He chuckled. “Beat the record for people on a motorbike,” he said.
“No way.”
“Six and a puppy.”
“Where was this?”
“We all saw it while eating at that spot by the Laundromat,” he said. In the silence that followed, they both sensed Celeste’s absence.
Rather than fall into it, Celeste said, “Dad, I need your help.”
She heard him stop moving, the background noise increasing as he shuffled around, then reducing enough that it felt as if he’d somehow found a closet at the metro station to lock himself into. “Anything, baby. Say the word.”
Celeste explained the situation, since her dad hadn’t seen the news yet, and her mom hadn’t woken up yet to share it with him. “We’ve got to help her get out. And the only way we can is to up the pressure. Can you guys, like, I don’t know, call the embassy?”
“Hon, we moved here to avoid our government’s bullshit.” He sighed. “But let me call some friends and see what we can stir up stateside. You know your momma and I know how to shout a little.”
“Mostly Mom.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me.” He laughed. Another pause and Celeste thought maybe he was going to ask the obvious question about Marisa not opening the door. Thankfully, if he had doubts he kept them to himself. “You still good in there?” he asked, his voice soft. For the first time all morning, Celeste realized she would soon see her parents again, her brothers. That she’d see their faces, smell their scents, feel their wonderful familiar touch, the way her mom would give her upper arm a squeeze whenever she was happy with her, her dad’s top-of-the-head kisses.
“Still good,” she said.
* * *
In the library, far from Marisa and her cronies, Jordi Marcos gathered the group that rivaled Marisa’s Protectors, though they hadn’t thought to give themselves a snappy name. He read Peejay’s email again, and tossed his phone to the floor.
“I can’t believe she’s not letting us out now,” Jordi said. They were sprawled on beanbags, books splayed on their laps to make it look like they were in study hall. No one took attendance anymore, but appearances still mattered. “It’s Peejay’s fault, I bet. My plan would have worked if it weren’t for him. He wants us to stay stuck in here.”
There were six of them total, Dov included, still a little shaken from his fall and the sight of Marisa’s leg.
“We can’t let her keep getting her way,” Jordi continued, every word striving for the fire his dad could conjure. “I don’t buy it for a second. I think she’s just trying to get us to pressure the school and the parents so she can win. But we can’t let her.”
Shmuli Rogers shifted. “I actually kind of agree with some of her environm—” The way the others looked at him made him reconsider. “Never mind.”
Jordi was getting that look again, the one that had led him to shout during the first assembly, the one he had when he’d started throwing things at Marisa on lock-in night. The look he’d had the morning after, when he’d gathered his allies and planned a breakout. They’d talked day and night about how, until finally someone had suggested making themselves sick. Dov himself had tweaked the plan to an injury, since it was easier to fake or even cause. They’d have to make it look like an accident, of course, and had drawn straws to see who would let themselves slip from the rope. They hadn’t expected the degree of the break, or that Marisa wouldn’t give in right away.
“So, what do we do?” Anna Vuli said, a sophomore who’d joined the group simply because she liked scheming.
“Whatever we can to stop demands from getting met,” Jordi responded. “Whatever we can to get out. Tell people she’s hurting us so the cops come rushing in. Tell them she’s planning on blowing us up. I don’t know, I don’t care. But we can’t let her get her way. She doesn’t get to do this.”
* * *
Joy watched her brother bring in another bag of plastic. He alone didn’t seem changed by the morning’s events; he just kept taking the bags under the bleachers, where he’d been taking them ever since the day after lock-in night, reemerging from the shadows with the bags emptied. All over school, people were scouring their phones for ways to hasten their departure.