Don't Turn Around (16 page)

Maybe she was being paranoid, but it felt like a weird tense energy had overtaken the room. Like something really, really bad was about to happen.

The counter girl perked up at the sight of him. She flipped back stringy hennaed hair and smiled broadly at the guy, leaning on her elbows so that her V-neck sweater gaped open as she purred, “Can I get you something?”

Noa’s instincts were blaring, and she decided to listen to them. She casually closed her laptop and unplugged it, winding the cord around before tucking it into her messenger bag. The whole time she tracked the guy out of the corner of her eye. He placed both hands on top of the counter and matched the girl’s smile. His own was dazzling, teeth almost too white. “I’d love a coffee.”

“What kind?” The girl bent over farther, exposing a sliver of pink bra. “I’ve got French roast, espresso, and our daily blend, which is, like, totally awesome.”

“French roast, please. Black.”

He turned away from the counter, gazing out at the street. But Noa couldn’t shake the sense that his focus was actually homed in on her.

She got up and went to the door. As she shoved it open, the counter girl said, “Hey, don’t forget your coffee!”

Noa broke into a jog. Footsteps behind her. She chanced a glance back. The guy had left the café and was following her, walking briskly with a determined expression on his face. His lips were moving, and Noa noted the Bluetooth device jutting out of his ear. She scanned the street and saw another guy step out of a doorway in the building next to MailPlus. They could have been clones, both oversized guys in ill-fitting suits and combat boots. Trying to blend in and failing.

When Noa hit the corner, she broke into a run. She was annoyed with herself for not choosing a better spot to stake out the MailPlus. Annoyed, too, that she hadn’t waited at least a day before going there. No helping that now, though. And she really had needed that bank card.

On the plus side, it seemed like there were only two guys chasing her. And this time she’d had the forethought to map escape routes.

She was heading for the closest one now. As opposed to Cambridge, Brookline was an area she knew well. Her longest stint with a foster family had been here—six whole months with a Harvard sociology professor and his wife. The Pratts were earnest people who’d made it clear that taking her in was their way of giving back to society. Their own kids were already in college, and as they repeatedly explained they considered it selfish to occupy such a large house alone when they could share it with someone less fortunate. Apparently they’d almost taken in foster kids earlier, but were afraid of the “negative impact” it might have on their “real” children.

The Pratts were prone to lecturing Noa about social injustice, and how the system failed kids like her. A familiar refrain was that if only more sane people adopted older kids out of foster care, a whole host of social ills would be resolved, from drug abuse to homelessness to crime.

Whenever they started to pontificate like that, Noa had to bite her tongue. Because, yeah, she was all for having normal people take in foster kids like her. The system sucked. It had definitely failed her and every other kid she’d encountered at The Center.

What was interesting, though, was that when she tried to join the discussion, sharing specific instances of terrible things that had befallen her over the years, the Pratts shut down. Noa quickly realized that they weren’t really interested in her personally—more as the embodiment of an idea. They preferred to appreciate what she’d been through in the abstract; the concrete details were too frightening.

Four months in, however, the Pratts broached the possibility of adopting her. Noa was wary. They were kind of weird, but on the plus side never hit her or burned her with cigarettes or refused to feed her. Riding out a few more years with them made sense. They’d even offered to pay for college if she wanted to go.

Unfortunately, a month after they discussed adoption, Mrs. Pratt caught her husband straddling one of his teaching assistants. Their marriage exploded, and Noa was quickly swept back to The Center.

Which was a shame, because despite the fact that they were kind of snooty and full of themselves, she’d liked them. They’d also inadvertently provided a key out of the revolving door she’d become stuck in by offering unlimited access to a computer.

And Noa had gotten to know Brookline like the back of her hand. Which was one of the main reasons she’d rented a PO Box there. It was an easy T ride, located halfway between the two places where she spent the bulk of her time: her apartment in Newton Centre and the Apple store. She usually only checked her snail mail once or twice a week, anyway.

