Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) Page 7

  Demi sat up, sliding her headphones down. The sound of something sweet and classical drifted through the van before she switched her MP3 player off. “Are we there already?” she asked, making no attempt to conceal her anxiety.

  “About an hour out,” I said. “I just wanted us to take a minute to talk about how this is going to go. All right?”

  “We get there, we find the story, we punch the story until it stops kicking, and then we leave it for the cleanup team,” said Sloane. “Case closed, let’s go out for ice cream sundaes.”

  “Cute idea, but no,” I said. “For one thing, this is a school day, and we don’t have a good excuse to evacuate the campus.”

  “Yet,” added Andy.

  “Yet,” I agreed. If the narrative gathered enough strength, we’d have to close the school or risk losing any student who could be said to have a sweet tooth. And any diabetics. They were uniquely susceptible to three-two-sevens, even when they didn’t normally like candy. Something about the irony of using a gingerbread house to kill people who had issues with insulin seemed to appeal to the story. “Right now, however, there are kids there who don’t know that anything’s going on. For the sake of Gerry and his job, we’re going to keep it that way for as long as we can.”

  “Does anyone there know what you look like?” asked Andy.

  “No, thankfully,” I said. “They’ve only spoken to me over the phone, and since Gerry and I have different last names these days, they may find it to be an odd similarity, but they shouldn’t put anything together.”

  “It’s not like you look alike,” said Sloane.

  I glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Yes, I’m aware that I look nothing like my twin brother. Thanks for the reminder. Looking at my reflection every morning just wasn’t getting the point across.”

  For once, Sloane actually looked apologetic. “Sorry,” she said. “I meant that we didn’t have to worry about any additional similarities.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. Gerry and I had been tapped by the narrative at birth to play Snow White and Rose Red. I got the white skin, black hair, and inborn lipstick. Gerry got the red hair, freckles, and rosy cheeks. We had a similar bone structure, but given the differences of gender and coloration, no one would see that. He was the only family I had in the world, and I didn’t look a damn thing like him. That stung sometimes, when I was feeling particularly alone.

  “Regardless, teenagers are more likely to have camera phones and to photograph their surroundings than any other demographic,” said Jeff, taking up the explanation and giving me the break I needed. “That means that if we can’t keep strange things from happening in their presence, those things are likely to wind up on the Internet. No one wants that.”

  “Why not?” asked Demi. “Before I knew all this was real, I would’ve just assumed somebody was having me on.”

  “Because it’s not safe,” said Sloane. She pushed her shredded magazine to the floor and began braiding her hair. “Fairy tales are attracted to fairy tales. That’s why the first thing we do when there’s an outbreak in a house with children is bag all their Disney videos. A teen walking around with a phone full of pictures of an active narrative is five times more likely to be targeted by an incursion than someone who owns a blue macaw.”

  “Blue . . . what?”

  “Bluebirds show up in a lot of stories, and birds in stories can almost always talk,” said Sloane, still braiding. “Blue macaws are like a big shiny ‘come fuck with my life’ flag.”

  “Fairy tales are weird,” said Demi.

  Andy chuckled. “Got that right, kid.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” said Jeff. “We need to be as unobtrusive as possible, because we don’t want to sow the seeds of a hundred second narratives while we’re cleaning up this one.”

  “The official story is that we’re from the EPA, and we’re investigating a strange smell originating from the woods,” I said, rejoining the conversation. “We aren’t wearing moon suits because there’s no current reason to believe the smell is related to any sort of toxic spill. If there were any reason to believe the smell was related to any sort of toxic spill, we would have alerted the authorities by now.”

  “Ergo, no toxic spill, got it,” said Demi. “Aren’t they going to think we’re a little, um. Funny looking? To be federal agents?”

  “I can do funny, but Henry’s the one with the clown makeup,” said Sloane. She tied off her braid and began winding it into a tight bun at the back of her neck. It was an impressive bit of stylistic chicanery: somehow the way she had it twisted managed to conceal the red and green streaks in her white-blonde locks, making her seem like a normal, if severe, federal agent.

  Too bad I couldn’t disguise my natural coloration as easily. “I have a badge, the badge has my picture; if they want to comment on my complexion, they can enjoy being threatened with an ADA lawsuit,” I said. “Sloane already looks more respectable than she has for the last year.”

  “I brought a button-down shirt, and I’ll change before I get out of the vehicle,” added Sloane, plucking at the front of her “Bad Kitty” T-shirt. “I understand the game, Agent Santos. I’ve been playing it since before any of you were alive.”

  “That’s sort of the problem,” said Demi uncomfortably, and everything became clear.

  “You’re worried they’re going to think you’re too young, and that it’s going to blow the whole thing,” I said. Demi nodded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. I tilted my head and asked, “Are you sure that’s all you’re worried about? Because you’ve never been concerned about your age before.”

  “We’ve never been going to a high school before,” said Demi. “I’m barely out of high school.”

