When a finger tapped me on the shoulder, I spun, my hands up, ready for who knows what.
But not ready for Nathaniel.
Tall, good-looking Nathaniel Allen was the son of the Provost. We’d been in school together since kindergarten. And I’d hated him for just about that long. In kindergarten I’d seen him clobber another kid with a wooden truck. He hadn’t improved since then.
“What do you want?” I snapped, getting on the moped.
“I just want to say… well, I’m sorry about Becca.”
My eyes narrowed. For the last twelve years he’d tormented Becca and me, pretending to not be able to tell us apart, calling us by the wrong names. He’d been a ponytail-puller, a lunchbox-cookie-stealer, and a bully. If he weren’t the Provost’s son, he’d be considered a bad citizen.
“Well, I’m sorry you’re… an asshole,” I said, and pressed the ignition button. I had just spoken out in public, I had waved a broken bottle at someone a few hours ago, and now I was swearing. Losing my sister was turning me into someone else.
Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, but just then the roar of motorcycles drowned everything out.
Motorcycles were even more rare than trucks. I’d never seen one in real life, though I’d heard about them—as really souped-up mopeds.
There were two of them, big and loud, with two people riding them, wearing leather jackets and helmets with dark faceplates. If the cellfolk had been shocked when I spoke out, they were about nineteen times more shocked now. The cyclists vroomed through the crowd, making the cellfolk draw back and press together like sheep. The Provost at his podium gestured to one of his aides, shouting an order that I couldn’t hear.
Then, as the cyclists passed in front of the Provost again, they pulled out guns.
I gasped, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. Even over the sound of the engines I heard a faint pop! pop! and the Provost staggered backward.
More than one woman screamed, and I had my hand over my mouth, stunned. Two police cars, lights and sirens blaring, screeched around the corner. The cyclists gunned their engines, the growling rumble seeming to mock the quiet electric police cars as they all raced away from the square.
In the silence, all eyes turned toward the Provost, but instead of lying on the ground in a pool of blood, he was standing upright, furiously shouting at his aides and several other cops who’d run up. Spoiling his fancy suit—no worker’s overalls for him—were two bright green splotches.
He’d been shot with paintballs.
The paint had splattered up over his neck and face, and was dripping down his legs. He looked like he’d had a run-in with an angry salad.
Using every bit of self-control I had, I managed to get several blocks away. Then I had to pull over and stop just to process the image of the Provost covered in green paint. Oh, my Lord. This had been a weird day. A horrible day. And I was no closer to finding Becca than I’d been this morning.
Which reminded me. With just eight minutes left till curfew, I made a hard right on Weaver Road, and soon pulled up at a horribly familiar house. Coming here made acid rise in the back of my throat. But he was my last hope for finding Becca. He always knew where Becca was. And for all the wrong reasons.
I leaned the moped against the fence and went to ring the doorbell.
“Are you home, you jerk?” I muttered, trying to peer into the window.
There was no answer. I wanted to pound on his door, wanted to yell in frustration. But I had to accept the fact that I wouldn’t be able to confront Mr. Harrison until tomorrow. Scowling just thinking about him, I went back to the moped and raced toward home.
At twelve. Freaking. Miles. An. Hour.
22
BECCA
THE GUARDS HAULED ME THROUGH the big gray metal doors. The effects of the Taser were wearing off, but static still bounced around my brain, making it hard to think. Warden von Strepp had told them to take me to “the ring.”
What the hell was “the ring”? Like, a running track?
It wasn’t a running track.
It was… a boxing ring. There was a raised canvas floor, and ropes making up the four sides of the ring. Technically, it should be called a boxing square. I plan to write an angry letter about that.
The guards pushed me forward, and cheers broke out. The bleachers were full of kids. Prisoners in bright yellow jumpsuits. Jeez. Okay, so I was here to watch some stupid fight. I started to shuffle toward the bleachers, but the guards stopped me.
“You’re not a spectator, scum,” one said.