Noa raced down the block past nail salons, restaurants, and bookstores. She didn’t dare look back to see how close the suits were. The line of shops became staggered the farther she got from the café, until they dissipated entirely into tiny homes.

Half a block to go. Noa left the sidewalk, cutting across a baseball field. The rain that had been lurking in heavy gray clouds all morning started to fall uncertainly, like it wasn’t 100 percent ready to commit and would settle for a drizzle.

At the far end of the field, Noa locked in on her target: An enormous brick building with white stone columns that shot up four stories at the entrance and a flight of stairs that widened at the bottom like a grin.

Noa pounded across the street without checking for traffic. Heard a screech of tires, but kept going. She dashed up the flight of stairs, heart pounding, heels aching as they slapped concrete. Right outside the front doors, she paused long enough to see the guy from the café circling around a car that had stopped dead to avoid hitting her. He didn’t look calm anymore; sweat poured down his face. His buddy was right behind him.

Noa raced inside. The atrium was similar to the library from last night—that’s actually what gave her the idea to come here. This was one place where an adult who didn’t belong would stick out like a sore thumb, and where she was familiar with every exit, entrance, and hidden corner.

Brookline High School.

She’d spent five months as a sophomore here. The Pratts had gone on about how lucky she was to be at one of the best public schools in the entire country. Noa hadn’t really cared for much besides the computer lab, though. That had been impressive. The PTA had sprung for all new equipment the previous year, and for the first time in her life she had access to something besides clunky decades-old library terminals. She’d first learned Linux here, and basic programming with Python. Noa had spent hours after school exploring the internet, until one night she stumbled on a hacker site and something just clicked.

She tore past the security guard parked in a chair by the door. He looked up, but didn’t seem fazed. Just another kid late for school.

She wondered how he’d handle the guys who were about to charge in behind her.

One thing had been made clear during opening assembly on her first day of school: The principal took the safety and well-being of her students very seriously. And unlike a lot of other public schools, BHS could afford a full-time security team.

Noa didn’t need the guards to actually stop the guys, though—just to stall them.

A yelp behind her. The two guys must have come in.

Noa skidded into a hallway and dashed toward the nearest stairwell, her boots squeaking against linoleum polished to a high gleam. Lockers lined either side, broken up periodically by bulletin boards and classroom doors.

The hallway even smelled familiar, a mix of science-class formaldehyde, burnt dust from the woodshop, and commingled cafeteria meat all overlaid by pheromones. Noa experienced an unexpected pang of nostalgia.

She bolted up the stairs three at a time.

Unfortunately, she could still hear the guys behind her. Noa bit her lip—this had to work, she was counting on it. She yanked open the door at the top of the stairs and entered another hallway identical to the one downstairs. Class was in session; the hall was empty. Halfway down it, Noa heard the stairwell door open behind her.

What was taking so long? She felt a twinge of annoyance with the principal, and with herself for believing her. Maybe she should have followed Plan B and headed for the nearest T stop. Or her absolute fallback, Plan C—going to the nearest police station.

As she was thinking it, something hit her hard from behind.

Noa kept flying forward, but her feet were knocked out from under her. She landed hard, pinned beneath the guy from the café. Her head knocked against the floor and for a second she saw stars.

Café guy’s face was bright red and he was panting. “Got you,” he gasped.

His friend stood behind him, grinning. Café guy slowly got up, keeping his hand wrapped around her upper arm. He jerked Noa painfully to her feet, wrenching her arm hard and twisting it behind her back. “Make a noise,” he said, “and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

“Hey,” the other guy said, “remember—”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t have to chase this little bitch down,” café guy said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

They started down the hall. Noa felt tears welling up. She fought them back down. It was bad enough they’d caught her again; she wouldn’t give them the benefit of seeing her cry, too.

And then, the alarm started to blare. Two shorts and a long, two shorts and a long. Not a standard fire drill. Noa broke into a grin.

The two guys froze, looking at each other. “C’mon,” the guy holding her arm said, hurrying her toward the stairwell.

