He nodded, then walked back toward the hallway door. Foley returned her gaze to the remains of Scout’s room, then fixed her stare on Lesley. “Ms. Barnaby, could you excuse us, please?”
Lesley looked at me, eyebrows raised as if making sure I’d be okay alone with Foley. When I nodded, she said, “Sure,” then left the room. A second later, her bedroom door opened and closed.
When we were alone, Foley crossed her arms over her chest and gazed at me. “Has Ms. Green been involved in anything unusual of late?”
I wanted to ask her if secret meetings of magically enhanced teenagers constituted “unusual,” but given the circumstances, I held back on the sarcasm.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I finally said, which was mostly the truth. I think what Foley would consider “unusual” was probably pretty average for Scout.
Then Foley blew that notion out of the water.
“I’m aware,” she said, “of Ms. Green’s aptitude as, let’s say, a Junior Varsity athlete.”
I stared at her in complete silence . . . and utter shock.
“Youknow ?” I finally squeaked out.
“I am the headmistress of this school, Ms. Parker. I am aware of most everything that occurs within my jurisdiction.”
The ire I’d been suppressing bubbled back to the surface. “So you know what goes on, and you let it happen? You let Scout run around in the middle of the night, put herself in danger, and you ignore it?”
Foleys’s gaze was flat and emotionless. She walked back to Scout’s door, closed it, then turned to me again, hands clasped in front of her—all business. “You presume that I let these things happen without an understanding of their severity, or of the risk that Ms. Green faces?” She’d spoken it like a question, but I assumed it was rhetorical.
“I will assume, Ms. Parker, that you are concerned about the well-being of your friend. I will assume that you are speaking from that concern, and that you have not actually considered the consequences of speaking to me in that tone.”
My cheeks bloomed with heat.
“Moreover,” she continued, moving to one of Scout’s bookshelves and righting a toppled paper house, “regardless of what you think of my motivations or my compassion, rest assured that I understand all too well what Ms. Green and her colleagues are facing, and likely better than you do, your incident in the basement notwithstanding.”
The house straightened, she turned and looked at me again. “Do we understand each other?”
I couldn’t hold it back any longer, couldn’t keep the words from bubbling out. “Where are my parents?”
Her eyes widened. “Your parents?”
I couldn’t help it, potential danger or not. “I got . . . some information. I want to know where my parents are.”
I expected more vitriol, more words to remind me of my position: Me—student; Her—authority figure. But instead, there was compassion in her eyes.
“Your parents are in Munich, Ms. Parker, just as they informed you. Now, however, is not the time to be distracted by the nature of their work. And more important, you should put some faith in the possibility that your parents informed you of the things they believed you should know.
The things they believed it was safest for you to know. Do you understand?”
I decided that whatever they were involved in was unlikely to change in the next few hours; I could push Foley for information later. Scout’s situation, on the other hand, needed to be dealt with now, so I nodded.
“Very well.” And just like that, she was back to headmistress. “I cannot forgo calling Ms.
Green’s parents forever, nor can I forgo contacting the Chicago Police Department if she is, in reality, missing. But the CPD is not aware of her unique talents. Those unique talents—and the talents of her friends—provide her with certain resources. If the state of her room indicates that she is in the hands of those who would bring harm to people across the city, then those friends are the best to seek her out and bring her back.” She raised her eyebrows, as if willing me to understand the rest of what she was getting at.
“I can tell them,” I said. “Scout said they’re meeting at five o’clock.”
Foley smiled, and there seemed to be appreciation in her eyes. “Very good,” she said.
“The only problem is,” I said, “I don’t know exactly where they are. I’ve only been to the,
um,meeting room once, and I don’t think I could find it again. And even if I did,” I added, before she could interrupt, “they don’t think I’m one of them.” That might change once they discovered my fledgling power, but I doubt Scout had had time to update them. “So even if I can get there,
they may not listen to me.”
“Ms. Parker, while I understand the nature of their work, I, like most Chicagoans, am not privy to the finer details of their existence. I am aware, however, that there are markers—coded markers—that guide the way to the enclave. Just follow the tags. And once you arrive,make them listen.” She turned around and disappeared into the common room. A second later, I heard the door to the hallway open and close again.
It was three forty-five, which gave me time to get to the enclave, except for one big problem.
“Just follow the tags?” I quietly repeated. I had no clue what that was supposed to mean.
But, incomprehensible instructions or not, I apparently had a mission to perform . . . and I needed supplies.
I grabbed Scout’s messenger bag—proof that she was missing—then left the room and shut the door behind me. When I was back in my room, I grabbed the flashlight I’d borrowed from Scout,
dumped the books out of her messenger bag and stuffed the flashlight inside. In a moment of Boy Scout-worthy brilliance, I grabbed some yellow chalk from my stash of art supplies and stuffed it, and my cell phone, into her bag, as well.
Hands on my hips, I glanced around my room. I wasn’t entirely sure what else to take with me,
and I didn’t really have a lot of friend-rescuing supplies to choose from.
“First aid kit,” said a voice in the doorway.
I glanced back, found Lesley there, already having ditched the uniform for a pleated cotton skirt and tiny T-shirt. In her hands was a pile of supplies.
“First aid kit,” she repeated, moving toward me and laying the pile on my bed. “Water. Granola bars. Flashlight. Swiss Army knife.” She must have seen the quizzical expression on my face, as her own softened. “I said I wanted to help,” she said, then returned her gaze to the bed. “I’m helping.”
The room was quiet for a minute as I took it all in.
“Thank you, Lesley. I appreciate it. Scout appreciates it.”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled absently, then moved toward the door. “Just make sure you tell her I helped.”
“As soon as I can,” I murmured, just hoping I’d have the opportunity totalk to Scout again. I stuffed the supplies into the bag, and had just closed the skull-and-crossbones flap when visitor number two darkened my doorway.
“So your weirdo friend’s gone AWOL?”
I glanced behind me. M.K. stood in the doorway, arms folded across a snug, white button- up shirt and the key on a silver chain that lay across it. She must have upgraded from ribbon.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I turned around again, picked up Scout’s bag, and slid the strap over one shoulder.
M.K. huffed. “Everyone is talking about it. Her room is trashed, and she’s gone. We all thought she was a flake. Now we have proof. She obviously went postal. She’s probably tearing around downtown Chicago in that gigantic coat, raving about vampires or something. I mean, have you seen her room? It was practically a fire hazard in there. About time someone cleaned it out.”