to lunchtime routines out on the soccer field, for not memorizing every inch of the building as a contingency.
His first idea, fun though it would be, was a little too ridiculous to pull off, even for lock-in night. He had this image of Diego catapulting some supplies up, or maybe using a giant slingshot. Was it open air? It must have been. Everyone called it the roof garden, and what garden would be closed to the world?
There was, ostensibly, a way for the booze and the earphones to land safely. He’d need only enough pillows and sweatshirts and blankets, of which there were plenty thanks to the movie marathon upstairs. But even if all the fragile goods made a safe landing, surely the DJ would object to arrival via catapult. That was, if Peejay (or rather, Diego) could even find the materials to build a blasted catapult in a matter of hours.
A not completely implausible solution might be a helicopter. Peejay was a scholarship student, and obviously had no access to one. He would bet, though, that among his classmates, someone was a phone call away from a chopper. After all, Hamish wouldn’t have been able to pay off the bribes or hire the staff to dig his secret party room without the help of some CIS endowments.
Whether a chopper could land or deliver supplies or be paid for somehow were all bridges to cross at a later time.
“Does anyone here have a helicopter?”
The question took those in his vicinity by surprise. Not that they all thought it was ridiculous—they could immediately name someone they knew whose family or whose parents’ corporation or place within this or that government gave them such access—but they were surprised Peejay’s mind was elsewhere while they all discussed what should be done with Marisa.
He could have easily rolled his eyes and said, “It’s for the party,” and they’d all pull out their phones or make their way around the auditorium tapping on shoulders. That was exactly the problem, though, word spreading that the party was potentially in jeopardy. These blessed Sea Cucumbers needed to hang on to some hope, and being reminded that the party might be canceled, too, might be too much for their poor hearts to take.
Peejay hadn’t believed Ms. Duli’s threat of being sent home for a single second. He had watched the lunk/hunk swallow the keys, had seen the steadfast belief in Marisa’s eyes. Barring some sudden onset of food poisoning, or forcing laxatives down the protestors’ throats (which the board would never approve), they were going to be here for a few hours at least. So the party would happen. It had to. The longer they stayed here, the more people would need the party. If lock-in activities were suspended indefinitely, it was the only thing that could possibly salvage the evening. And Peejay’s plan still allowed for that to happen, if the supplies were around. It’d be more difficult, sure, but that would make it all the more satisfying.
But if these heartbroken masses caught wind that the party had been stripped from them, they might lay down and die on the spot, or kill that poor girl at the entrance. Peejay would not be able to control them. He was about to say, “Forget it,” when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
“My family does, why?” It was Robby Maldonado, whose dad owned a series of sugar refineries.
Peejay leaned in and whispered what he was thinking, taking careful note of Robby’s expression to see if the plan was genius or crazy. But the damn, sweet heir to the sugar throne had a good poker face until the end, when he furrowed his brow. “Dude. Isn’t the roof completely covered in glass?”
6
9:25PM
Word began to spread: the school had decided to break the chains.
Excitement built in the auditorium as teachers mobilized up and down the aisles, searching for tools. The students were going to be freed.
With each teacher who left the room, the murmurs grew, as did the anticipation, and the guessing. The proclamations got bolder. A blowtorch had been found. The doors had already opened. Marisa was under arrest.
They didn’t care that there was no evidence of any of this, that the teachers kept coming back empty-handed, disappointment all over their faces. It was going to happen. Any minute now, they’d have lock-in night back.
* * *
Ms. Duli, though, expected her coworkers would all come back with nothing; she remembered Marisa’s papers were well-researched, and had assumed the girl had