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.It all overwhelms me: the incident with Nate and Josh, and the Zoo and the Lifers relegated to the crappiest part of the school, and the police wandering the school grounds while we blister in the sun.Just another day in a segregated school.I long to be back at Academy, back in Saint Paul, where everything was simpler.***They announce it at school on Tuesday: there was no gun.But that doesn’t mean much—the illusion of a gun at QH is almost as bad as a real one.“Be aware, students,” Mrs.Temple fire-breathes through the intercom speakers, as if we’re all holding semiautomatic pistols in our hands, “we will not tolerate violence at Quiet High.Not now, not ever.”“I still think he did it,” Dizzy announces in geometry.“Well, kids, when there’s no evidence, there’s no evidence.If it doesn’t fit, we must acquit,” Mr.Oakes, our dorky geometry teacher says, almost apologetically.“I’m referencing the O.J.Simpson trial,” he tells us, apparently not willing to take full credit for the aphorism.“Being predicted is the only evidence we need,” Dizzy says, and Brooklyn seconds that sentiment.“Nate is a dirty, rotten maggot.He should be shot.And tortured,” Dizzy adds as an afterthought.Brooklyn claps.I roll my eyes.Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? If left up to Dizzy—and everyone else at Quiet High—this whole predicted thing is going to be the beginning of the end of the constitution.“Lay off Nate,” I say from my position scrunched up against the wall in my regular seat.The chairs that used to belong to predicteds—Jesse’s desk, Lexus’s—remain empty.It reminds me a little bit of the place Melissa took me to visit when we first moved to Quiet: the Oklahoma City bombing memorial, the empty chairs a chilling reminder that people who were once here no longer are.“Sorry,” Brooklyn says snidely, “I didn’t realize you two were the best of friends.But it figures, Daphne, what with you being the biggest Lifer lover here.”Lifer lover.It’s a phrase I keep hearing at QH.It’s not even clever, really.But people love to say it, even if it’s not true.Anyone who does anything that could be considered dumb, lame, silly, or even just mundane is a Lifer lover.And anyone who goes near the Zoo—for any reason except to gawk at the predicteds—is a Lifer lover too.“Are we going to have to go to school with Lifers next year?” Ruth wants to know, her eager eyes peering out from under her baseball cap.“That remains to be seen, dude,” Mr.Oakes replies.“I think we should put them in their own schools,” says Dizzy.We haven’t spoken to each other since yesterday at the baseball diamonds.She sits with Brooklyn now, passing notes and pausing occasionally to listen to Mr.Oakes.“The school board is considering options,” Mr.Oakes tells us.“Well, personally,” Brooklyn announces in her pageant voice, “I think we should lock all of the predicteds away someplace and let them kill each other.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles at Mr.Oakes like he’s a guest pageant judge.“But remember, we need to hate the sin, not the sinner.Let’s all remember that.”I surprise even myself when I feel my vocal cords begin to vibrate.It takes me a second to realize that the words I’m hearing are coming from my mouth.“You’re so fake.You don’t care about anybody.You just want to gossip.” I raise my voice, until my own head hurts from the screech that appears to be emanating directly from me.Mr.Oakes takes a step backward and perches on the edge of his desk, as if he might slide behind it and hide at a moment’s notice.I go on, “You don’t know the first thing about how it feels to love someone who everyone else has turned against.You don’t know.All you know about is yourself and your pageants.” I turn to the rest of the class.“PROFILE obviously doesn’t work, or it would know that Brooklyn here is a stupid, conceited, selfish little bitch.”The room is dead silent.When even Mr.Oakes can’t decide what to say, I grab my backpack and leave.I can hear the flip-flop of my shoes all the way to the door.I look at Dizzy before I leave.She just shakes her head, as if to say, Now you’ve done it.***Melissa has been in bed for hours already, but I haven’t come even close to falling asleep.I grab the phone after only half a ring.“Hello?”“Hello,” he says formally, grimly.“Hi,” I reply, my voice cracking on the single syllable.I’m surprised to hear Jesse’s voice.We are silent for twenty-three seconds.I count the ticks coming from my watch on the bedside table.“You’re still mad at me,” I finally say.“No,” he says.“I’m just—” No words adequately finish the sentence, apparently, so he just stops.“I’m sorry about sending you that email message.”“I understand.But, please, Jesse, listen.I had to ask you those questions.I have to know—”He cuts me off.“Let’s not start this conversation again.” He’s right.There’s nothing more I can say.“I’m calling because I need to ask you a favor,” he says.“Of course.”“I’m not coming back to Quiet.Maybe not ever.I don’t know.I’m with my mom right now in Utah.The thing is, I’m worried about January.”“Oh,” I say.Of course he’s worried about January.“With all this crazy predicted stuff going on, January is going to have an even harder time.I need to know someone is looking out for her.”“Of course,” I repeat.“Daphne, I need you to promise that you’ll make sure nothing bad happens to her.She needs a friend, and I don’t know of anyone else who I can trust to be there for her.Can you do that?”“One guardian angel coming right up.” I laugh awkwardly.Jesse doesn’t laugh.“Yes,” I say seriously, “I’ll look out for her, but not because of you.I’ll do it because she needs a friend.”“Thank you,” he says.I hold the phone to my ear long after the line is dead.chapter 24It bothers me that they can use public restrooms.We don’t feel safe anymore.If we can’t get rid of them, can’t we make the predicteds use separate public toilets? It’s a matter of public health.—Marianna Bass, mother of Brooklyn Bass, in a letter to the editor of the Quiet Daily NewsMelissa and I arrive at the theme park, Frontier City, in Oklahoma City just as it opens.I refused to take the bus with everyone else.It’s our class trip, an annual tradition at Quiet High for the junior class to celebrate the end of the year at a stinky amusement park—a day complete with bagged lunches from the cafeteria and parent chaperones.“Surprise!” Melissa had said with real glee when she told me last night that she had volunteered to chaperone the trip.“But I’m not going,” I told her.We’d argued for about ten minutes, and then I just gave up.Melissa always wins [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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