  “So we say you’re on an internship program if anybody asks,” said Sloane. “Shit, Demi, there was a time when you’d have been married with two kids and a household to run by now. Chill out and assert your womanhood. They’ll fall in line, because they won’t have any framework for not falling in line.”

  “Much as I hate to agree with Sloane, ‘fake it until you make it’ may be the best approach here,” I said.

  Demi sighed. “To dealing with the people maybe, but what do we do when the story decides that it wants to take me again?”

  “We don’t let it,” I said firmly. “We’re never going to let that happen again.”

  Demi met my eyes in the rearview mirror. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She knew that I was bluffing.

  I drove on. We were almost there.

  # # #

  The school parking lot was surprisingly crowded when we pulled up at a quarter after four o’clock in the afternoon. Classes were done for the day, but it looked like every teacher who had been able to come up with an excuse had stuck around to see the federal agents. How did I know that they knew that we were coming?

  Well, the news vans were a bit of a tip-off.

  Andy sighed when he saw them, sitting up a little straighter and beginning to retie his tie. As our most charismatic member, he was always the one tapped when we needed to convince the bystanders and lookie-loos to move on. “What’s our cover story this time, boss?”

  “Same as we’re giving the school: we’re here to investigate reports of an unusual smell, we don’t believe it’s toxic, but in the interest of containment and public safety, we’re going to have to ask the media to keep a wide berth. You may have to stay here and distract them. The last thing I need is some ace reporter following us into the woods and getting footage of a gingerbread house.”

  “Maybe she could get some footage of the inside of the oven,” suggested Sloane. There was nothing kind about her tone. Then again, there so rarely was.

  “Let’s not make more of a mess for the cleanup squad than we have to, all right?” I pulled into a spot near the front of the school. The reporters who’d been standing outside the news vans immediately started pointing in our direction, and a few began moving our way. “Remember, a good in
cursion is an incursion that doesn’t require anyone to accidentally burn down a news station.”

  “Spoilsport,” said Sloane. She pulled her shirt over her head, flinging it unerringly at Jeff—who, as the only person in the car who was attracted to women, apart from Sloane herself, had turned bright cherry red as soon as he’d realized what she was doing. She pulled on her button-down shirt without bothering to undo the buttons and grabbed her jacket. “We ready?”

  “We’re ready,” I said, and opened my door.

  My team may be odd at best and dysfunctional at worst, but we’re good at what we do, and thanks to the number of narrative incursions we’ve dealt with and survived since Demi first joined us, we can pull ourselves together fast. The reporters on the scene didn’t see our bickering or our quick wardrobe changes. No, they saw a pale, severe-looking woman with black hair marching toward the front of the school, followed by a thin man who walked with the grim purpose of a mortician, a woman whose hair was virtually white and whose face was set in a seemingly permanent scowl, and a younger, darker-skinned woman who moved with the quick uncertainty of the trainee.

  Then their view was blocked by Andy as he swooped in and took over. We were almost to the school doors when his voice boomed, “All right, settle down, and I’ll be happy to answer all your questions—”

  I smirked, and we were inside, and the first hurdle was behind us. Now the real work could begin.

  High schools around the country tend to follow a similar floor plan: the office is almost always located near the front, where it’s convenient for visiting parents or people from the school board. I spent a lot of time in the office back when Gerry and I were in high school. He was never big on kicking the crap out of people who called him a freak. I, on the other hand, was almost Sloane-like in my furious desire to see my fellow students bleed.

  Oh, yeah. I was definitely thrilled to be back in high school.

  The question of which of the doors lining the hall was the one we wanted was answered when one of them creaked open and a head popped out. A red-topped head, with familiar features, pulled into a familiar expression of mild distress. I perked up, trying not to let my delight at seeing my brother show. He was at work, after all, and we were trying to keep our relationship as quiet as possible. Still, I offered him a quick, private nod, and he returned it, making no effort to conceal his relief.

  “I’m Agent Henrietta Marchen,” I said, offering my hand. He pushed the door open further, revealing the people who were clustered in the office behind him. They were watching our interaction with the wary suspicion the general public tends to reserve for vague, black-clad government agencies. It wasn’t a bad survival mechanism, all things considered. “My team and I are here about your possible chemical spill.”

  “Gerald March,” he said, taking my hand and shaking it. There: we had established ourselves as strangers in the eyes of his colleagues. “I’m a teacher here. Principal Hanson is this way.” He let go of my hand, gesturing for me to come into the office. I, and my team, did as we were told.

  The office was actually a warren of smaller offices, all connected to a large hub that was dominated by a secretary’s desk. The secretary was a woman who looked to be somewhere in her midfifties, sitting behind a computer that was four generations out of date and pretending to take notes as she eavesdropped on the people around her.

  I decided not to call her on what she was doing. The more people we had backing up the official story about what had happened here, the better off we were going to be. I turned a politely bland look on the other inhabitants of the office, careful not to smile. Most people didn’t like it when I smiled. “Hello. I’m Agent Henrietta Marchen, and this is my team. May I ask which of you is Principal Hanson?”

