The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [52]
“Bit of news,” he said. “Someone’s donated a pile of money for a Bonfire Night party. No one’s going to be allowed out, so they’re doing something here.”
“What’s Bonfire Night?” I asked.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November?” Jerome said.
“Nope,” I replied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Guy Fawkes Night,” Jazza explained, sighing at the change in subject. “Fifth of November, 1605. A group of people led by Guy Fawkes had a plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament, the Gunpowder Plot. But he failed and was executed. So on the fifth of November, we burn things.”
“And blow things up,” Jerome added, throwing down his fork. “Fireworks are very important. Anyway, it’s going to be a dance, and it’s fancy dress. Kind of a belated Halloween thing.”
“Formal?” I said.
“Fancy dress means costumes,” Jazza said.
It was clearly one of those mornings when I was particularly American. That happened sometimes.
“Thursday the eighth is the final Ripper night. So they’re having an early Bonfire Night party the Friday before, and then they’re going to lock us in until the Ripper stuff is over. Hope you like being indoors, because we’ll be in all week.”
“I don’t care,” Jazza said. “Just as long as it ends.”
“Who knows?” Jerome said. “Maybe this Ripper wants to keep it going. No reason for him to stop. Maybe he wants to be the new and improved Ripper.”
Jazza shook her head and got up to refill her tea.
“What if he does that?” I asked Jerome. “What happens?”
“Well, then the police have no idea when he’ll strike or where or how many times, and everyone freaks out every single day. I don’t think the eighth of November is the thing to worry about—it’s what comes after. I think that’s when whatever this is really starts.”
“But you’re an insane conspiracy nut,” I pointed out.
“Granted.”
Jerome and I had reached that point where I could say things like that. It was only a slight exaggeration. I ripped off a piece of my doughnut and threw it at him. He had eaten everything on his plate and had no food to fire back with, so he crumpled his napkin and chucked it at my head. Charlotte gave us a reproachful look from the end of the table.
“Don’t make me use my powers on you,” he said quietly.
“I’d like to see you try.”
I sent a low-flying piece of doughnut just inches over the table surface, right at his prefects’ tie.
“Jerome . . . ,” Charlotte said.
“Yes?” he replied, not looking over.
“You know you shouldn’t be doing that.”
“I know many things, Charlotte.”
He turned and gave her a smile and gave me a little shiver. It was pleasantly evil. I remembered now—Charlotte and Andrew had once gone out. Andrew and Jerome were best friends. Jerome probably did know many things. Charlotte simply turned away, as if she had forgotten what was going on.
“Okay,” I said very quietly. “Your powers are a little hot.”
It was as open a declaration as I’d ever made. I waited to see how he would respond. He looked down at his plate, still smiling.
“What’s going on now?” Jazza said, setting down her tea and throwing a leg over the bench.
“We’re annoying Charlotte,” I said.
“Finally,” Jazza replied in a low voice, “a hobby of Jerome’s I can fully support. Carry on.”
I didn’t even mean for it to, but Jazza’s commenting got to me. I started to watch Boo when we sat in the library together that afternoon during our free period. We sat across from each other at a table in the corner, our laptops back to back. I was trying to cram in the writing of the aforementioned essay. This was the first major assignment I’d had for literature—seven to ten pages on any work of my choice that we’d already read. I was doing mine on Samuel Pepys’s diary, mostly because that was the reading I understood the best. Boo had her computer open, but she was reading a gossip site. I could see the reflection in the window.
“What are you working on?” I asked quietly.
“What?” she said, pulling off her headphones.
“What are you working on?”
“Oh. Just