Scored (22 page)

In the end, Score Corp would win.

Imani could sense Ms. Wheeler nearing the end of her argument. In moments, Mrs. Landis would take the stage and make Imani’s secret transgressions public. She probably deserved what was coming, and, for a moment, she entertained the possibility that such an extreme and public undoing would leave her cleansed. But something gnawed at her.

“Dad,” she said, “I have to go do something. Will you wait for me here?”

“What?” he whispered. “Where are you going?”

“Trust me?” Imani said.

“Imani Jane!” he whispered.

“Please?”

Her father took a moment to consider, then, perhaps suspecting that she was more her father’s daughter than either of them had realized, he nodded his ascent. Imani went to the double doors where Diego stood.

“Walk with me?” she said.

He didn’t answer, but when she left the auditorium, he waited a few seconds, then followed. As Imani made her way down the hallway, he stayed at least ten feet behind, a move designed to fool the eyeballs.

Imani wanted to be alone with him, but the hallways were dotted with Somerton police patrolling for troublemakers. Eventually, she arrived at Mr. Carol’s classroom, which was left unlocked. Imani opened the door, waited for Diego to turn the corner and see her, then went inside. The second hand swept from the eight to the ten before Diego entered and closed the door.

It was dim in the classroom, possibly too dim for the eyeball to identify her, possibly not.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“How much do you know?”

“Everything you told my mother.”

It was a lot, but it wasn’t everything.

“Did you bring me here to apologize?” he asked. “Because it’s not necessary.”

“Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m skipping forgive. I’m going right to forget. Can I repeat my first question? What do you want?”

The desks still sat in their loose circle, split down the middle. Imani leaned against one on the unscored half.

“Look,” Diego said. “I really don’t need an explanation for what you did. It’s pretty obvious, so you can save the—”

Imani shut him up by kissing him. She was so fast off her desk, he had no time to prepare. She’d only grazed his lips when he pulled away and fixed her with an accusing glare. “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Everything?”

Diego closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Is it your aim in life to toy with me, Imani?”

“No.”

He looked at her, breathing heavily. “Because I’m really in no mood to be—”

She shut him up again. This time, he surrendered immediately. When their lips separated, they remained so close Imani could barely focus on him. His arms had found her waist, and Imani was resting her wrists on his shoulders. The warmth of him made her dizzy, and all she wanted was to dive back into that blurry miasma of feeling and want.

But something drew her attention. Behind Diego, the eyeball dangled. It was the same eyeball she’d seen every day in American history. It was exactly like every other eyeball in the
world. Pulling free of Diego, she went and stood underneath it, the fabric of the American flag grazing her shoulder.

“Um, Imani?” he said. “You’re not about to do one of those eyeball confessions, are you?”

“Hmm?” She was mesmerized by the shiny black face, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Because I think that might freak me out,” Diego said.

So small
, she thought,
so shiny, like a Christmas ornament
. She grabbed the flagpole in both hands and yanked it out of its stand.

“Imani, what are you doing?” Diego’s voice had taken on the tone of a concerned teacher.

But she was under the sway of something powerful, something deep and, while not identifiable, not entirely unknown. Swinging the flagpole behind her, she touched its tip to the floor. Then, aiming carefully, she swung upward as if at a tiny piñata. With a crash and a tinkle, the eyeball shattered.

“Oh my God,” Diego said behind her.

Calmly, Imani returned the flagpole to its holder, then stood and watched as the remains of the eyeball, a half dome now, swung back and forth, its circuitry dangling like entrails. Diego picked his way over the bits of glass and stood next to her to watch it swing, first in wide arcs, then medium, then small.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered.

“Then don’t say anything.”

He looked right at her, and this time she didn’t look away.

Outside the classroom, the noise was growing—Ms. Wheeler, Mrs. Landis, cheering, booing, police shuffling, then running,
through the hallways. The meeting was descending into chaos. Imani knew she should have been there to answer for her actions and to stand up for what she believed in. But what did she believe in? Her beliefs had been programmed into her, designed to shape her into the fittest person she could become. In the end, the only beliefs that remained were the ones that were dooming her. So she stayed with Diego in Mr. Carol’s dimly lit classroom.

“Hey, do you want to go clamming with me on Saturday?” she asked.

“Uh, sure,” he said. “But you’ll have to teach me. I’ve never even held a clam fork.”

Imani shook her head.

“Well, I bet you’ve never held a bass guitar,” he said, only slightly miffed.

“True,” she said. Then she smiled coyly. “Are you proposing a discreet collaboration?”

Diego stepped forward and took one of her hands. “I don’t know, Imani. Look where the last one got us.” Their eyes drifted to the broken eyeball still swinging in barely perceptible arcs.

“I’m game if you are,” she said. Then she took his other hand and looked into the piercing blue eye that had once intimidated her. If this was doom, she thought, she’d take it.

“Oh, I’m game,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her.

In the moment before Imani closed her eyes to get lost in that kiss, she noticed that the broken eyeball had stopped swinging at last.

T
HE
O
TIS
I
NSTITUTE
I
NNOVATION IN
E
DUCATION

Dear Ms. LeMonde and Mr. Landis:

It is with great pleasure that we offer you a scholarship in the amount of $40,000, to be divided as you see fit. Furthermore, we would like to extend our congratulations on a fine essay. Your mutual insights on individualism and camaraderie were most enlightening. We wish you both the best of luck in your academic endeavors and look forward to hearing about your accomplishments in the years to come.

Sincerely,

Kathleen Otis
Director, The Otis Institute

Thanks to Dad for all those summers on the boat, and to Lufkin Marina for the memories. Thanks to my early readers (Mom, Dad, Andrew, Scott, and Justine) for pointing out what should probably have been obvious but wasn’t. Thanks to my agent, Jill Grinberg, for always knowing what’s best, and to my editor, Mallory Loehr, for challenging me.

grew up in the small town of Wenham, Massachusetts. After college and a brief stint in graduate school, she spent ten “unglamorous” years writing and producing movies before abandoning her screen ambitions to write fiction full-time. Though she fondly remembers much of her time in Massachusetts—the marina, the beach, various teenage escapades—she cannot, for the life of her, remember her SAT scores, her GPA, or any of the numbers that once summed her up.