I felt relief wash over me. "All right," I said. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Vine."
Shaking his head, Mr. Vine went back into the lounge. When the door closed, I heard him laughing.
But I didn't care. I had my audition. That's all that mattered.
Or at least, that's all that mattered to me, then. But as the day wore on, something else began to nag me.
And it wasn't the same thing that had been nagging me all week, either. I mean, the fact that somebody was going around, attacking cheerleaders, making threatening phone calls to the local psychic, and burning down her parents' restaurant.
No, it was something more than that. It was something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
It wasn't until the middle of seventh period that I realized what it was.
I was scared.
Seriously. I was walking around the hallways of Ernest Pyle High School, feeling frightened out of my mind.
Oh, not like I was a quivering mess, or anything. I wasn't going around, grabbing people and weeping into their shirtfronts.
But I was scared. I was scared about what was happening at home, at my house on Lumley Lane. The Feds were still watching it—heck, they were probably watching me, though I hadn't noticed any tails as I flitted through the hallways.
But that wasn't all. It wasn't just that I was scared. It was that I knew something was wrong. Something more than just Mastriani's exploding and Amber being dead and Heather hospitalized.
Look, I'm not saying it was a psychic thing. Not at all. Not then.
But there was definitely something not right going on, and it wasn't just that all these things had been happening, and the Feds, so far as I knew, didn't even have a suspect, let alone an arrest. It was more than that. It was …
Creepy.
Like the idea of being out a date with Skip. Only much, much worse.
Which was why, midway through seventh period, I couldn't take it anymore. I don't know. I guess I snapped. My hand shot up into the air before I knew what was happening.
And when Mademoiselle MacKenzie, not particularly thrilled to have me interrupt in the middle of our in-depth look at the never-ending battle of wills between Alix and Michel (Alix mes du sel dans la boule de Michel), asked, "Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Jessica?" and I went, in English, "I need the hall pass," she made no effort whatsoever to hide her annoyance.
"Can't you wait," she wanted to know, "for the bell?"
It was a logical question, of course. It was two-thirty. Only a half hour of school left.
But the answer was no. No, I couldn't wait. I couldn't even say why, but one thing I definitely knew I could not do was wait.
Disgusted, Mademoiselle MacKenzie handed me the wooden bathroom pass, and I beat it out of there before she could say "Au revoir."
But I didn't head for the bathroom. Instead, I went downstairs—the language labs are on the third floor—to the guidance office. I wasn't even sure why I was heading in that direction until I saw them. The doors to the guidance office, and across from it, the teachers' lounge.
That's when I knew. Claire. Claire, touching my shoulder, just before fifth period. She had wanted to tell me something, but she hadn't gotten the chance. Her eyes—those pretty blue eyes—had widened as she'd looked down at me, and filled—I knew it now, though at the time, I think I had been too worried about myself, and my stupid chair position, to notice—with fear.
Fear. Fear.
I burst into the guidance office and startled Helen, the secretary, half out of her wits.
"I need to know what class Claire Lippman's in," I said, throwing my books down onto her desk. "And I need to know now."
Helen stared up at me, her expression friendly but quizzical. "Jess," she said. "You know I can't just give you confidential student—"
"I need to know now!" I yelled.
The door to Mr. Goodhart's office opened. To my surprise, not just Mr. Goodhart, but also Special Agent Johnson, stepped out into the waiting area.
"Jessica?" Mr. Goodhart looked perplexed. "What are you doing here? What's wrong?"
Helen had hit the button on her computer keyboard that made Minesweeper, which she'd been playing, disappear. Now she was bringing up the student schedules. Mr. Goodhart noticed and went, "Helen, what are you doing?"
"She needs to know where Claire Lippman is," Helen said. "I'm just looking it up for her."
Mr. Goodhart looked more perplexed than ever. "You know you can't tell her that, Helen," he said. "That's confidential."
"Why do you need to know where this girl is, Jessica?" Special Agent Johnson asked. "Has something happened to her?"
"I don't know," I said. Which was the truth. I didn't know. Except …
Except that I did.
"I just need to know," I said. "Okay? She said she had something to tell me, but then she didn't get a chance to, because—"
"Claire Lippman," Helen said, "has PE seventh period."
"Helen!" Mr. Goodhart was genuinely shocked. "What's the matter with you?"
"Thanks," I said, gathering up my books and giving the secretary a grateful smile. "Thanks a lot."
I was almost out the door when Helen called, "Except that she isn't there, Jess...."
I froze.
And then slowly spun around.
"What do you mean, she isn't there?" I asked carefully.
Helen was studying her computer screen with a concerned expression. "I mean she isn't there," she said. "According to this afternoon's attendance rosters, Claire hasn't been in class since . . . fourth period."
"But that's impossible," I said. Suddenly I felt funny all over. Really. Like someone had shot me full of Novocain. My lips were numb. So were my arms, holding onto my books. "I saw her just before fifth."
"No," Helen said, reaching for some printouts. "It's right here. Claire Lippman has skipped fifth through seventh."
"Claire Lippman has never skipped a class in her life," Mr. Goodhart—who would know, being her guidance counselor—declared.
"Well," Helen said, "she has today."
I must have looked like I was going to pass out or something, because suddenly, Special Agent Johnson was at my side, holding onto my elbow, going, "Jess? Jessica? Are you all right?"
"No, I'm not all right," I said. "And neither is Claire Lippman."
C H A P T E R
19
It was my fault, of course.
What had happened to Claire, I mean.
I should have listened. I should have taken her by the arm and dragged her someplace quiet and listened to what she had to tell me.
Because whatever it had been, I was convinced, was directly linked to the fact that she was missing now.
"It's a beautiful day out," Mr. Goodhart said. "Maybe she just took off. I mean, you know how she likes to sunbathe, and with this Indian summer we've been having, attendance, especially in the afternoon, has been sliding...."
I was sitting on one of the orange vinyl couches, my books in my lap, my arms limp at my side. I looked up at Mr. Goodhart and said, my voice sounding as tired as I felt, "Claire didn't skip class. They got her."
Special Agent Johnson had called Jill, and now the two of them were sitting across from me, staring, like I was some new breed of criminal they had only read about in text books at FBI training school or something.
"Who got her, Jessica?" Special Agent Smith asked, gently.
"They did." I couldn't believe she didn't know. How could she not know? "The same ones who got Amber. And Heather. And the restaurant."
"And who are they, Jessica?" Special Agent Smith leaned forward. She was looking like her old self again, her bob curling just right, her suit neatly pressed. Today she had on the diamond studs. "Do you know, Jess? Do you know who they are?"
I looked at them. I was so tired. Really. And not just from hardly having gotten any sleep the past couple days. I was tired inside, bone-tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of not knowing. Just tired.