Endangered by Lamar Giles

Author:Lamar Giles
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-02-18T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 23

“YOU . . . WHAT?” I STAND, BACK AWAY like he’d just flashed hidden claws and vampire fangs.

“That first picture, me with the jockstraps. Hell, yeah, it was you. What other photographer was that pissed at me?”

That is the reason I don’t do personal.

“If you knew, how come you never . . .”

“Confronted you? Blew up your secret identity? Because you were right to do it to me. I had it coming.”

This sounds something like an apology. Not quite, but it’s so much closer than anything he’s ever attempted before.

“I don’t know how to take that,” I say, honest.

“However you take it, I suggest you do it later. When we’ve dealt with the fallout of you going crazy and telling everyone your secret. What was that about? Did you feel guilty?”

“It’s not what you think. I was—”

“Let me guess,” Vice Principal Del Toro says, having entered the library unnoticed, standing now with hand on hip and an annoyed stare. “‘Just on your way to class’?”

Taylor rises. He knows what’s coming, as do I. He tries to save me. “It’s my fault. Lauren shouldn’t be punished.”

“I don’t doubt you’re at fault for something, Mr. Durham. You and I have been here before. Ms. Daniels is still responsible for her own class schedule. Besides, she can probably use a break today.”

She knows about my recent unmasking. Everyone does.

Ms. Del Toro thumbs her walkie-talkie. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m bringing two students to the ISS room for skipping class.”

ISS. In-School Suspension, aka Siberia.

Ms. Del Toro holds the door open and hurries us along. On my way out, I glance into the stacks and see a kid ducking behind the podium where the huge dust-covered dictionary sits. He’s actually skipping class, but I have to go to ISS?

He sees me seeing him, perhaps wondering if I’m going to tell Ms. Del Toro.

No worries, kid, I’m not ratting you out.

Too bad I couldn’t count on him to return the favor.

The ISS room is located on a desolate back hallway, right across from the old special-needs classroom. There’s one window, and an air-conditioning unit partially blocks the sun attempting to stream in. What light remains shines through milky, yellow glass that’s stained from the days when kids used to smoke their cigarettes behind the school. Inside the room, eight or nine desks are arranged in an unrecognizable pattern. Not rows, or a circle. More like chaos-lite.

When we arrive, there are already two kids in lockup. A couple of burnouts who look old enough to be seniors but still have lockers in the Freshmen Slums because, well, burnouts.

Behind the big desk, Mr. Mitchell, the Automotive Arts teacher I thought was pervy until I uncovered the king faculty perv. I can’t believe they leave him alone in a secluded room with children, though. Have they learned nothing from Bottin? I feel his eyes on my boobs already.

“Hand over your student IDs,” Ms. Del Toro says.

Taylor—obviously familiar with this routine—has his in hand. He passes it over to Mr. Mitchell and takes a seat toward the front of the room.

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