Wednesday, April 26

  Location: Mage History

  Operation: Inform Nikki

  16:30

  By the time I slid into the seat beside him, Tisiah leaned in and asked, “What’s the problem?”

  “Jamal.”

  His brow creased. “Did he do something?”

  “Yeah. He tried to jump me and Greg,” I said.

  Tisiah’s eyes widened and then went very still, terror settling there like frost. “Are you serious?”

  “We fought them off,” I said quickly. “But they were… different. One had metal arms, and they had this smoke spray for some reason.”

  “What kind of reinforcements does Malachi have?” he muttered.

  “I’m impressed Jamal even has this kind of pull,” I said. “But listen, it’s over as soon as we tell Nikki.”

  “Tell Nikki what?”

  “That Jamal likes her,” I said. “He wanted me to play wingman. I didn’t want to—she doesn’t deserve that—but if he’s sending his little assassins after me and Greg, we have to.”

  “Well, Nikki can just say no,” Tisiah said.

  “Well… that’s true,” I admitted with a sigh. “Greg said the same thing.”

  “Want me to text her or—”

  “Text who?” Malachi asked suddenly.

  We both turned. He sat one row back, dressed like the guy from the alley but upgraded: white shirt, beige pants, and Panda Dunks like every Edgar’s uniform.

  “Nikki,” Tisiah answered. I had no idea why he told the truth—but there it was.

  “Oh, did Jamal put you up to that?” Malachi sneered. “Didn’t think he’d go that low. The man never finds the guts to talk to girls himself.”

  Tisiah didn’t react. I did. “Wait—you know?”

  “Most definitely,” he said. “Our whole group knows. I’m shocked the entire school doesn’t. Are you helping Tisiah or—” He tilted his head between us.

  I looked at Tisiah. He gave a small nod.

  “Figured,” Malachi said. “Besides Jamal, have you prepared for Mage Football?”

  “Tryouts?” I asked. “I thought tryouts were the preparation.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Malachi said. “Have you ever been to the games? Did you even read the pamphlet?”

  “I did,” Tisiah said dryly. “I just didn’t know you didn’t.”

  “Either way—what is it?” I cut in.

  “The tryouts are basically a public game,” Tisiah explained. “Judges and an audience watch everyone’s play. Based on that, you’ll get an email saying if you made the team.”

  “And if you do—”

  “You’re on the roster,” Malachi said. “I never got in before—grades were too low. But I’ve got straight C’s now. I can join and guarantee myself a spot.”

  “What makes you think you’re guaranteed?” I asked.

  He lifted his chin. “Do you know who I am?” The authority in his voice dropped in like bass. “If they want morale, I’m their best bet. The athletes will feel confident with me out there.”

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  “Yeah—convenient for you, huh?”

  “To do what?” he asked, brows pinching.

  I glanced at Tisiah; he glanced back. We both looked at Malachi. He didn’t budge.

  “Anyway,” Malachi said, dismissing the thread. “Make sure you’re ready. It’ll be fun watching you try to play.”

  I nodded slowly and swallowed.

  17:00

  In the next block I finally spotted Nikki. White tucked shirt, fitted black skirt past the knee, boots, and her hair curled into a style that made her look like she’d time-traveled from the ‘60s just to mock us all. We filed into Master Tiphe’s class where, a beat later, September walked in with Malachi.

  I didn’t forget why I was doing any of this.

  Then came Mari—last—wearing a large bandage along the side of her head. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Short brown jacket over a tucked black shirt matching black pants. Even her Crocs were black, though lighter. I swallowed.

  “Okay, Nikki,” I blurted, finding her elbow. “Connor told me that he and Greg were ambushed by Jamal’s friends,” Tisiah said, saving me from the first lurch.

  “They’re what—”

  “Shhh,” Tisiah hissed. “Connor has something to tell you.”

  “Didn’t need the intro, but I appreciate it,” I said. “I—”

  “Who attacked you?” Mari cut in. I snapped my gaze to her, hand halfway to my wand out of habit. The mallet sang a warning in the back of my mind.

