder if all the teachers and staff are like this. I wonder if they’re all feeling completely helpless to stop their students from dying.

I follow the line of people through the hall and out the side door to a large field on the side of the building. I glance around for Virginia but still don’t see her. If it weren’t for her car, I would assume she wasn’t here today.

The shrill ringing of the fire alarm cuts off, leaving its echo hanging momentarily in the wind. The crowd is silent around me, but as I look around, I start to realize why. They’re not confused, worried. They’re shocked. And yet they’ve obviously done this before.

A new siren starts, and I feel a sick twist in my stomach when I see the ambulance pull up. A dark-haired girl standing next to me begins to cry.

“It’s Micah Thompson,” she sobs. “He’s dead.”

I immediately turn back to the building, panic and horror washing over me. Micah Thompson—the guy that Virginia talked to at the party. Her
favorite
.

I watch the paramedics rush in, the lack of police involvement. The devastated and subdued faces of the teachers. And I realize that Micah committed suicide—right now. Right here. That was the alarm.

AS WE WAIT IN THE
empty space near the building, a tall black man in a steel gray suit and a lemon yellow tie approaches. He stops in front of the crowd of students and holds up his hands, waving them to get everyone’s attention. By his authoritative stance, I assume he’s the principal.

“Students,” he calls. “Please, quiet down.” When he’s mostly got everyone’s attention, he adjusts his tie; his other hand is balled into a fist at his side. “Due to a medical emergency, classes are dismissed for the day. We ask—”

There is an immediate murmur in the crowd, and the principal holds up his hand once again to silence them, raising his voice. “We ask that you head directly home. Your parents have been notified of the shortened school day and will be expecting you. Now please, gather your belonging and leave campus
immediately.” I see him flinch. “And please avoid the English wing for now,” he adds. “For students who need to retrieve their items from those classrooms, the teachers will bring everything to the front office momentarily.”

The world is dazed, and the scene outside the school is somber as people make their way to the parking lot or start walking home. There are murmurs of details of Micah’s death, but they vary wildly, and I know I’ll have to wait for the real story. I’m just sorry that it happened. I’ll need to find Virginia and make sure she’s okay.

As I walk, I’m grateful that the news trucks are temporarily gone. I imagine that a producer, upon hearing the news, will curse for missing out on this
story
. Bloodthirsty media.

I take out my phone, ready to text Deacon, and nearly bump into two girls who are hugging and crying. I apologize, but they don’t seem to notice through their haze of grief. I sidestep them, and as I cross onto the blacktop, the stillness of one person among all the moving parts catches my attention.

My heart seizes, and I do what I can not to react, but he must read my pause. The guy leaning against the hood of his red sports car like a goddamn
GQ
model meets my eyes and then turns away as if I don’t interest him. But a small smile tugs at his lips.

I recognize him, of course—he looks exactly the same. Reed Castle, a good-looking closer who’s good at his job, too. A closer who I know. But more importantly, a closer who knows me. He used to be one of Marie’s.

After what happened with Roger back in Eugene, I can’t be sure of Reed’s motives: if he’s here on a normal assignment or if he’s here to pick me up for the grief department. But now that I know the options, I’m not about to be scared away.

I straighten my back, trying to look unrattled, and head in his direction. I’m not granted his attention again until I stop next to him, resting my hip against his car. Reed looks over at me, and his striking blue eyes catch the sunlight, making him squint. He’s classically handsome with black hair and an ultrasharp jaw. He’s always been just a little too perfect.

“Quinlan McKee,” he says, drawing out my name, “you’re more beautiful than ever.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps straining his sleeves, and smiles as he looks over.

“What are you doing here, Reed?” I ask pleasantly, although I’m sure he can hear the hostility underneath it.

He snorts a laugh. “Uh . . . not going to school,” he says, nodding toward the building in amusement. “What the hell are you up to? And don’t tell me it’s calculus.”

“This isn’t a good time for jokes,” I say.

“I gathered that,” he responds seriously. “But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. This place is falling apart. That why you’re here?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter why I’m here,” I say. “I don’t work for the grief department anymore.” This seems to surprise him, and he turns toward the school to hide his expression. “But you,”
I continue now that I know I have the upper hand, “you work for Christopher, right?”

