This Is Not a Test (7 page)

“But they’re going to leave us—”

“Jesus, you’re such an asshole—get off him!” Trace shouts. “All you have to do is take the poster board down and look outside—”

“Slowly,”
Rhys interrupts. “We have to do it slowly—”

“Then fucking
do it
already!”

We surround the window and pull at the tape holding the poster board up. Cary says
careful
over and over while we’re doing it, but no one’s careful. Everyone is fevered with the idea of rescue. When the last of the tape releases, the poster board slides to the floor. We jump back and then stand there, terrified of what has to be done next.

Maybe we don’t want to see what made that noise after all.

“Someone has to look,” Harrison says, but he doesn’t move.

No one does for the longest time. Trace finally steps up. He stands in front of the window and leans forward, squinting.

“What is that…?”

We move in next to him so we can see what he’s seeing. An intense orange glow lights up the distance. Smoke billows into the night sky.

Fire.

I’ve only seen something like this once before when Cortege’s old feed mill burned down and the whole town left their beds in the middle of the night to watch the piece of local history get devoured by the flames.

“Where is that?” Grace asks. “Is it close?”

“I think it’s Russo’s,” Cary says. Russo’s Gas Station. “Shit…”

I let my eyes travel from the fire to the street below. Cortege is almost a parody of itself. Shadows move across the street, the illusion of a former life. Men and women stand in the school’s parking lot, the road, before hurrying away, like they have somewhere very important to be. They’re all moving that way. All in the same …

“God,” I whisper.

“What?” Grace asks.

I blink, try to make sure of what I’m seeing.

“They’re leaving.”

“What?”

Waves of dead are running to the fire. Of course. Of course they’d want to investigate, in case there’s something there to satisfy their hunger. Other survivors …

I want to tell them we’re in here.

Grace laughs in disbelief as the school parking lot clears.

“Oh my God … they
are
—they’re going—they’re going away—Trace, they’re going away!”

The announcement is slow to sink in but when it does, it really does. Rhys and Cary grin at each other like idiots and Harrison keeps asking,
that’s good, right?
I know he knows it’s good but he needs to hear someone else say it because it’s not real for him until someone else says it. Trace punches him in the arm and goes
of course it’s fucking good!
Everyone is so happy. I turn back to the window and push my hands against the glass.

When we get back to the auditorium, the thudding has stopped.

“—Soon. This is not a test—”

“Blow. Me. Tina T.”

Trace says each word loudly into the radio speakers. I push my breakfast away.

Today we’re having juice over cereal.

“Tina T?” Harrison asks. “Is that her name?”

“It’s what I’m calling her,” Trace says over Tina T’s voice. “This Is Not a Test.”

“Would you turn it off?” Grace asks. “Please?”

He turns it off. Today is subdued, relaxed. Something that could pass for good, I guess.

Everyone is
so glad
the gas station exploded.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate breakfast,” Grace says, finishing hers.

“How about yesterday?” Trace reminds her. “And the day before and the day—”

“I meant
before
all this started.”

“Really?” Rhys asks, but the way he asks isn’t like he’s actually interested. More like there’s a conversation happening and he might as well participate because there’s nothing better to do. “It doesn’t take that long to eat.”

“It does when you’re—”

“Student government president,” Trace finishes. “An hour and a half in the bathroom every morning, just to get ready for school.”

Harrison stares at her. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“She’s got this convoluted makeup routine,” Trace says. “Like, every inch of her face had to be covered in product before she was ready to face most of you douchebags.”

“
One
of us should care about our appearance.”

“You’re just insecure because I’m the better looking twin.”

The affection Trace has for his sister makes his voice sound like honey to me. The way he teases her makes her eyes light up in a way I haven’t seen anyone else’s light up since we got here and in a way no one else’s will. He notices me staring and my mouth does something it can’t help—it smiles at him. He gives me a small smile back.

Rhys yawns.

“Tired?” Cary asks.

“Had a hard time getting to sleep last night. Almost too quiet.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Harrison says.

