All Good Children - Catherine Austen [82]
Dallas stiffens, blinks rapidly, clenches his jaw.
I arch my back and stretch my arms in hope of getting my hands around my legs and up in front of me, but they get stuck on my ass. Mr. Graham laughs at me. He grips my arm tightly. “Come back to my office now, Connors. I’ll drive you home from school today.” He looks at Dallas and smiles. “You’re free to go. Merry Christmas.”
He pushes me ahead of him, away from the trailer. I have a brief view of the school and the frozen grounds. I see Mr. Reese walking across the parking lot. He has a coffee cup in one hand, briefcase in the other. He’s the only person in sight.
“Wait!” Dallas shouts. “There’s something in the trailer you should see, sir.”
Mr. Graham pauses, turns, yanks me back out of view. “What?”
Dallas blinks rapidly. “There’s something in the trailer, sir. You need to see it.”
“Can’t it wait? It’s Christmas.”
“No, sir, it can’t wait.”
Mr. Graham huffs, scowls, rolls his eyes. “All right. Go get it.”
Dallas nods. He picks up his coat and turns the corner.
I hear scraping and thumping from inside the trailer. I think about tearing free and running for it, but I’m reluctant to try.
Part of me wants to see how it all ends. I don’t feel like it’s really me tied up, about to be zombified. I feel like I’m beyond this moment, above it all, looking down on the last kid on Earth.
Mr. Graham frowns at my misery. “It’s much better this way, son. They’ve done studies to back that up. You’ll be glad once you experience it.” He pats my shoulder, but I shrug him off. He runs his hand over his fat face. “Believe me, you will never want to go back to the way you are now. And you won’t have to. Other parts of the country can’t afford to keep up the treatments, but we’re privileged here, Connors. The future is in our hands.”
I hear Dallas stomp down the trailer stairs. I regret not running away. I reconsider it—there could be another teacher on his way home, Mr. Ames or Coach Emery—but I don’t bother. I don’t do anything except stand in the shadows and wait. The skin on my face is tight where my tears have dried. I can’t believe I made such an ass of myself. I’ll be sixteen years old tomorrow and I still cry in public.
Dallas waits at the corner of the trailer. He wears his football face, stands taller and stronger than I’ve seen him all day.
“Where is it?” Mr. Graham asks.
“I can’t get it because it’s on the wall.” Dallas’s voice is different. Deliberate.
Mr. Graham snorts. “Thank you, son, but I am not interested in graffiti. It’s the Christmas holidays. It can wait.”
“It’s not graffiti, sir. It’s a list of names.”
“Whatever, son. I’m not interested. I have to get Connors fixed up and get him home before his mother comes running over in a fury.” He turns away with a tight grip on my arm.
“It’s important, sir!” Dallas shouts. His jaw twitches and he blinks too fast. “I saw Max’s name on the wall while I was cleaning the trailer. I moved the bench and found a list of students who missed the vaccinations.”
Mr. Graham turns around and rubs his belly. “Really? Who’s on the list?”
“I don’t remember, sir. It’s on the wall.”
He’s lying. I know he’s lying.
The principal weighs the benefits of such a list against the hassle of climbing three steps. Dallas holds his gaze with too much interest for a zombie. “All right,” Mr. Graham says. “Lead the way.”
He pushes me ahead of him, up the steps and inside the trailer after Dallas. He sniffs the stale sweat and makes a face. “How do you all fit in here? You change in this trailer? The whole team? With the pads in the way? How do you keep from falling over each other?”
I barely hear him. I’m staring at the trailer’s security camera. Dallas’s coat is covering it—not hanging from it but wrapped around it tightly and fastened with tape. My skin crawls, thinking of all that could happen in a room like this when no one’s watching.