  “Well,” Nikki said, cool as glass, “you were in the nurse’s office, so I wouldn’t expect you to… know.”

  “I observe everyone,” Mari said. “Tell me.”

  “We think it was Jamal,” Tisiah said. “He’s been on Connor because—”

  “Any others?” Mari pressed. “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know their names,” I said. The adrenaline spiked; I stumbled a little over the next words, that eager stammer you get when your brain outruns your mouth. “Their—their clothes, faces—something? If they knew where we were, they’re probably from here.”

  “Well, even MSTO spies can find you anywhere if they want to,” Nikki scoffed.

  “Just give me the details,” Mari said.

  I nodded. “One girl—high ponytail, black hoodie, beige cargos, red Converse. She chased us while Greg was riding me—”

  “Oh…” Nikki said, eyes widening.

  “—home,” I finished quickly. “She chased us around, and Jamal’s other two friends—earlier all three were behind us—split off. Somehow they kept tabs and intercepted us.”

  “How?” Mari asked.

  “They rolled a riderless bike right in front of us and made us crash,” I said. “Two others showed up—girl with white hair, jean jacket; guy in black shirt and pants. I think he majored in metal.”

  “And they lost to you two?” Mari asked, one brow slightly raised.

  “Obviously. Why else would he be here—” Nikki started, but Mari cut that off with a small gesture.

  “Okay,” she said evenly. “Good to know. Continue.”

  “Right,” I said, turning back to Nikki. “So—remember, Jamal likes you. Or at least he thinks you like him.”

  Nikki’s eyes narrowed, then her brows scrunched—then she broke into laughter so loud it felt scripted. She laughed until she wheezed, wiped an eye, and said, “That’s embarrassing. How low can you go and still get rejected? I’m not touching that disease.”

  I glanced at Tisiah; he looked back, both of us a little stunned. Mari just raised an eyebrow.

  “In fact—where is he?” Nikki said. “I’m dying to tell him this.”

  A wave of relief rolled through me, clean and generous. Duty done. Confession delivered. And yet one question flickered: why wasn’t Mari mad at me?

  17:45

  Class let out—not so much out as into the idea of Recreation—and the herd drifted toward the field. Fifteen minutes of sanctioned wandering before the next block. We moved with them, scanning.

  “Where does Jamal usually show?” Nikki asked, eyes combing left to right.

  They stopped to the left. I followed her gaze and found the trio: Jamal, Maddie, Elf. Already watching us.

  Jamal’s smile swelled as he approached Nikki. “Hey,” he said, voice pitched low and solemn. “How have you been?”

  “Great,” Nikki said. “Just almost died from laughing. You’re a comedian.”

  “Everyone says that,” Jamal replied with a tiny shrug. Then the smile wilted, and he looked straight at me. What did you say? his eyes asked, voice unnecessary.

  “I’m not even laughing at the fact you liked me,” Nikki went on, “but that you thought I was interested in you. I’m dead.”

  I had never felt more uncomfortable watching someone laugh. Jamal’s face steamed with rage he was trying to domesticate into niceness. It didn’t work. His friends vibrated with the itch to start something.

  “The fact that you tried to harass my friend—multiple times—to do something you’re too sorry to do yourself?” Nikki said. “No. Absolutely not. And you can take that wand in your belt and shove it down your throat—”

  “I… think… he gets the point…” Tisiah said between small, nervous laughs. “Sorry, bro.”

  Jamal’s smile stayed, a bad mask. His eyes went knife-bright and fixed on me. Maddie and Elf looked ready to leap.

  “Besides,” Nikki added, “I’m already interested in someone.”

  “Who?” all three goons asked at once.

  She held my gaze for a breath—long enough for my heart to forget its next beat—then looked at Tisiah. She didn’t say a word. Just moved her head side to side, slow.

  Somehow that counted as an answer. All three sets of eyes popped wide.

  Jamal chuckled. It wasn’t happy. His face did a dozen small things—hurt, anger, calculation, disbelief—before settling on nothing. He turned and walked away, but as he passed me, he looked directly at me with a distaste that said more than any sentence.

  No words were needed. The message was clear: I’m cooked.