Maureen Johnson - The Name of the Star

Two o’clock. Five past two. Jazza got up and began to hop on the balls of her feet and hug herself for warmth. I watched her gleeful pride slipping away with every passing minute.

“I want to go back,” she said. “I can’t stay up here anymore.”

Jerome looked to her, then over to me.

“Do you want to stay, or . . .”

There was just a touch of sadness in his voice. This made me go tingly all over. But there was no way Jazza wanted to go back by herself, and really, neither did I.

“No,” I said. “We should go back together.”

“That’s probably the best idea,” he said.

He escorted us back down the fire stairs, to the back door.

“Be careful,” he said. “Text me when you’re there safe?”

“Okay,” I said. I smiled a little. I couldn’t help it.

The door shut, and we were once again outside in the cold. I didn’t want to take the long way around, for several reasons—not the least of which was the fact that the Ripper was actually in East London somewhere. Cutting through the square was the safest and most direct route—but it also was the one that increased our chances of getting caught by several orders of magnitude. We’d be approaching Hawthorne straight on. Still, I thought we could do it.

There were lights along the sides of the square, but we could probably stay hidden by keeping near the trees where it was always dark and shady. Even if Claudia were staring out of the window, she’d need night vision goggles to see us creeping along under the trees’ cover. I wouldn’t have put it past Claudia to have night vision goggles, but again, she was probably watching the news with everyone else. That’s where we had last seen her. The common room was in the back of the building.

Jazza stared at the square, making the same mental calculations.

“Really?” she asked.

“It’s about fifty feet. Come on. Tree to tree, like a spy!”

“I don’t think that’s how spies work,” she said, but she followed me as I bolted into the dark of the square. We made ridiculous dodges from tree to bush to tree, the leaves crunching under our shoes. When we reached the other side, we had to make the dash across the cobblestone street in front of Hawthorne, then sneak under the windows to the back of the building. The bathroom lights were off. As far as I could remember, we’d left them on. Someone had come in since. We’d managed to close the window as we got out, but we left it open just a crack on the bottom so we could push it back up again. I boosted Jazza up, and she squirreled under the bars and inside. I was about to do the same when I realized someone was next to me. It was a man, bald and dressed in a slightly oversized gray suit.

“Should you be doing that?” he asked politely.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, once I swallowed a scream of surprise. “I go here.”

“I take it you’re not supposed to be out.”

There was something strangely familiar about the man, something I couldn’t quite place. It was something about his eyes, his bald head, his outfit. And he was creepy. Maybe it was just because he was some middle-aged man standing around school grounds, talking to underage girls. That would do it. That’s the technical definition of creepy .

Jazza appeared at the window.

“Now!” she whisper-shouted, reaching down for me.

“Good night, girls,” the man said, walking on.

I scraped up one of my knees on the bricks getting in, but I made it, tumbling into the stall. We quickly pulled the bars back into place and shut the window. We changed back into our pajamas frantically. There was still a lot of noise coming from the common room. We looked at each other, then began our slow walk down the hall. The idea was to casually pass the door. As we did, I glanced inside. The bottom of the screen read NO FOURTH BODY FOUND. Jazza kept on going, slipping along in her fuzzy socks.

And then we walked right into Claudia, who was adjusting a notice on the board in the front hall.

“Going to bed?” she asked.

“Yup,” I said.

Jazza started hurrying up the steps, but I pinched the back of her fleece to slow her. Casual. Innocent. That’s how we had to look. We said nothing until we were safely in our room. We both went right for our beds without switching on the lights, as if light made you louder.

“I think . . . it’s okay,” I said, sticking my legs straight up in the air and creating a teepee out of my blanket.

Silence from Jazza’s side of the room, then a pillow made contact with my legs, knocking down my teepee. Jazza had a strong throwing arm. Then I heard a smothered giggle and what sounded like some kicking feet. I threw the pillow back and heard a little high-pitched squeal as it made contact.

“Why did I go up on that roof?” she whispered happily. “I hope Charlotte finds out. I really do. I hope she hears, and I hope she swallows her own tongue.”

Even through the dark, I knew she was smiling. I pulled out my phone and sent Jerome a text.

The eagle has landed, I wrote. Operation successful.

His reply came a moment later: Understood.

Then a moment after that: Still no body.

Then a moment after that: He’s hidden this one well.

Then: See you tomorrow.

Which was completely unnecessary, because of course he was going to see me tomorrow. He saw me every day. It was the kind of thing you said when you wanted to say something and that was the best you could do just to keep talking, keep the conversation going.

I decided to do what they always say in romance columns—I didn’t reply. I grinned stupidly at my own suavity.

“Who were you talking to when you were out there?” Jazza asked.

“That guy,” I said.

“What guy?”

Jazza was instantly on the alert, sitting bolt upright.

“The one who said good night to us.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” Jazza said.

This made no sense. There was no way Jazza could have missed him.

“Who was it?” she asked urgently. “Someone from school?”

“No,” I said. “Just some guy on the street.”

“Are you joking? Because it’s not funny.”

“I’m not,” I assured her. “He was just some random guy.”

She slowly relaxed and settled back down.

“So,” she said. “You and Jerome?”

“What about us?” I asked as I looked up at the long rectangles of light coming in through the window and stretching along the wall. We hadn’t bothered to shut the curtains.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you like him?” she asked.

“He hasn’t done anything,” I said.

“But do you like him?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I replied.

“Well, don’t think too hard.” Then I heard the giggling again, and another pillow made contact with the wall above my head and landed on my face.

“No danger of that,” I said.

13

THE NEXT MORNING STARTED WAY TOO EARLY, WITH someone pounding wildly at our door.

“You get it,” I mumbled into my pillow. “My legs fell off.”

Grumbling and confusion from Jaz as she fell out of her bed and shuffled to the door. Charlotte was there, wrapped up in a fuzzy blue robe, looking shockingly awake.

“There’s a school meeting in the dining hall at six,” she said. “Twenty minutes.”

“School meeting?” I repeated.

“You don’t have to put on your uniform. Just be over there.”

Meeting in twenty minutes, at six A.M., that meant it was . . . morning math, morning math, morning math . . . five forty. The sun wasn’t even up. We had only gone to bed about three or four hours before.

“What is this?” I asked as I fumbled around, looking for my shoes.