sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, mussing its usual perfect coif. Diego was still not answering his calls and time was ticking away. Sure, Peejay had arrived at parties at 1:00 a.m. before; not all was lost. But time was marching, the anger in the foyer was stewing, a party’s ability to ease their pain was fading. Some people might even be forgetting about the party. He’d seen it on Kenji’s face, clear as day, clear as the darling goofball’s blemish-free skin. The “oh, yeah” in his eyes. Peejay needed to find a way right now. “Sure,” he said to Kenji. “You be me. Who am I?”
The smile spread Kenji’s lips before he even started speaking. “The king of Spain!”
Peejay mussed his hair again. “What would the king of Spain be doing here? Why would he be talking to me?”
“Oh, right,” Kenji said, “we’re here.”
“Of course we’re here, where else would we be?” He pointed at Marisa.
“Okay, we’re here,” Kenji agreed. “You’re still king of Spain, though.”
Peejay opened his mouth to protest, but Celeste interrupted him. “You have to say yes. It’s a rule. Accept the situation and add to it.”
Kenji beamed. Nothing from Peejay’s phone yet, nothing on his mind, no clue how to get the booze in the building, how to get music in the building, no idea how to have his perfectly planned party under these circumstances, no ideas at all. He took a deep breath, thought of Hamish, whose life mantra happened to be “Say yes more.” “Okay,” he said.
He unfocused his eyes the way Kenji had, opened himself up to the world created for him. Then he dropped his voice and moved his arms as if he were walking. “I’m the king of Spain!” he shouted. “What is the meaning of all this? I came here for a party.”
People within earshot thought, Peejay’s lost it. They knew someone would eventually. Although it was a surprise (to everyone but Jordi Marcos) it would be Peejay Singh, they’d heard him say the word party and it made sense all of a sudden. Now they remembered. Their rage toward Marisa increased. Of course Peejay would be the one to lose it. The first Partyer in Chief to fail in his duties. Possibly the last one, and this was how he was going out. What a whimper with which to end lock-in night’s greatest tradition.
12
2:15AM
It was around 2:15 a.m. that the hunger pains really began to take hold. Everyone in the building had had the thought, of course. How will we get food? The cafeteria was outside of the high school, out of reach. It served such terrific French fries, fantastic chicken wings, and goulash, too. It hurt their stomachs just thinking about it, and they couldn’t help but count the hours until lunchtime came around (or maybe they’d even get out in time for the elementary kids’ earlier lunchtime, since the whole school shared the same cafeteria and traded off lunch schedules).
They’d pushed the thought away throughout the night, replacing it with the assurance that they’d be out of the building well before hunger would be an issue. Now they weren’t so sure. They imagined they could smell the salt wafting over from the cafeteria, somehow traversing walls, slipping in through those damn window slits. Their mouths were in a constant state of watering.
The ones who felt it worse hadn’t taken advantage of the food trucks in time, too wrapped up in lock-in activities to tear themselves away. Those who’d been upstairs watching movies, too, felt the unmistakable pang. They’d held off dinner with popcorn, and now their stomachs grumbled, having done away with all that could be absorbed.
In the green room, Malik reached for his kebab. He unwrapped it, instantly salivating at the sight. The smell wafted over to the teachers still holed up in the green room, as they answered phone calls or were called away by Ms. Duli to patrol. All four teachers in there now looked away from their phones and craned their necks toward Malik, nostrils flared to let in as much of the smell as possible. One of them let out an inadvertent whimper, and though all the others heard it, no one had the heart to laugh. They felt like whimpering, too. God, food. When would they have it again?
It had only been eight hours or so, at maximum, but it felt like they might never eat again. If they’d known that sad PB&J hastily made in their kitchens