Meg Cabot: Reunion

"Jesse told me he felt a great, um, stirring out there." I put down the paper and pointed up, for want of a better direction. "An angry one. Apparently, we have some unhappy campers somewhere. He said they're looking for someone. At first I figured he couldn't mean these guys" - I tapped the paper - "because all they seemed to be looking for was beer. But it's possible they have another agenda." A more murderous one, I thought, but didn't say out loud.

But Father Dom, as he often did, seemed to read my thoughts.

"Good heavens, Susannah," he said, looking up from the Gameboy screen. "You can't be thinking that these young people you saw and the stirring Jesse felt have anything to do with one another, can you? Because I must say, I find that highly unlikely. From what I understand, the Angels were just that … true beacons in their community."

Jeez. Beacons. I wondered if there was anybody who'd ever refer to me as a beacon after I was dead. I highly doubted it. Not even my mother would go that far.

I kept my feelings to myself, however. I knew from experience that Father D wasn't going to like what I was thinking, let alone believe it. Instead, I said, "Well, just keep your eyes open, will you? Let me know if you see them around. The, er, Angels, I mean."

"Of course." Father Dom shook his head. "What a tragedy. Poor souls. So innocent. So young. Oh. Oh, my." He sheepishly held up the Gameboy. "High score."

That's when I decided I'd spent quite enough time in the principal's office for one day. Gina, who attended my old school back in Brooklyn, had a different spring break from the Mission Academy's, so while she was getting to spend her vacation in California, she had to endure a few days following me around from class to class - at least until I could figure out a way for us to ditch without getting caught. Gina was back in world civ with Mr. Walden, and I hadn't any doubt that she was getting into all sorts of trouble while I was gone.

"All righty then," I said, getting up. "Let me know if you hear anything more about those kids."

"Yes, yes," Father Dominic said, his attention riveted to the Gameboy once again. "Bye for now."

As I left his office, I could have sworn I heard him say a bad word after the Gameboy let out a warning beep. But that would have been so unlike him, I must have heard wrong.

Yeah. Right.

CHAPTER 4

"When I got back to world civ, Kelly Prescott, my friend Adam, Rob Kelleher - one of the class jocks, and a good buddy of Dopey's - and this quiet kid whose name I could never remember were just finishing up their presentation on the Nuclear Arms Race: Who Will Come in First?

It was a bogus assignment, if you asked me. I mean, with the fall of communism in Russia, who even cared?

I guess that was the point. We should care. Because as the charts Kelly's group was holding up revealed, there were some countries who had way more bombs and stuff than we did.

"Okay," Kelly was saying, as I came in and laid my hall pass on Mr. Walden's desk before going to my seat. "Like, as you can see, the U.S. is pretty well stocked for missiles, and stuff, but as far as tanks, the Chinese have been way better at building up their military - " Kelly pointed to a bunch of little red bombs on her chart. "And they could totally annihilate us if they wanted to."

"Except," Adam pointed out, "that there are more privately owned handguns in America than there are in the whole of the Chinese army, so - "

"So what?" Kelly demanded. I could sense that there was some division amongst the ranks of this particular group. "What good are handguns against tanks? I am so sure we are all going to stand around and shoot off our handguns at the tanks the Chinese are running us over with."

Adam rolled his eyes. He hadn't exactly been thrilled to be assigned to a group with Kelly.

"Yeah," Rob said.

The grade for the group projects was split, with thirty percent counting toward participation. I guess that "Yeah" had been Rob's contribution.

The kid whose name I didn't know didn't say anything. He was a tall, skinny kid with glasses. He had the kind of pasty white skin that made it obvious he didn't get to the beach much. The Palm Pilot in his shirt pocket revealed why.

Gina, who was sitting behind me, leaned forward and presented me with a note, written on a page of the spiral notebook in which she'd been doodling.

Where the hell have you been ? she wanted to know.

I picked up a pen and wrote back, I told you. Principal wanted to see me .

About what ? Gina asked. Have you been up to your old tricks again???

I didn't blame her for asking. Let's just say that at our old school, back in Brooklyn, I'd been forced to skip class a lot. Well, what do you expect? I'd been the only mediator for all five boroughs of New York. That's a lot of ghosts! Here at least I had Father D to help out once in a while.

I wrote back, Nothing like that. Father Dom is our student council advisor. I had to check with him about some of our recent expenditures .

I thought this would be such a boring topic that Gina would drop it, but she totally didn't.

So? What were they? Gina demanded. Your expenditures, I mean .

Suddenly, the notebook was snatched from my hands. I looked up, and saw Cee Cee, who sat in front of me in homeroom and this class, and who had become my best friend since I'd moved to California, scribbling in it furiously. A few seconds later, she passed it back.

Did you hear? Cee Cee had written in her sprawling cursive. About Michael Meducci, I mean?

I wrote back, I guess not. Who's Michael Meducci?

Cee Cee, when she'd read what I'd written, made a face, and pointed at the kid standing in the front of the room, the pasty-looking one with the Palm Pilot.

Oh , I mouthed. Hey, I'd only started attending the Mission Academy two months earlier, in January. So sue me already if I didn't know everybody by name yet.

Cee Cee bent over the notebook, writing what seemed to be a novel. Gina and I exchanged glances. Gina looked amused. She seemed to find my entire West Coast existence highly entertaining.

Finally Cee Cee surrendered the notebook. In it she had scrawled, Mike was the one driving the other car in that accident on the Pacific Coast Highway Saturday night. You know, the one where those four RLS students died .

Whoa, I thought. It totally pays to be friends with the editor of the school paper. Somehow, Cee Cee always manages to ferret out everything about everyone.

I heard he was coming back from a friend's house , she wrote. There was this fog, and I guess they didn't see each other until the last minute, when everybody swerved. His car went up an embankment, but theirs crashed through the railguard and plunged two hundred feet into the sea. Everyone in the other car died, but Michael escaped with just a couple of sprained ribs from when the air bag deployed .

I looked up and stared at Mike Meducci. He didn't look like a kid who had, only just that weekend, been involved in an accident that had killed four people. He looked like a kid who'd maybe stayed up too late playing video games or participating in a Star Wars chatroom on the Internet. I was sitting too far away to tell if his fingers, holding onto the chart, were shaking, but there was something about the strained expression on his face that suggested to me that they were.

It's especially tragic , Cee Cee scribbled, when you consider the fact that only last month, his little sister - you don't know her; she's in eighth - almost drowned at some pool party and has been in a coma ever since. Talk about a family curse....