Page 2 of They're Watching You

I put on my gloves and slap Gavin’s hand as he reaches for a small green vial he must’ve stolen from the supply cabinet, because it has nothing to do with this experiment. Then I remove a tiny piece of sodium metal from the container with the spatula, drop it into the water, and thrust my arm to the side to keep Gavin back as the liquid sputters and reacts, leaving a pink trail through the beaker.

Across the room, Dr. Yamashiro eyes us, having learned from past experiences. Gavin pulls off the whole clueless thing so well that he hasn’t been busted yet. Take, for example, whatever happened in his dorm this morning with a Pop-Tart.

But I’m on to him.

I think Gavin is actually a freaking genius.

He scribbles down our findings, just as Dr. Yamashiro starts to wrap up class. It’s probably for the best, considering Gavin’s fingers are spider-crawling across the table toward that green vial.

“Lord, help me,” I whisper into the fumes.

“Maren, you know I’d clean up,” Gavin says, “but if Dr. Y saw me…” He glances down at his PJs.

“You wore those stupid pants on purpose,” I say, snatching the beaker off the table. Gavin grins, grabbing his books. He waits for Dr. Yamashiro to turn to the fancy screen that looks like a portal into another dimension, then shoves himself into a cluster of students headed for the door.

Gavin could probably come to class in no pants and still end up with a clean record. My cheeks heat suddenly at the thought, so I rush to the sink and stick my hands beneath the cool water.

***

Back in my dorm room, a cozy cube still plastered in Polly’s vintage Hollywood photographs and my lone Lionel Messi poster, I throw myself onto the bottom bunk. My gaze drifts toward the photo collage—the one we made together last year—hanging on the wall between our desks, but I force myself to stare at the bedframe slats above me.

Polly’s top bunk remains empty; the school hasn’t forced a new roommate on me yet. It should be nice having the place to myself, except I loved living with Polly. We used to study together in here, comfy on our beanbag chairs, our dusty desks neglected. We’d lie in our beds, chatting for hours after lights-out, keeping our voices low to avoid shushing by the Form IV proctor.

Polly’s parents came by and picked through her things. They took what they wanted but left the majority. Like they’re convinced she’ll regret her decision and return any second. I’ve been through everything dozens of times, hoping I’ll find some clue concerning her whereabouts.

I shut my eyes and replay our last conversation. It didn’t happen in this room—over the past few months, we never spoke more than a greeting to one another in here. I’d spotted her out at the Commons, across the large expanse of pristinely cut grass. I watched her for a few seconds, the way she walked with her head tucked into her shoulders. The sun bathed the campus in a warm glow, but she tugged the hood of her expensive new coat—most likely a gift from Annabelle—over her auburn curls.

When it came to money, Polly was like me. In fact, money was the way we’d met. During Form I orientation, we both attended the financial aid seminar with our parents. Torrey-Wells is ridiculously expensive, and my parents are not rich. They had to figure out how to send me here through a combination of payment plans and scholarships. There are only a handful of us scholarship kids at Torrey-Wells, and something about sticking together made sense. It felt safe. After a few minutes of listening to the droning financial aid advisor at our parents’ sides, we stole through the side doors of Henning Hall, giggling as we explored our new campus, inventing histories for every statue, giving imaginary freshmen the tour. Bonding over lattes in the café.

During our first two years, while the other students were out gallivanting all over town on weekends, throwing around wads of cash, Polly and I were content to hang out in the dining hall and watch movie marathons in the common area of our dorm. At least, I was content. I guess Polly had her sights set on Annabelle and the rest of them.

That day on the grass, I called her name and waved her down. We were both headed to chemistry. But she turned and spotted me, and for a split second, I thought she might keep walking.

“Hey,” I said, jogging to catch up. “Can I walk with you?”

She nodded, and up close I could see beige-colored patches where her attempt to conceal the dark purple bags beneath her eyes had failed.

“Where’d you sleep last night?” I asked, though it was obvious she hadn’t slept at all.

She shrugged, pursing chapped lips. “In a friend’s room.”

“So, Annabelle’s room.”

Another shrug, but she wasn’t running away from me. Her fingers fidgeted and her gaze floated away, searching the grounds. My chest pricked. She was probably worried about being seen with me.

“Are you okay? You look…stressed,” I said.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind. Chess isn’t going so well.”

“Chess?” I asked, wondering how a club could be the cause of whatever I was witnessing in my normally lively and fresh-faced friend.

“It’s not really working out. There’s a lot more to it than I thought.” She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and massaged her temples with her fingertips. The hood fell back, and her tousled curls glimmered bronze in the spring sunlight. Then the words came out in a jumbled rush. “It’s not just pieces and a board. It’s…more. Too much, maybe.” Her eyes widened as she finished, shining with something like terror.

At first, I was too stunned by her rambling to respond. Had the sleep deprivation really gotten to her? Was it drugs? Or was this something more? Finally, I reached out to touch her arm. “You don’t have to play chess anymore, Polly. Is Annabelle pressuring you to stick with something you hate?”

She exhaled through her teeth, rustling her curls. “No, it’s—forget I said anything.” She reached up, removing my hand from her arm, and slowly, her fingers began to squeeze. “Please, forget it.”

“Yeah, fine.” She dropped my hand, and another pang shot through me.

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