Finale

crept upstairs and padded quietly past my mom’s bedroom. The clock on my nightstand read ten minutes till
seven. Before Dante came into my life, this would have been a normal, if not slightly early, hour to rise. Most days I woke up feeling refreshed, but this morning I felt exhausted and worried.
Grabbing clean clothes, I headed to the bathroom to shower and get ready for school.
    At ten before eight, I pulled the Volkswagen into the student parking lot and hiked up to the school, a towering gray building that resembled an old Protestant church. Inside, I crammed my
belongings into my locker, grabbed my first-and second-period textbooks, and headed to class. My stomach clenched with hunger, but I was too rattled to eat. The blue drink still swam uneasily in
my stomach.
    First up, AP U.S. History. I took my seat and scanned my new cell phone for messages. Still no word from Patch.
It’s cool,
I told myself.
Something probably came up.
But
I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something wasn’t right. Patch had told me he’d come over last night, and it wasn’t like him to break a promise. Especially since he knew
how upset I’d been over the breakup.
    I was about to tuck my cell away when it chimed with a text.
    MEET ME BY THE WENTWORTH RIVER IN 30, Patch’s text read.
    ARE YOU OKAY ? I immediately texted back.
    YES. I ’ LL BE AT THE BOAT DOCKS. MAKE SURE YOU AREN ’ T FOLLOWED .
    The timing wasn’t great, but I wasn’t going to
not
meet Patch. He said he was fine, but I wasn’t convinced. If he was fine, why was he calling me out of class, and why
were we meeting all the way out at the boat docks?
    I approached Mrs. Warnock’s desk. “Excuse me, Mrs. Warnock? I’m not feeling well. Can I go lie down in the nurse’s office?”
    Mrs. Warnock removed her glasses and studied me. “Is everything all right, Nora?”
    “It’s that time of the month,” I whispered.
Could I be any less creative?
    She sighed. “If I had a nickel for every time a student said that . . .”
    “I wouldn’t ask if my cramps weren’t absolutely killing me.” I considered rubbing my stomach, but decided it might be too much.
    At last she said, “Ask the nurse for acetaminophen. But the minute you’re feeling better, I want you back in class. We’re starting our unit on Jeffersonian republicanism today.
If you don’t have someone reliable to borrow notes from, you’re going to spend the next two weeks playing catch-up.”
    I nodded vigorously. “Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
    I scuttled out the door, jogged down a flight of stairs, and, after looking both ways down the hall to make sure the vice principal wasn’t making rounds, fled through a side door.
    I threw myself into the Volkswagen and made a break for it. Of course, that was the easy part. Getting back into class without a signed permission slip from the nurse was going to require
nothing short of magic.
No sweat,
I thought. Worse-case scenario, I’d get caught ditching and spend the next week in early-morning detention.
    If I needed an excuse to stay away from Dante, whom I no longer trusted, it was as good as any.
    The sun was out, the sky a hazy fall blue, but the crisp air cut through my puffer vest with the relentless foreboding of winter. The parking lot upriver from the boat docks
was empty. No recreational fishermen out today. After parking, I crouched in the vegetation at the edge of the parking lot a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone followed me. Then I took the paved
walkway leading down to the docks. I quickly realized why Patch had selected the spot: Other than a few chirping birds, we were completely alone.
    Three boat ramps stretched into the wide river, but no boats. I walked to the end of the first ramp, shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun, and looked around. No Patch.
    My cell phone chimed.
    I ’ M IN THE THICKET OF TREES AT THE END OF THE WALKWAY , Patch texted.
    I followed the walkway past the docks to the thicket, and that was when Pepper Friberg stepped out from behind a tree. He had Patch’s cell phone in one hand and a gun in the other. My eyes
fixed on the gun, and I took an involuntary step back.
    “It won’t kill you, but a gunshot can be excruciatingly painful,” he said. His polyester trousers rode high on his waist, and his shirt hung at an ill-fitting angle—he
hadn’t lined up the buttons properly. However, despite his goofy, bumbling appearance, I felt his power ripple over me like