Betrayed

the whole I'm-not-ready-to-have-sex-with-you-yet conversation with him when I was fifteen and he was almost seventeen. He'd said then that he understood and was willing to wait—of course that didn't mean that we didn't do some heavy making-out—but what had just happened in the car had been different. It was hotter, rawer. I knew that if I allowed myself to continue seeing him I wouldn't be a virgin much longer, and not because Heath would pressure me into it. It would be because I couldn't control my bloodlust. The thought scared me almost as much as it fascinated me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. I was getting a headache. Again.
    "Does your neck hurt?" I asked, peeking up at him through my fingers like I was watching a stupid slasher movie.
    "Nope. I'm fine, Zo. You didn't hurt me at all.” He reached over and pulled my hand from my face. "Everything’ll be okay. Stop worrying so much.”
    I wanted to believe him. And, I suddenly realized, I also wanted to see him again. I sighed. "I'll try. But I really do have to go. I can't be late getting back to school.”
    He took my hand in his. I could feel the pulse of his blood, and knew it was beating in time with my own heart, like he and I had somehow become internally synchronized. "Promise me you'll call me," he said.
    "I promise.”
    "And you'll meet me here again this week.”
    "I don't know when I can get away. During the week it's going to be hard for me.”
    I expected him to argue with me, but he just nodded and squeezed my hand. "Okay, I get that. Living twenty-four seven at school is probably a pain in the ass. How about this: Friday we're playing Jenks at home. Could you meet me at Starbucks after the game?”
    "Maybe.”
    "Will you try?”
    "Yes.”
    He grinned and leaned over to give me a quick kiss. "That's my Zo! I'll see you Friday." He got out of the car and before he closed the door bent down and said, "I love ya, Zo.”
    As I drove away I could see him in my rearview mirror. He was standing in the middle of the parking lot, Kleenex still pressed to his neck, waving bye at me.
    "You have no clue what you're doing, Zoey Redbird," I said aloud to myself as the gray sky opened and poured cold rain over everything.

    It was 2:35 when I tiptoed back into our room. The fact that I was short on time was actually good. It didn't give me a chance to overthink what I had to do. Stevie Rae and Nala were still sound asleep. Actually, Nala had abandoned my empty bed and was curled up beside Stevie Rae's head on her pillow, which made me smile. (The cat was a notorious pillow hog.) Quietly I opened the top drawer on my computer desk and grabbed Damien's disposable phone, along with the slip of paper I'd scribbled the FBI's number on, and then went into the bathroom.
    I took a couple deep, calming breaths, remembering Damien's advice: Keep it short. Sound a little angry, and kinda semi-crazy, but don't sound like a teenager. I dialed the number. When an official-sounding man answered, "Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I help you?" I pitched my voice low and sharp, cutting off my words like I had to be careful to hold myself back because of the dam of hatred that was built up behind them (which is how Erin, with her suddenly and bizarrely unexpected political knowledge, described how I should pretend to feel). "I want to report a bomb." I kept talking, not giving him time to interrupt me, but speaking slowly and clearly because I knew I was being recorded. "My group, Nature's Jihad (Shawnee came up with our name), planted it just below the waterline on one of the pylons (a word Damien had come up with) of the bridge that crosses the Arkansas River on I-40 near 's Falls. It's to go off at 1515 (using military time was another brilliant idea of Damien's). We're taking full responsibility for this act of civil disobedience (more Erin input, although she said terrorism is not actually civil disobedience, it's ... well … terrorism, which is definitely different) protesting the U.S. government's interference in our lives and pollution in America's rivers. Be warned that this is only our first strike!" I hung up. Then I quickly flipped the scrap of paper over and punched in the phone number on the other side of it.
    "Fox News Tulsa!" said the perky woman.
    This part was actually my idea. I figured if I called a local news station we would have a better chance of having the threat reported quickly on the local news, and then we could keep an eye on