Page 1 of They're Watching You
One
“You do realize you’re going straight to detention,” I say to my lab partner Gavin Holt. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt adorned with his signature bow tie—all the boys wear ties. It’s a requirement, though Gavin is the only guy on campus who insists on the bow variety.
But this time he’s gone off the rails and paired it with plaid pajama pants. Strictly against dress code. Torrey-Wells Academy, named after its two founders, has a bit of a double standard when it comes to attire. Guys have to wear slacks and a tie to classes, chapel, and to the dining hall; girls can wear pretty much whatever they want as long as it covers the necessary parts. For example, I’m wearing sweatpants and a ratty TWA sweatshirt—my daily uniform—and am in no danger of violating the code. Apparently, when the school opened up to girls back in the seventies, the board found altering the academy handbook too much of a bother.
Which is fine with me.
Gavin shrugs but scoots his stool closer to the lab table to hide his lower half. “I woke up late.”
I roll my eyes.
“And then I had a small Pop-Tart smoke alarm emergency.”
“Well, you look like you’re ready to crouch by the Christmas tree and unwrap a package of Hot Wheels.”
“You’re one to talk, Sweatpants Girl.”
Fair enough. I scan the list of ingredients again. “I guess this means I’m getting the water. Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.” I grab the beaker and head over to the sink. There’s a sixty-six-point-six percent chance that Gavin will ignore my warning and blow something up while I’m gone, if we’re basing this on stats from our last three assignments.
With a wave of my hand, the fancy steel faucet turns on. The Lowell Math and Science Building, constructed four years ago thanks to a rich donor named Lowell who made his money genetically modifying crops, is a state-of-the-art facility. No penny was spared, from the touch screens the teachers use in place of whiteboards to the observatory fit with a massive telescope. Handle-less water faucets were important too, I suppose. Water starts spewing out the sides of the beaker before I realize I’ve been gazing off into space. I shut it off with another wave and dump some of it, glancing over my shoulder at Gavin.
His lips are quirked, eyes squinting at the tray full of materials. He’s definitely contemplating lighting something on fire. I watch as he adjusts his glasses, picks up the spatula, and begins prodding at the sodium metal without his gloves on. A sudden wave of frustration rolls through me. My best friend, Polly St. James, should be sitting here next to me, not Gavin.
If she hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be so stressed about my grade in this class. Whereas some teachers tend to show leniency toward the athletes, Dr. Yamashiro is extra strict. To keep the GPA required for my financial aid, I can’t get anything less than anAon this experiment. Or on any assignment, for that matter. But with Gavin for a partner, I might have to settle for getting out of the building alive.
I return, setting the beaker onto the glass tabletop with a clank. Water droplets splatter the ingredients list as well as our findings sheet.
“You okay?” Gavin asks, leaning closer, his jade eyes narrowed behind his lenses. His scent is sweet with a hint of smoke, like he downed an energy drink on the way here or tried to ignite a Jolly Rancher.
“Fine. Put your safety goggles on.”
He obeys, placing the goggles over his glasses, and I add a few drops of phenolphthalein indicator to the beaker. But he nudges me with an elbow, and I almost fumble the dropper. “Well, you don’t look fine.”
I take a deep breath and steady my hand. I’m not about to tell Gavin that life pretty much sucks now that my only friend has abandoned me. I’m not about to tell Gavin that I suspect something bad might’ve happened to Polly—that she didn’t just up and run away like her parents and the police say.
I would never tell Gavin Holt that my eyes are stinging with tears because even the best-case scenario means my closest friend chose to leave me and never return my calls or texts again.
“I’m just tired and sore. Still recovering from hell week.” Every year, at the start of lacrosse preseason, Coach makes us attend 5 a.m. practices before classes, and again at 5 p.m. after classes. It helps to get us in shape. It also makes every inch of my body feel like it’s melting off.
“And maybe a little upset that Polly is…” Gavin pushes a strand of dust-brown hair off his forehead. “You know, gone.”
“Maybe.” But the truth is I started losing Polly months ago.
A few weeks into our Form III school year (Torrey-Wells Academy can’t very well call us juniors and seniors like every other school in the United States), Polly was suddenly too busy for me. Even though we’re roommates—we’ve been roommates since Form I—I didn’t see her as much. Polly’s straightAs always came with a healthy dose of cramming; this year, she never felt like studying. Then there was the staying out and sneaking back into the room after curfew, reeking of booze. It wasn’t like her.
At least, it wasn’t like the Polly who was friends with me. She’d vaguely mentioned her wild-child days, but people change. We were content to drink soda from the vending machines and spend Saturday nights in our pajamas.
Until she started getting buddy-buddy with Annabelle Westerly and joined chess club. This has to be the only school in the country where chess club is cool, and it’s all thanks to Annabelle. Polly and I used to joke about how Annabelle Westerly’s endorsement could probably make pin the tail on the donkey the next school fad. But suddenly, Polly wasn’t laughing much with me anymore.
She was laughing with Annabelle, who’s trouble veiled in designer labels and a posher-than-thou lexicon.
Then two weeks ago, Polly wasn’t laughing with anyone. She was gone.
I tried to tell Mr. and Mrs. St. James about Polly’s new habits, so they’d do more to try and find her. But my claims only supported the police’s conclusion. Polly had left a note, after all, telling her parents she’d taken a break from school to clear her head.
Authorities ruled her a runaway.
I’d seen so little of her this semester, I could hardly argue with them. I wasn’t exactly an expert witness on Polly’s habits or state of mind.