Page 45

The world spun and sudden as anything, we were in the gymnasium.

Each and every one of us was in formal raiment, a mortarboard jauntily set at an angle on each of our heads.

We were as pristine as if we’d spent the day in frenzied ablution: hair shining like it’d been oiled individually, faces beautiful.

We looked like we were waiting backstage for our turn on the catwalk—like sacrifices, or saints waiting for the lions.

The air had an odd crystalline shine to it like it had been greased somehow.

That or I was in the throes of a migraine.

It was hard to be sure. I’d been plopped next to Gracelynn, who was sat between Sullivan and me, with Kevin on my opposite side.

Bracketing us was a pair of twins I’d only seen occasionally but knew by reputation, the two notorious for the ease with which they procured reagents for whoever had the money to pay: they could get anything so long as what you wanted came from something with a pulse.

A few familiar faces were past them to the right: Stefania, Minji, Eoan, and Adam, who slouched almost entirely out of his seat.

“What is going on?” Kevin hissed to me.

“We have to go,” I said in lieu of an answer, standing.

The world stuttered.

I was back on the metal fold-out chair I’d been sitting on, like my muscles had changed their mind midway to rising.

Except I hadn’t felt myself sit back down.

Instead, it was more like the seconds had rewound, had flinched back from my decision like it was a hot stove.

I tried again. This time, I felt it: reality slingshotting backward through linear time, not far enough to leave me discombobulated, but enough to have my ass on the cold, cheap steel.

It hit me then that I was trapped. All my efforts, all those months spent trying to get out, and here I was with no place to go, a bunny with the hounds gathered all around.

The doors of the gymnasium opened, allowing our headmaster entry.

She drifted down the aisle, splitting the crowd of so-called graduates, resplendent in a fawn-colored suit, the majesty of which was spoiled by the fact that her white hair was still in curlers.

A clipboard was tucked in the crook of her left arm.

She checked something off as she passed each student, her smile as it always was: slightly too wide for her face.

When she finally reached our row, she only said, with an effervescent giggle:

“Ah. It’s time for a speech by the valedictorian!”

I have to confess something: the claim I didn’t feel bad for Sullivan wasn’t a lie, for all that I might have implied that it was.

I don’t. I doubt I ever will. I was positioned right in front of him when it happened, and I had a clear view of Sullivan’s face as the faculty crested over the podium to blanket him in their flesh.

There’d been the wet shine of grateful tears along his cheeks.

He had smiled. He had looked relieved. In the half second before they reached him, before he was leavened into their mass, I saw Sullivan open his arms, and while he might not have enjoyed the process of dying, for a moment at least he certainly welcomed it.

I hope you’ve been paying attention, by the way.

This wasn’t a lie but some of the rest is.