I know there wasn’t any other choice. Lance would have killed Angela.

  That doesn’t stop the puke. Right between R.L. Stein and Krystal Sutherland, I cough and spit acid, my stomach clenching on nothing for the second time today. Angela just stares. Part of me is stunned she hasn’t bolted. Must be shock.

  I’m still trying to stop the convulsions when she asks, “You can do that anytime, can’t you.”

  “Must have been adrenaline.” I glance up at the camera. I hadn’t thought of it until James spoke. Of course I knew about the camera, I’d just never worried about it. Stealing library books had never been my idea of fun.

  And I’d never had cause to use my strength in here. Until now.

  Jmaes hasn’t said anything else. I don’t know if he can hear me. Do those cameras have microphones?

  “Yeah, sure.” Angela’s snort tells me how convincing I am.

  I finally manage to stand, still clutching my gut. “What do you care?”

  “I’m just confused. You can do–” She waves vaguely at Lance’s crumpled form. “that, but you’ve let me shove you into a locker for three years?”

  “Guess I can’t do it all the time, huh?” I storm out, stomping across the hall and back to Lucy’s locker. The door hangs open from earlier and I start digging. “Crap.”

  There’s Lucy’s cooler; her insulin and snacks packed lightly. I start ripping up her spanish textbook, crumpling the pages.

  “What are you doing now?” Angela’s steps are slow.

  “I don’t want to risk the insulin breaking.” I pack the wads of paper around her medication, giving the cooler a gentle shake. There’s no clinking, so I zip it shut again.

  “Why not just carry it in your pocket?”

  “It has to stay cold.” I slam the locker and glare.

  Angela sneers. “Shouldn’t that be in the nurses office?”

  “Yeah.” I snap, pointing a shaky finger in her face. “Expect you and the tweedles unplugged that fridge once and messed with her meds. Lucy’s family can’t aff–”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  I let the sentence die. I’ve already said too much.

  Angela’s eyes slowly widen and her lips screw into an ugly scowl.

  “Forget it,” I mutter, shoving past her and shouldering the cooler.

  “So, why save me?” Angela’s question is so quiet, I almost miss it.

  My steps and my thoughts halt all together. No answer materializes. But a question does. “Are you the reason Amy Robinson switched schools?”

  “Don’t evade the question, Griffin.” She shoves a shoulder.

  “I just saved your sorry butt.” I spin on my heels, bringing us nose to nose. “I’m owed an answer.”

  “Whatcha gonna do if I don’t answer?” She shoves my shoulder again.

  I step back, growing, “Answer me.”

  “Make me.” Another shove.

  My hand snaps up, grabbing hers and pushing her back a step. “Answer me.”

  Angela’s lip gloss shimmers in a nasty smirk. “Make. Me.”

  She raises both hands to push me this time. I slap her hand away and grab her collar, slamming her into the lockers with a hollow thud. It all happens before I can blink. Before I can think.

  Angela’s wince turns into a vicious smile. “There you are.”

  I drop her, staggering back, smashing into the opposite wall with so much force it’s a miracle I don’t break Lucy’s meds.

  “Man, Griffin, I knew you were a freak.” Angela shakes her head, still smiling. “But this?”

  The word lands in my mind and detonates.

  Freak.

  Because it’s not just Angela. My eyes automatically find the camera at the end of the hall. Without them, I might have claimed the library was a fluke. Who would believe meek little Molly had it in her? But this place is flooded with cameras. And James is clearly watching.

  My whole future now relies on my friend, who’s become a freaking statistic on school shootings, and my worst enemy. My limbs tremble as I fall to my knees, emptying my stomach for the third time. My guts clench around nothing ringing out of dry gaps and thin wisps of stomach acid.

  “God.” Angela smears, dancing from the splash zone. “Are you balemic or something?”

  I can’t answer; I can only sputter and cough as long tendrils of spit cling to my lips.

  Angela groans, marching off. At least I finally did something to make her go away. It’s not a lot of comfort when my body is still attacking me.

  “Here, got it from the locker room.” Angela’s shoes snap back to me and something wet lands on my back. I snatch it over my shoulder, barely holding the towel away from my puddle of sick.

  “Ramone always splashes her face after.” Angela sits cross legged, waiting.

  “Thanks.” I press the towel against my skin. I spit in my noxious puddle but it’s impossible to get the taste out. Six years and my only victim had been a pickle jar. Now I’ve slammed Angela around and crushed Lance. “Did I hurt you earlier?”

  Angela snorts, rolling shoulder. “Pretty sure I’ve done worse.”

  I nod vaguely.

  “Which begs the question.” Her gaze sharpens and she leans in. “Why do you let me?”