  “I am,” said a woman with ash blonde hair and a sensible lilac pantsuit. She took a step forward as she spoke, putting herself between us and the others. I decided I liked her. Any superior who didn’t try to hide behind her people was okay by me. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand exactly what’s going on here. I called the police, and they didn’t know anything about your organization, or what its connections are to the EPA.”

  Damn. “I was unaware that you’d spoken to local law enforcement. I’m going to have to call the office and ask them to send in a cleanup team.”

  “You’ll be able to talk to them yourself; I called them when the reporters showed up outside,” replied Principal Hanson. She looked at me coolly. “May I assume your office decided to contact them? Were you not going to get enough media attention without stepping in?”

  Double damn. “I assure you, ma’am, my office operates under conditions of utmost secrecy, to avoid the possibility of triggering a public panic. The chemical spill we’re here to investigate is almost certainly not toxic. Going on what was described by Mr. March, it’s probably a form of rare but naturally occurring fungus. You think we want to spend the next few weeks fielding calls from panicked homeowners convinced that we’re covering up an outbreak of flesh-eating black mold? I don’t know about you, but my agency has better things to do.”

  “Well, we certainly didn’t contact the press,” said Principal Hanson, thawing only slightly. She might be willing to accept that I wasn’t to blame, but that didn’t mean she was letting go of her anger just yet.

  By my elbow, Sloane cleared her throat. I glanced in her direction.

  “Agent Winters?”

  “Pardon me for interrupting, ma’am, but I think if we’re looking for the source of a media leak, and we’re all policing each other, maybe we should be considering the only person in the room with an Internet connection.” Sloane sounded almost bored. She probably was. There was punching to be done out there in those woods, and as long as we were standing here arguing with the locals, she wasn’t getting the party started. The bloody, violent, unpleasant party.

  As one, we all turned to look at the secretary. She reddened, hunching her shoulders defensively.

  “I did not stay after hours so that I could be accused of wrong-doing by a stranger,” she said. There was a shrill note in her voice that screamed “guilty” more loudly than anything shy of a confession could possibly have done.

  “No one asked you to stay after hours in the first place, Natalie,” said Principal Hanson. “Did you alert the media that we had a possible chemical spill on school property?”

  Natalie sat up a little straighter and sniffed. “Well, I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”

  “She posted on the school’s Facebook group,” said Demi. Most of us turned to look at her. She shrugged, ears turning red as she lowered her phone. “There are two. One official one, for the school to make announcements, and one that’s supposedly set private, for complaining about the administration. She posted about the chemical spill on the private page. Which—oh look—has three local reporters listed as ‘friends.’ Have you been having issues with the press lately? Because it looks like this lady has been making sure they heard about every little thing that happened on campus.”

  “That’s private, you have no right without a warrant,” snapped Natalie.

  There were two ways this could go. Thankfully, Sloane went with the better option. She looked almost amused as she asked, “What do you think this is, lady, an episode of Law & Order? Facebook is a public resource. If logging into her account gives Agent Santos access to your ‘private’ group, then that’s what she’s going to do, and that’s what we’re going to act on. Since you’re the one who spilled details of an ongoing EPA investigation, I think maybe you should be a little nicer to us right now.”

  That was my cue. “Natalie,” I glanced at her nameplate, “Barrick, you are hereby under arrest for endangering a federal investigation, and for exposing government secrets on a public forum. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a secret court of law.”

  “I have the right to an attorney,” she said, all traces of smugness or superiority gone as sh
e jerked to her feet and took a step back, away from me, away from Principal Hanson, and most important, away from Sloane. “I want an attorney.”

  “Oh, actually, no,” said Jeff. “That’s just for civic authorities. We’re the government. We don’t have to give you an attorney. We’re allowed to make you disappear, as long as we fill out all the appropriate paperwork.”

  “I just wanted people to realize there was corruption at this school!” protested Natalie, suddenly frantic. She took another step backward, and stopped as her shoulders hit the wall. “They’re so busy chasing make-believe bullies that they don’t look at the pay imbalances, at the people sneaking food out of the cafeteria, or the kids stealing from the supply cabinets—”

  “We have a high population of low-income students,” snapped Gerry. He sounded angrier than I was accustomed to hearing him. “What do you want them to do, flunk all their tests because you treat pencils like they’re made of platinum? We’re here to teach. Students don’t learn with empty stomachs and second-hand notebooks. They learn with food, and paper, and understanding adults.”

  Natalie looked around the room, apparently seeking a friendly face. She didn’t find one. She slouched a little. Then her eyes fell on Sloane.

  Sloane didn’t say anything. She just smiled. That was more than enough. The unfortunate Natalie fell over in a dead faint, hitting the floor with a loud, boneless thud. For a moment, everyone was silent, looking at the collapsed secretary.

  Principal Hanson spoke first. “She’s fired when she wakes up, of course. The union won’t be able to protect her from this one,” she said. “Is there any way I can convince you not to arrest her? The reporters out there are going to be suspicious enough when it comes out that she’s been dismissed from her position, especially if she’s been feeding them information about the school. I’d rather not see what happens if she disappears completely.”