notifications on her phone. There were too many requests coming in from local affiliates, and she’d already told the BBC she’d grant them initial footage. She maneuvered her way to the front of the crowd, and though she was mostly preparing for a good, accurate report, part of her, while she waited for the video call to come in, marveled at a realization:
Before lock-in night, she’d had these visions of the story she’d been assigned to write about the evening, the fluff piece which in the end had never seen the light of day, propelling her into her journalistic career. A far-fetched fantasy, of course. But that was the lock-in night lore, after all. It made dreams come true. And now, as she positioned herself in front of the mayhem, framing Omar’s half-present body over her left shoulder and prepared to go live on-air, she knew that, though she would still have many steps to go through, years of school, a lot to learn, even more to prove, lock-in night had delivered.
* * *
It wasn’t lost on Amira that rock climbing was supposed to have been the final event in the decathlon. Not that this was quite like rock climbing. No harness, the side of a building, the rain. At least it had enough chipped pieces of brick and gaps for her fingers, enough window ledges and metal pipes to make it feasible. Her fingers were still strong, thank God, and she’d switched into her running shoes before leaving the building, and these had a decent enough grip on the wet exterior.
What would happen when she reached Jordi—if she reached him—she didn’t know. For the moment it didn’t matter. It only mattered that she could find somewhere higher to place her feet, her fingers. She reached the bottom of the second-floor window and had to kick her right leg halfway through her pull-up in order to rise up onto its ledge. Peering into the window, she noticed that it was the green room, and she could see Malik Harris reading without a care in the world. He didn’t notice her.
* * *
Below, the crowd was breathless. A few parents, unable to just stand around and not do something, were going around the school looking for ladders. They came by after a few minutes with an almost comically small one, barely past where Amira had reached within ten seconds of climbing. The elementary kids wondered what these parents were doing running down the halls, knocking on doors. They knew it must have something to do with the high school, but the shades had been drawn hours ago to keep them from staring out the windows, even though the high school was barely visible with them up.
Other parents looked to the school gates constantly, wondering if a fire truck was going to make it through the goddamn traffic in time, what with it being a Friday and traffic in the city never letting up. The cops put up their shields to keep others from getting closer, but no one was willing to chase after Amira.
The kids who’d been around on lock-in night but had left the building for one reason or another—to play laser tag, to grab some food truck tacos, to hide a secret stash of vinegar-filled water balloons for the upperclassmen versus underclassmen war that would never come—who’d felt like something had been missing from them this whole time, looked at the broken window and knew it’d be over soon, and they wondered if they’d feel like themselves again.
No one wanted to believe Jordi might die.
Mrs. Nudel, who couldn’t help but think that was Dov up there swinging from the building, didn’t even let herself think the word. The board members, four of them now in attendance, cursed themselves that it had taken so long to meet a teenager’s demands.
Why had they fought so hard against her? Why had they fought so passively for the things she wanted? A cleaner world, with more reefs to explore, to keep their oceans alive and healthy. Was that so bad? A world without students hanging off their building. All of those who’d gone diving had loved it. Now a boy’s life was in the balance, and what a precarious balance it was.
* * *
The only person who seemed to not be looking at the scene unfolding above was Arthur Pierce, who was yelling into his phone over the wind, not even noticing his assistant, distracted like everyone else, had shifted unconsciously toward the