You shake up Sophie’s unopened can of Coke, just on principle, sling your backpack over your shoulder, and run out of the cafeteria.
The hallways are filled with students caught on their way to and from lunch, pea-green metal lockers running up and down either side, gleaming white floor tiles reflecting the harsh light overhead. The sound of your footsteps echoes emptily through the silence as you weave between people, filming it all with your phone as you go. That way you can show it to someone later, if you have to. Prove it’s not all in your head.
All right, but if it’s not in my head, then what the fuck is going on? you wonder. You push open the front doors and continue outside. Flags caught flapping in the wind, cars stalled on the road. The fountain in the courtyard looks like a glass sculpture.
The water, you think, walking over to it. You cut your hand through the spray, watching the drops scatter without falling.
Maybe the Contaminant does have something to do with this.
The Contaminant comes from a military lab uptown that dumps its chemical waste in the river. Trace metals, man-made. They haven’t even added them to the periodic table yet. You still don’t know what, exactly, they’re cooking up in there. You don’t expect you ever will.
But you know Simone’s dad is one of the scientists.
That’s how she ended up at Steele City East in the first place—once the story broke about the water, her father was able to pull some strings and get her transferred. You could pay her a visit, maybe. See what she knows. She must know something. More than you, at least.
The spell breaks. Time starts up once again. Your breath catches a little. You glance down at your phone, stop the video. Seven minutes and twenty-three seconds.
You’re getting better at this.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
You decide to skip the rest of school, spend the afternoon practicing and recording your progress. You take the bus downtown first. It’ll be the perfect staging area. The city may be dying—the mall a glittering carcass, the roads cracked like parched earth—but there’s still some life left.
You’re cautious at first. You bring the cars speeding across an intersection to a halt, but you don’t run out into the traffic right away. You don’t need them starting back up just in time to flatten you. You also don’t want to be seen. But you’re starting to recognize the subtle changes that come over you when you use this power: a chill across your skin, a humming in your bones, a tingling at the base of your skull that increases the longer you’re suspended. You’re hoping you’ll know when your strength’s about to give out, in the same way that, when you’re in the weight room, you know when you won’t be able to lift another rep.
So you work up your courage and step off the curb, skimming along between the cars, following the broken white line like you’re walking a tightrope. Catching it all on camera. Next you duck into the crowded train station and weave between the people. Then you run along the pier, the wood clomping hollowly beneath your feet, and burst through a flock of seagulls. They explode into flight around you, and when you stop time an instant later, it’s as if you’re caught in the middle of the firework.
You will have plenty of evidence for Simone now.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“I have to go to a friend’s house to work on a group project,” you tell your mom later that night. You’re already shrugging into your jacket, getting ready to walk back out the door. But of course it’s not that simple.
“What project? What friend?” she asks, looking up from NCIS. She’s sitting on the swaybacked couch, in her nightgown and bonnet, sipping tea she made with bottled water. Your family brushes their teeth with bottled water, too; you cook and clean with it. You shower out of a bucket. You have to. The water that comes from the tap runs black and smells like metal.
“It’s a history project, and Kristen Bennet,” you lie easily.
“Do I know her?”
“Probably not.” Because she doesn’t exist. “Can I take your car?”
Your mom pauses the show now. “I don’t know, Jordan. It’s getting late. When will you be back?”
“Before curfew.”
“That boy in Springfield—”
“I know.”
“Hmm.” Your mom eyes you up and down, watching as you hop into your knock-off Timbs. “Don’t you have anything nicer to wear?”
You threw away all your “nice” clothes around the same time you cut your hair. It’s all baggy jeans and boyfriend shirts now, bought with your own hard-earned money. That way your mom can’t say anything about it. Though she does anyway.
“It’s fine,” you say, and you slip a beanie over your head.
“All right,” she sighs. “Text me when you get there.”
“I love you,” you say, blowing a kiss, and you grab the keys and run out the door.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
This seemed like a better idea when you were riding the high of your godlike powers. Now, standing in front of Simone Mitchell’s front door, the rain beating down on your umbrella, the glare of the streetlight beating down on your back, you’re less sure about this whole thing.
The door swings open on squeaking hinges, and a light-skinned Black man in dress jeans and a sweater stands in the doorway.
“Mr. Mitchell—Dr. Mitchell—hey,” you say, fumbling over your own words. “I’m—uh—I’m here for Simone? My name’s Jordan Carter. I’m here to help with a project we’re working on together at school.”
He furrows his brow, looking down at you through his bifocals. “She never mentioned any project to me. She just went up to her room. Simone?”
Shit.
Dr. Mitchell steps aside to let you in. If Simone doesn’t play along, you’ll be back out in the cold shortly.
She strolls downstairs in pajama pants and the same Steele City East High hoodie you were wearing yesterday. Her thumbs stick out of holes cut into the sleeves, nails painted cherry red. She’s pulled her curly black hair into a ponytail, and she’s traded her contacts for round, gold-rimmed glasses. She is as dressed down, and as cute, as you’ve ever seen her.
She’s obviously not expecting company.
You weren’t expecting to be caught this off guard.
“Jordan?” she asks uncertainly when she sees you, stopping at the bottom stair.
“Hey,” you say. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “I’m here to work on the history project? Sorry, I should have reminded you . . .”