Time Bomb(10)

Bianca crossed her arms in front of her chest and raised her chin the way she used to do when she was six and was about to cry. Which was just perfect. His sister needed to learn to let things go. She’d be happier if she did. Of course, he probably wasn’t one to give advice on that front. Especially not when he considered what his plans were for today.

His phone chimed, and he glanced down at the text.

“I just want to see what you’re doing,” his sister said quietly, making him feel like a total jerk. “It’s not like I’m spying or that I’m going to tell Mom or Dad.”

“Look,” he said, checking the text again, then the clock on his phone. He had to get going if he was going to make his plans fly. “The guys and I are just going to have a little fun. We’re not going to get caught, because we know what we’re doing.” And even if he did get caught, nothing would probably happen. Because no one would dare sideline the all-American star football and baseball player. Not if it meant there was a chance they’d lose a game. “But if you’re seen at the school, you’ll probably be asked if you saw anything. Then you’ll either have to rat us out and commit social suicide before even starting high school or you’ll end up in detention for forever. I wouldn’t recommend either. Okay?” When Bianca didn’t look as if she was going to stand down, he pushed harder. “Bianca, I’m trying to protect you. Brothers do that, even for their annoying freshman sisters.”

“Fine.” Bianca unfolded her arms and tucked her hands in her back pockets with a shrug. She tried to pretend she was unyielding, but he could see she was smiling, which made the tension in him ease. He liked when his sister thought of him as one of the good guys . . . even if he knew he’d done things that might make her question it.

Frankie grinned wider when his sister added, “But I want to hear all about it later.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

People would notice, and no one would call him out. Because he had an arm that won games. What could possibly be more important than that?

Frankie slid behind the wheel of the old white Mustang his dad had given him when he’d become the varsity’s starting quarterback. It had been accompanied by the words Just don’t think you can spend all your time in the back seat with your girlfriend. You still have work to do.

Of course I do, Frankie thought now as he cranked the engine to life. Nothing was ever good enough. A winner always had to do more.

He started to back out but stopped and rolled down the window as he spotted his sister going back into the house. “Hey, Bianca. I’m not kidding. Stay away from school today. Promise me.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I promise.” And she slammed the door shut.

Good. He picked up his phone and read a new text that had just come in. He answered the second one and looked at the first one a long time before shaking his head and putting the phone down. Then he put the car in reverse and hit the gas. It was time to get this show on the road.





10:43 a.m.





Rashid





— Chapter 7 —


THERE WAS ALREADY a line for new student identification cards for students who had been unable to get them at the end of school last year or had lost them.

The main office door, located in the middle of the two-story-tall atrium under the purple-and-yellow painted signs that said MIGHTY TROJANS, was closed. The lights were on in the office, but whoever was in charge of processing IDs hadn’t started yet, which meant that everyone had to wait outside in the atrium or somewhere else nearby. A couple of kids were standing near the door. One girl from last year’s chemistry class smiled and nodded. Rashid nodded back but didn’t walk over to join her, instead he looked around at the others who were waiting. Some were sitting on the floor in the foyer, and he could see a bunch more camping out past the double doors that officially led to the rest of the school.

Rashid looked at his watch, then counted the students outside the office doors and the ones in the front hall stationed near the media center. There were twenty who had arrived before he had—none were from his group of friends. He’d perform Dhuhr early, as he often did when school was in session, then get in line after he was done.

He let a dark-haired girl holding a blue bag and a clarinet case walk through the doors in front of him, then headed into the main front hall. The girl turned right—toward the fine arts wing. Rashid went left, past the media-center doors. The closest bathrooms were to the right of the media center, but there were too many people hanging out in that direction. He wasn’t sure he’d have the courage to follow through with what he’d come here to do if he had to look at all of them as he passed by. Besides, it would be easier to pray in one of the classrooms upstairs, where there were fewer people.

A couple of girls hurried in his direction, their shoes squeaking against the light-gray tile. Rashid stepped to the side to avoid them and felt his bag bump into something on the other side.

“Um . . . excuse me?” a girl snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Rashid automatically said as he pulled the bag tightly to his body and looked up at Diana Sanford. Only she wasn’t looking at him but was frowning at the girls sauntering down the middle of the hall. “I didn’t see you there.”

Diana shook her head as she watched the girls go. “I wasn’t saying ‘excuse me’ to you. I was talking to them.” She turned to face him, and he watched her bright smile go tight at the corners. She clutched the backpack she had slung over her shoulder and took a small step back toward the lockers.