Black Forest

Regroup

St. Cosmas Conservatory: Friday: 5 p.m.

How their sister had ended up in detention wasn't important. What was important, however, was how they planned on breaking her out.

Tatum and Shiloh regrouped in the hall, ten minutes after the final bell of the worst Friday, otherwise known as parent's weekend, otherwise known as A Bus Ride From Now, You Will Die. Tatum was carrying the last edition of the Daily Bear under her arm. She had lost her rank as editor-in-chief as of this year but had beaten out a fierce rival (Jonathan – that jerk) for student body president.

"Look at this – look at this." She unfolded it, victorious. Handed the front page to Shiloh.

Her twin didn't seem impressed – he pushed back his hair and rifled through the pages. "What is it?"

"Page five."

"Section?"

"A. Underneath Opinion: Orange Juice or Milk?"

"You'd think people would find something more exciting to write about," Shiloh said. "This is boarding school, not jail."

Tatum tied her blazer around her waist. "One and the same, baby. If you're one of the masses."

"Not to you, of course." He glanced at her over the top. Suppressing a smirk.

"This is an important institution – you're making fun of me, aren't you? Shut up. Jerk."

He handed back the paper. "I fold. What is it?"

"Paragraph two, line three, wrong "principle."

"Disgraceful." He double-checked the hall – all clear – and picked up his backpack. "Let's go, now, before O decides to pierce her nose or commit arson."

"She wouldn't."

"We're related to a delinquent now," Shiloh said. "Anything's possible."

Tatum started off down the hall. Breaking people out of anything made her nervous. Lunch, detention, after school clubs. All were possible but all were also risky. "I hope she got a good left hook in, at least."

They watched from the window, gauging the options. No supervisor for the moment – a good sign. Orlon was three seats from the door flipping through her biology textbook. Miranda, Jones, and the others were glowering from the back row. Probably smoking. Tatum couldn't resist a gag reflex.

"Square," Shiloh whispered over her shoulder. He pressed his hand to the glass.

She knocked it down. "Someone could see you."

"Man, I could use a light."

"Get out of my brain," Tatum grumbled. "Take your filthy habit with you."

"Okay, here's the plan: I'll go around the side of the school and break a window. You burst in, bleeding, shouting about the end of the world. Cause mass chaos. In the confusion Orlon can don a lab coat and slip out undetected."

Tatum rolled her eyes. All the world was a stage with her brother. If it wasn't a grand production, it was a great escape or the event of the century. She produced a slip of paper. Forged signature: check. Necessary times and dates: check.

"Or, we milk a family emergency," she said.

"So much less exciting," Shiloh said.

She pushed the door open. Fifteen pairs of eyes trained on her. Someone booed. Being student body president had its drawbacks. Orlon didn't even look up.

Mr. Vernof was asleep at his desk, conked out over a copy of War & Peace. A mound of ungraded essays at his elbows. Tatum made her way across the front of the classroom.

"Hey, bitch." Martha (a skinny demon with a big mouth, uniform socks rolled down around her ankles) threw a wad of paper at her. It bounced off the blackboard. Harmless. "I voted for the other guy."

"You know how to do that?" Tatum couldn't resist a crack. Usually Shiloh's department. But so many people have voted for her running mate, Jonathan, that she did wonder about the election sometimes. Her defenses rose. He had money going for him, money and a great smile. That was it.

Wait, a great smile? No. She dodged another wad of paper.

"Stupid."

"You call me something?" Martha climbed out of her seat. Poked a bony finger her direction. "I'll cut you up –"

"Miss ____?" Mr. Vernof woke with a start. "Is there a reason you chose to disturb detention?" He glanced around the room. "Martha, back in your seat. I expect essays, people."

He straightened his tie and glared up at Tatum.

"I'm waiting," he said.

She surrendered the note. "Family emergency."

"Likely." He snorted, scanned the fine print. Stopped at the bottom. "Oh. Oh, that's right. You have a meeting this afternoon."

Tatum backpedaled. "A meeting? No meeting. I'm all wrapped up for the week, sir."

"The principal wants all five of you in his office, stat." he crumpled up the note and shot it into his trash can. Missed by a good foot. "Have fun!"

She grimaced. The principal. Never a good thing. But she didn't have anything to hide. The newspaper was burning through her paper, though. She might have jotted an expletive or two beneath Jonathan's "note from the editor."

Waving at Martha, she turned to leave. Rapped on Orlon's desk on her way out. Her sister jerked to attention, blinking in confusion. Six weeks ago, she had shaved her head and her bare scalp was unfamiliar, a map of bumps and bruises. A nasty red bruise was stamped underneath her eye.

"What is it?" Orlon shoved her books into her bag. Fumbled out of her seat, straightening her sweater. "Mom? Grandpa?"

Tatum kept walking. "You look terrible," she said.

Meetings after five on Fridays were never good things. 

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