“
I’m
jinxing it. Seems like there’s jack all to worry about today.” Trace gets to his feet and stands in front of Cary with his hand out. “Gimme LaVallee’s keys. I want to go exploring.”

Cary’s hand goes to his pocket protectively and he tries to pull a face like he’s doing anything but intending to keep them from Trace. “I don’t think—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think. Keys. Now.”

“He has as much right to them as you do,” Grace says before Cary can protest. Her voice is soft but her eyes meet his and they’re steel, daring him to disagree. Cary sighs and takes the keys out of his pocket. Throws them at Trace.

“If you happen to see anything useful lying around, feel free to bring it—”

“Get one of your two bitch boys to scavenge for you, Chen.” Trace points at Rhys and Harrison. “Because I’m not.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rhys says.

Trace flips everyone off and leaves. Cary sits there, cracking his knuckles. I can tell he wants to bitch about what an utter asshole Trace is and how much he’d like to punch him, break his teeth, whatever, but Grace’s presence keeps him from doing it. He glances at her a few times.

“You know, just because we’ve had
one
good night doesn’t mean it’s time to dick around. I saw a pair of bolt cutters in the custodian’s office. We should do a locker raid.”

“Sure,” Rhys says.

They get to their feet. Harrison gives them a five-second head start before running after them and then Cary turns back to me and Grace.

“Coming?”

I want to, but Grace shudders and shakes her head.

“That’s like grave-robbing.”

“Sloane?”

Grace looks at me. I get the feeling she wants me to stay.

“I’ll pass,” I say.

And then it’s just Grace and me and it’s quiet. She doesn’t talk at all and after about ten minutes I’m annoyed I stayed. I guess she doesn’t have to speak to me. It’s probably not high on her list of priorities. She’s got Trace.

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?” I cringe at how eager I sound.

“Will you come to my locker with me? I left my purse in there before everything happened and I want it but I…” she laughs, self-conscious. “I don’t want to go alone.”

“Sure.”

Grace’s locker is on the first floor, close to the administration office. We walk there wordlessly. Cary’s, Rhys’s, and Harrison’s voices drift back to us from somewhere nearby, but it’s hard to tell what they’re saying. It sounds effortless though. I hang back at her locker when we get there, unsure of what to do while she thumbs at her combination, straining to see in the poor light. After it’s unlocked, she stands in front of the door like she’s afraid of it. It’s a while before she opens it and when she does, I glimpse cutouts of actors and musicians taped to the door and I wonder what they’re doing now, if they’re dead. I wonder if they’ve saved all the celebrities. When this is over, society will need entertainment to get past it. We’ll make movies about it, hundreds of movies, and in every one of them, we’ll be the heroes and the love interests and best friends and winners and we’ll watch these movies until we are so far removed from our own history, we’ll forget how it really felt to be here.

Grace grabs her purse. It’s a designer purse. I watch her unzip it and riffle through it until she finds what she’s looking for. As soon as she does, the purse slips from her grasp and hits the floor. Clutched tightly in her fingers is a piece of paper. She unfolds it and then presses it against her face, breathes it in.

“Look at this,” she says. She kisses the note once before she gives it to me. As soon as my fingers curl around it, she says, “Be careful—”

I stare at the bubbly handwriting.

Daughter dear, I didn’t manage to throw something together for your lunch—I’m a flake! Here’s some money instead. Buy something healthy! Remember, Miss President, the student body looks to you to set a good example!

Love you, xo Mom

The first thing I think is,
Mrs. Casper still makes Grace’s lunch?
And then I cross that thought out until it’s not even there anymore because it’s the kind of thing Mrs. Casper would do and besides—it’s a note from Grace’s mom. This is what has value. This is the new money.

“Lucky,” I say.

“I know. I knew it was here … but I couldn’t—I mean I just couldn’t. Until now,” she says. “I just woke up and I really wanted it today. I miss her.”

