say about it). For the first time at CIS, Celeste was part of a group, however informal. She thought about that other Celeste who existed in some parallel dimension still in Glen Ellyn, growing instead of shrinking. The thought alone didn’t cause her to shrink further, like it might have not long ago.
Instead, she tapped Kenji on the knee, leaned over and whispered, “Tell me more.”
Kenji jumped slightly at her touch, and adjusted his glasses. His heart was still thundering in his chest, though the tensions had dissipated a few minutes ago when everyone had decided to sit. The parents were yelling, and he was sure he could hear his dad’s nasal, stiff voice booming through a megaphone. He looked at Marisa, then back at Celeste, panicked for a moment that someone had connected the dots between him and Marisa’s demand for Lokoloko Island.
“About improv,” Celeste said. She couldn’t imagine there was more to say, but she’d be happy to hear every word again, happy to sit in this informal group and be part of a conversation.
He hesitated, looking furtively at the crowd as though speaking about improv might set them off again. Before Kenji could work up a response, he saw Peejay lean forward behind Celeste. “You’re one of those improv kids,” he said, snapping his fingers at Kenji.
Kenji stammered for a while, but then Celeste (a gleam in her eye) answered for him. “Yes, and...?”
* * *
Throughout all this, Mr. Gigs had been climbing up and down the stairs, traipsing across the school to ask Marisa questions on the board’s behalf and deliver her answers to Ms. Duli. No one seemed to consider the option of the board speaking directly to Marisa, or of messaging with her via cell phone. Mr. Gigs was glad to get his steps in for the day, though, to not be tethered like his coworkers to researching some demand or another, or stationed at the library to make sure no one was doing inappropriate things on the computers.
Now he crossed the foyer again, a pep in his step, a paper scrap in his hand. Those who had paid attention to his role as messenger perked up when they saw him, taking note of his smile. Marisa, woozy though she still was, knew what was coming.
Amira rose to her feet when Mr. Gigs approached, a bodyguard at the ready, though Paul Gigs had never once in his life looked menacing. He slowed down and smiled, raising the paper up between two fingers like a cigarette. “I bring good news.” Heads turned. All over the foyer, those sinking into despair and rage cocked their ears. Good news? They could hardly remember the phrase. Those who had plugged into their devices and were playing games, watching videos, posting updates, messaging friends looked away from the phone for a second, thumbs still hovering over the screen. In the darkened closet where he’d hidden himself from the night’s events, Pok Tran opened a single eye, like a cat hearing something moving in the dark and trying to suss out whether it was worth getting up and chasing.
Amira turned to Marisa. Marisa nodded at Mr. Gigs’s raised hand. “What’s that?”
Mr. Gigs offered it gently to Amira, as if it was obvious that all communiqués directed for Marisa would now have to go through her. Amira inspected the hand-size piece of paper, clearly ripped hastily from some student’s forgotten notebook. Then, realizing she didn’t know what she was supposed to be inspecting it for (some sort of danger? Poison? A weapon?) she stepped over to Marisa, holding it out, surprised to find herself hoping Marisa would brush her fingers when she reached for it.
To everyone’s disappointment, Marisa only raised an eyebrow at it. Mr. Gigs’s shoulders sagged and he tried to sound cheerful when he said, “They’re meeting one of your demands.”
A jolt worked its way through the crowd, as if they’d all heard it at the same time (though there was no way, what with the parents shouting outside, the constant murmuring din bouncing off the high ceilings).
Marisa gave him such a mocking look he was instantly thankful he’d never had to stare the girl down in class. Then she grabbed the note from Amira’s fingers (quick, wonderful brush of index finger against palm, the kind of touch that made hands brushing together famous) and read it. CIS held its collective breath.
It was a single demand, they knew. They’d heard Mr. Gigs. And they could see the long, numbered