The Twelfth Card

younger, like she was a little kid dressed up by her moms.
    There she go, there she go, the skinny little boy-girl . . . . Get her down . . . .
    The senior next to her at the washbasins turned back to the mirror. She was pretty and broad, her sexy bra straps and thong line evident, hair in a long straightened sweep, her smooth cheeks faintly maroon. Her shoes were red as candy apples. She was everything that Geneva Settle was not.
    It was then that the door swung open and Geneva’s heart froze.
    In walked Jonette Monroe, another senior. Not much taller than Geneva, though broader, bustier, with solid shoulders and cut muscles. Tats on both arms. A long, mocha-shaded face. And eyes that were ice cold—they now squinted in recognition at Geneva, who looked away immediately.
    Jonette was trouble. A gangsta girl. Rumors were she was dealing—could get you anything you wanted, meth, crack, smack. And if you didn’t come up with the benjamins, she’d whale on you herself—or on your best friend or even your moms—till you stood up to the debt. Twice already this year, she’d been dragged off by the cops, even kicked one in the balls.
    Geneva now kept her eyes down, thinking: Detective Bell’d have no way of knowing how dangerousJonette was when he let her inside. Her hands and face still wet, Geneva started for the door.
    “Yo, yo, girl,” Jonette said to her, looking her up and down with a cold glance. “Yeah, you, Martha Stewart. Don’ you be goin’ nowhere.”
    “I—”
    “Shutup.” She glanced at the other girl, the one with the purple cheeks. “An’ you, get the fuck out.”
    The senior had fifty pounds and three inches of height on Jonette but the girl stopped preening and slowly gathered up her makeup. She tried to save a bit of dignity, saying, “Don’t go layin’ no attitude on me, girl.”
    Jonette didn’t say a word. She took one step forward; the girl snatched up her purse and fled through the doorway. A lip liner fell to the floor. Jonette picked it up and slipped the tube into her pocket. Geneva started to leave again but Jonette held her hand up and motioned her to the back of the restroom. When Geneva stood, frozen, Jonette grabbed her by the arm and shoved open the doors of the stalls to make sure they were alone.
    “Whatta you want?” Geneva whispered, both defiant and terrified.
    Jonette snapped, “Shut yo’ mouth.”
    Shit, she thought, furious. Mr. Rhyme was right! That terrible man from the library was still after her. He’d somehow found out her school and hired Jonette to finish the job. Why the hell had she come to school today? Scream, Geneva told herself.
    And she did.
    Or started to.
    Jonette could see it coming and in a flash was behind her, clamping her hand over Geneva’s mouth, stifling the sound. “Quiet!” Her other hand grippedthe girl around the waist and pulled her into the far corner of the room. Geneva grabbed her hand and arm and tugged, but she was no match for Jonette. She stared at the girl’s bleeding-cross tat on her forearm and whimpered, “Please . . . ”
    Jonette rummaged for something in her purse or pocket. What? Geneva wondered in a panic. There was a flash of metal. A knife or gun? What’d they have metal detectors for if it was so goddamn easy to get a weapon into the school?
    Geneva squealed, twisting violently.
    Then the gang girl’s hand swung forward.
    No, no . . .
    And Geneva found herself looking at a silver police department badge.
    “You gonna be quiet, girl?” Jonette asked, exasperated.
    “I—”
    “Quiet?”
    A nod.
    Jonette said, “I don’t want anybody outside to hear anything . . . . Now, you down?”
    Geneva nodded again and Jonette released her.
    “You’re—”
    “A cop, yeah.”
    Geneva scrabbled away and pressed against the wall, breathing deeply, as Jonette walked to the door, opened it a crack. She whispered something and Detective Bell stepped inside and locked the door.
    “So, you two met,” he said.
    “Sort of,” Geneva said. “She really is a cop?”
    The detective explained, “All the schools have undercover officers. They’re usually women, pretending to be juniors or seniors. Or, what’d you say? ‘Fronting.’ ”
    “Why didn’t you just tell me?” Geneva snapped.
    Jonette glanced at the stalls. “I didn’t know we were alone. Sorry to be wack. But I couldn’t say anything that’d blow my cover.” The policewoman looked Geneva over, shook her head. “Shame