“Dr. Levi,” he corrects, as if I’m being rude. “Yep. Ever since I moved to Tillamook. I’m here to check on a girl.” He turns back to me, and I hitch up an eyebrow. “A client, of course,” he clarifies. “Keep your scandalous thoughts to yourself, McKee. I’m researching.”

“This might sound weird,” I say, appreciating a moment of honest conversation, the kind I can have only with another closer, “but I randomly thought of you the other day.”

“Weird that it was random,” he says.

I laugh. “Sorry you’re not always on my mind, Reed. I’ve been kind of busy.”

He nods, watching a group of students round the building. “I think we’ve all been busy,” he says, his eyes searching for someone in the crowd. I realize that I should be doing the same. I push off his car.

“How long are you in town for?” I ask him.

“Few days,” he says. “You?”

I smile my answer, making him chuckle and turn away. He knows I’m not going to tell him my plans. Even if I had an assignment, closers are usually private, even secretive. It’s how we maintain our sense of self. There’s a twist in my stomach. Even when we’re not sure who that really is anymore.

“See you around,” I tell him.

“Probably,” Reed says. He must know that I’m involved in something bigger than a typical school day. I’m the best closer the
grief department has ever had—it’s not like I can just start a normal life, not without some fallout. But he hides his suspicion well.

I say good-bye and leave, seeing Virginia’s car still parked in the same spot. I head in that direction to wait, hoping she’ll be here soon. As I pause near the driver’s door, I take out my phone and text Deacon.

I RAN INTO A CLOSER AT SCHOOL JUST NOW,
I write.

WHO?
he asks.

REED CASTLE.

YOU OKAY?

YEAH,
I write.
HE SAID HE’S RESEARCHING AN ASSIGNMENT. INTERESTING TIMING.

TRUE. WE’LL KEEP AN EYE ON HIM. SO . . . HOW HANDSOME DID HE LOOK?

I laugh.
VERY.

FIGURES. ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY BACK?

THERE’S MORE,
I type, gnawing on my lip.
THEY CANCELED THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY.

WHY?

THEY SAID IT WAS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY, BUT PEOPLE AROUND ME SAID IT WAS THIS GUY MICAH,
I tell him.
HE’S ONE OF VIRGINIA’S FRIENDS. I THINK IT WAS A SUICIDE.

WHERE’S VIRGINIA NOW?
Deacon asks.

My heart stops dead in my chest. What if it wasn’t just Micah? What if . . . ? Oh, God. Virginia might have needed help, and just like with Roderick at the party, I could have let her walk right past me.

I lower the phone, about to run back into the building to
find out if it’s true. But just as I look up, I see Virginia walking in my direction. My entire body sighs with relief.

FOUND HER
, I type quickly, and then slide my phone into my back pocket and rush ahead.

“Hey,” I call, slightly out of breath. “Are you okay? I heard it was Micah?”

She slows her steps and stares at me for a moment, her eyes slightly narrowed as if she’s trying to place me. Her hair is perfectly straightened; her clothes look new and stiff. And there isn’t even a flicker of recognition in her expression.

“Micah?” she asks, as if she’s never heard the name before. She holds out her key ring and unlocks her door. “And who are you again?” she adds. I’m at once offended and concerned.

“I’m Liz,” I tell her, pointing to myself awkwardly. “We . . . met Friday. We had dinner and went to a party together.”

She turns suddenly, nearly dropping the books in her hands. “We were there?” she asks. “The party on the news?”

Now it’s my turn to look perplexed. “Yes,” I say. Then I think of the ride home and how she told me to remind her if she forgot about the night.
How could she forget?

“Virginia, what’s going on?” I ask. “You told me you might not remember, but . . . wait,
do
you remember?”

Two news vans turn onto the street, pull into the school lot, and park near us. Quickly, several reporters and people with cameras jump out and begin to set up their equipment.

Virginia opens her car door. “Get in,” she tells me, and drops down on the seat and slams her door shut. She starts
the engine, and I jog around the car, hoping she won’t leave without me. I’m completely taken aback by her behavior, and I don’t want her off on her own.

I climb in the passenger side, and without a word Virginia drives away from the school, speeding through a yellow light as we head west. I think about texting Deacon to let him know what’s happening, but after the way Virginia thought the waitress was spying on her, I don’t want to feed into her paranoia.

I look sideways at her and see how she’s paled, even beneath the perfect veneer of her hair and clothes. She’s falling apart, no matter how well she tries to hide it.