Joshua McCune - Talker 25

Sam looks like he wants to say something, but instead he takes a shaky step back and stumbles off the curb. When he regains his balance, he turns and flees.

The everyday sounds of Mason-Kline—the muted conversations of kids walking to school, the intermittent hum of far-off tractors, the rustle of cornstalks—fade as Sam’s feet drum asphalt. His backpack thumps this way and that, zippers and mini carabiners rattling.

Startled neighbors gape and point, and he runs faster. Soon the shoulder strap breaks loose. His backpack lands with a thud in the middle of the street. Sam keeps sprinting. My heart jumps into my throat. I try to call out, but by the time I find my voice, he’s disappeared around the corner.

The tears come without warning.

Trish wraps her arms around me. “It’s going to be okay, Mel.”

“Is it?” Between sniffles, I tell her about the doctored picture. “They think I’m an insurgent. Why would Preston do that to me?”

She frowns. “You think Preston did it?”

“Him or this other guy. He looked like one of Preston’s friends. I don’t know, Trish. We took the original with Preston’s phone. He’s a—”

“No, we took the picture with my phone,” Trish interrupts. She tugs at her ear. “Shit, Mel. It could be my fault. I uploaded it to Facebook. I just wanted the world to see how damn sexy you looked.”

“They took it down faster than normal,” I mumble. “I checked your account Saturday afternoon.” Along with Preston’s and Konrad’s. There were no pictures, no mentions of our trip to Dragon Hill.

The government’s got a strict policy against “false representation.” A pic might last a few days before administrators remove it. In the interim, anybody can grab it, alter it, then repost it.

I chew at my lip. “Whoever set me up had knowledge of these Diocletians. Didn’t Preston say he was a dragonologer? Probably has a closet full of dragon toys at his beck and call.”

Trish shrugs. “Sorry I got you into this, Mel.”

“No, I’m sorry for being such a bitch about everything.”

“Next time, pick up the phone, okay? I always got your back. Hugs?”

We embrace, and my gaze falls on Sam’s backpack, torn and abandoned in the middle of the street. “I can’t believe I did that to him.”

“It’s for the best,” Trish says. “Don’t worry, he’ll find someone else to fawn over.”

Probably, but I humiliated him in front of the entire town today. I’ll apologize when I see him at school. I don’t expect he’ll forgive me, but hopefully he won’t hate me.

Trishtakes me back to her house so I can clean myself up. Her mother greets us at the door. Most days, Major Potter works from home in her civvies, but today she’s in her dragon camos.

“Hi, Melissa,” she says with a tight smile. “Is everything okay, dear? Have you been crying?”

“It’s nothing, Mom,” Trish says. “Just boy trouble.”

“Oh,” Ms. Potter says, the worry ebbing from her voice. I start to step inside, but she doesn’t move, and I have to edge by her to enter the house.

“What’s up with your mom?” I ask Trish.

“Rough night with the colonel, maybe,” she says, like it’s not at all weird that Ms. Potter and Colonel Kline are hooking up. In a town with so many widows and widowers, I guess it’s not that surprising, but if it were me, I’d be a bit creeped out that my mother was dating my boyfriend’s father.

“Don’t be long now,” Ms. Potter calls after us. “I don’t want you being late to school.”

I look at my watch. “I could take a nap and we still wouldn’t be late for homeroom. It’s not Colonel Kline that’s eating her, Trish. Something’s wrong. You saw those All-Blacks this morning?”

“You go take care of your face, and I’ll get the scoop.”

When I emerge from the bathroom, makeup reapplied, Ms. Potter herds me and Trish to the door. “Have a good day, you two. I love you both.”

“What’s going on?” I ask once out of earshot.

“It’s a drill or something. They just want us at school early,” Trish says. “Stop worrying, Mel.”

When we arrive at MK High, a once-abandoned gristmill now teeming with students, Trish and I head for Sam’s locker, but he’s not there. We check his homeroom. He’s not there. She searches the small groups of underclassmen scattered throughout the hallways while I check with his friends, but nobody’s seen him.

I text him an apology. His backpack rings a second later. I dig out his phone, stare at it blankly.

“He’ll show up, Mel,” Trish says. She grabs my hand and gets me moving again.

In the central corridor, we run into Konrad and a few of his farmboy friends. Preston’s not with them.

“You seen Mel’s brother?” Trish asks Konrad.

“No. You check the frosh wing?”

Trish nods.

“What the hell’s going on?” I ask him.

“Standard training exercise. The A-Bs wanna have some fun with the Blues.”

I snort. “Bullshit. I’ve got to find Sam.”

“Give him some time,” Trish says. “You’re the last person he wants to see right now.”

“He could be in danger. No way the A-Bs stormed into Mason-Kline at butt ugly in the morning to play war games with the Blues.”

Konrad gives me a half smirk. “It’s just a training exercise, Callahan.”

“At dawn? The army does some stupid things, but they wouldn’t scramble the All-Blacks for the fun of it. Something bad’s happening. Something with the dragons.”

“Why wouldn’t they have kept us home?” Trish asks.

I think about all those parents at their doorsteps, sending their kids to school early. I speak the words as the thought forms in my head. “Because the schools have better dragon shelters than any of our homes.”

“You worry too much, Mel. If there—”

The bell for first period rings.

“You coming?” Trish asks.

I shake my head. “I’ve got to find Sam.”

I give her a quick hug, then dart into the girls’ bathroom. I wait a few minutes before peeking out. The halls are empty except for Keith. Our principal usually resembles a scowling bulldog, but today he’s more a bloodhound. Out sniffing for students.

Despite his intimidating appearance, magnified by the miniature swords tattooed in a spiral pattern around his neck, Keith’s practically family. For almost a decade, he and Mom flew into combat zones to salvage downed dragons for the army.

On any other day, I wouldn’t give a second thought to stepping into the hallway. Keith might give me a halfhearted lecture about truancy, but he’d spend the next thirty minutes reliving one of his missions with Mom.

But today I know if he sees me he’ll order me to class. After he disappears around the corner, I make a beeline for the front door.

Locked.

Training run, my ass.

The fingerprint scanner above the handle glows a soft green. I press my palm to the hand outlined on the display. The scanner delivers a small electrical shock that sets my teeth on edge. The display reads Report to class, Ms. Callahan before returning to the outline of a hand.

It’ll be a matter of moments before Keith gets notified of my truancy. If this were a conventional school, there might be a window I could escape through, but when the army converted the mill, they filled every hole they could find with cement.

Two choices. I can go to homeroom and hope Trish is right. Or . . .

I slam my heel into the crossbar. The latch gives, the door swings open.

I’m two steps outside when thunderous bursts of sound explode from the siren atop the school. For a stalled heartbeat, I think it’s because of me. But I’ve heard this sound before. Once a month, we run drills to its sonic beat.