She takes the note back and runs her thumb over it. My throat is so tight and there’s a weight in my chest that’s hard to breathe around. Memories of my mother are hazy things. They feel like a kid’s blanket, fuzzy and soft but mostly insubstantial. Grace’s note doesn’t make me wish for a woman I spent most of my life not having. It’s not that …

She looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Neither of us moves or says anything for a long time. It’s like—suspended animation. I don’t know. We could stand here for hours and not say or do anything because there’s nothing to say or do. Grace looks at her note and I cross my arms, once again fighting the urge to ask her if she remembers the sleepover. I don’t know why I want to but I won’t let myself do it.

“Hey!” We turn. Trace makes his way down the hall, twirling LaVallee’s keys around his fingers like they’re a trophy. Grace picks up her purse, hastily shoving the note inside it. He grins. “I want to show you guys something cool.”

We end up in the teachers’ lounge.

Cary, Rhys, and Harrison come with us after piling a bunch of their locker finds in the auditorium. Their company makes Trace pissy but as Cary points out, Trace doesn’t own the school. They’re still bickering when we step into the room. It’s on the second floor. The big joke is—was—all the money went here. The lounge has a fridge and flowers (tacky fake bouquets, but still, it’s a splash of color), soft couches, chairs, and nice lamps. Storage cupboards and desks. A microwave, a water cooler. Magazines.

“Check this out.” Trace rummages in one of the cupboards and when he faces us, he’s holding a generous bottle of whiskey. “The rumors are true. I knew they kept good shit in here.”

“Alcohol?” Harrison asks, and like that, I can tell he’s never drank anything, let alone been drunk before. “Holy shit.”

“What’s that doing in here?” Rhys asks.

Trace sets the bottle on the table in front of the couches and flicks a tag wrapped around its neck. “Read that. There was an ice-cream cake in the fridge, but it melted.”

Grace peers at the tag. “Enjoy your retirement, Vick. We wish we were you.”

Vick Bergstein. Our graying world history teacher.

“Think he’s enjoying his retirement?” Trace asks, and I laugh before I can stop myself. He soaks it up. “I know, right? He’s probably dead. And then I got thinking about the teachers here that I wished were dead, like over and over—like Mrs. Good—and it’s funny because now they probably
are
dead and it’s like—like that’s what I—”

His eyes go wide, almost like he’s thinking to himself
I wanted this. I wanted them dead and now it’s happened because I wanted it.

“They weren’t all bad, though,” Grace says. “I liked Mr. Ford. And Mrs. Lafferty. Mrs. Tipton was kick-ass. I bet she survived. Some of them were great at what they did…”

My head is full of faces, faculty members, and I wonder where they are now and if it’s a given, like Trace said, that they’re all dead. I wonder if I ever wished them dead—if something as simple as that would be the reason I’m here and they’re not. But then I think they must’ve wished
us
dead at some point. They must have. What teacher wouldn’t?

Trace stares at the bottle. “So do we open this because we’re still alive or do we open it when we’re sure we’re going to die?”

“We’re not going to die,” Cary says.

“Didn’t you say the same thing to my parents before you sent them in that alley?”

“Give it a rest, Trace.”

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, murderer?”

“They offered to go down that alley first,” I say, because for some dumb reason I think that will
help.
But then everyone stares at me and I wish I could put the words back in my mouth. Trace looks like I’ve gutted him.

“No one asked you, Sloane,” Grace says. “And Cary told them it was clear.”

“But they offered to do it.” My voice gets small. “Cary didn’t force them.”

“You know what? I’m fucking tired of all of you,” Trace declares abruptly, but his voice cracks and I think he’s going to cry because he leaves the room with his head down.

Because of me.

How to salvage a moment: Rhys suggests we move whatever we can from the teachers’ lounge to the auditorium to make it more livable. No one talks as we fight the couches down the stairs and position them in the corner of the room. We find a lone lunch table we missed for the barricade under the stage, set it up, and steal chairs from the main offices for it. Grace uses the fake bouquets as centerpieces. I feel so sick watching her. I have to make things right. I walk over to her. She fiddles with the flowers. I stand there and try to think of what to say while she ignores me.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, just that Cary wouldn’t send them there to die,” I tell her. “You know he wouldn’t.”