“It’s a campus breach,” she said calmly. “No one in or out until the cops come.”

“What?” Café guy tightened his grip and Noa winced, almost crying out.

“They’ve gone into lockdown mode. They know you’re here,” she explained. “Next comes SWAT. After all the school shootings, they don’t take any chances.”

The other guy cursed under his breath. Noa felt eyes watching them, and turned her head. A teacher was peering through the small window in her classroom door. She held a cell phone to her ear and her lips were moving rapidly.

“We have to get out of here,” café guy muttered, looking around wildly.

“Hey!” A male teacher emerged from a classroom down the hall, and Noa’s heart sank. She tried to mentally will him away. “Let her go!”

The guys holding her didn’t seem to know how to react. “It’s okay, sir,” café guy called out.

“It doesn’t look okay.” The teacher jabbed a finger at them, like they were misbehaving and he was about to assign detention. Noa recognized him as her former chemistry teacher, Mr. Gannon. She couldn’t tell if he remembered her—it didn’t seem like it; all his attention was focused on the men holding her. “Just let her go. You do that, they’ll go easier on you.”

Noa could sense them wavering, trying to decide what to do next. Café guy’s eyes were darting around, like he suddenly realized that even though the hall was empty, there were eyes at every door, a whole slew of witnesses. They both seemed to be waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

Noa felt the grip on her arm ease slightly. “She’s not a student here, sir,” café guy said. “She’s our responsibility.”

Mr. Gannon’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. Now let her go.”

Another door opened. Apparently emboldened by Gannon’s stance, a chubby man with a thick mustache who Noa recognized as the Spanish teacher stepped into the hall. Then another door opened. This time a middle-aged woman in a tweed skirt stepped out. Determinedly she held up a cell phone and said, “I’m recording this! Let her go now!”

“Just relax …” Café guy looked lost. He edged backward a step.

Noa wrenched away from him. Her arm twisted painfully in its socket, but slipped free. Without pausing she dashed down the hall past Mr. Gannon. Kept going until she’d almost reached the next stairwell.

“In here!” someone shouted.

Noa turned. The last door on her left was open, and a young, pretty teacher was frantically waving her in. Noa pivoted quickly and darted inside. The door slammed behind her, bolt turned. As she stood there panting, the sound of something scraping, orders being given. A hand on her shoulder.

Noa turned and found the pretty teacher looking up at her. She was blond, probably not much older than her. She looked absolutely terrified. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Her voice was high-pitched, strained. Like she was trying really hard not to scream.

“I’m fine,” Noa said. They’d blockaded the door with two desks set on top of each other.

The teacher followed her eyes to the ad-hoc barricade. She wrung her hands and said, “I think that will hold them. The doors are strong; they had them replaced a few years ago. And the police will be here soon, don’t you think?”

There was a group of about twenty students clustered at the far end of the room away from the door. It was the health ed classroom; the walls were papered with enormous diagrams of human reproductive systems.

“Sure,” Noa said. “It’ll be fine.”

She could feel the weight of the other kids’ eyes on her, and heard them whispering.

The teacher cleared her throat, sounding slightly calmer as she said, “Why don’t you go stand with the other students. I’ll just call in and see if … well, I’ll call.”

Noa obediently went to the back of the room as the teacher fumbled with the phone mounted on the wall by the pencil sharpener. It took three tries for her to dial the number with trembling fingers; then she spoke in a low, urgent voice.

“I remember you.”

Noa turned.

The words had been spoken by a small brunette wearing glasses with thick black rims, multicolored stockings, and a rainbow skirt. She looked vaguely familiar, but Noa couldn’t place her.

“Art class sophomore year,” the girl explained.

“Right,” Noa said, still not remembering.

The other students remained silent.

“You kind of sucked at art,” the girl said. “But you were good at computers.”

“Yeah,” Noa said. “I hated art.”

“I thought you dropped out.” The girl’s eyes shifted away.

“You just, like, never came back.”

“Well.” Noa looked toward the door. “I’m back now.”