Chasm hasn’t seen the video calls; I didn’t even show him the one I recorded. He’s just taking my word for it. It’s a huge leap of faith for someone I’ve only known for three months.
“I’m serious.”
Chasm hesitates for a moment and then nods, standing up suddenly and offering me a hand.
“I know the girls who run the computer science club; they can access the school’s security cameras.” I give Chas a look, and he quirks a cocky smile. “And when I say I know the girls who run the computer science club …”
I slap his arm and he gives a smoky chuckle, handing me the phone back. For a second there, it’s like nothing is different, like nothing has changed, like Parrish is going to be waiting for us when we come out of the theater.
But that’s not reality.
Reality is that I’m going to set fire to the theater, to the props that I help painted. I’m going to ruin Danyella’s production of Wicked that she’s been working on for an entire fucking year.
This freaking blows.
“Let’s start with the gas issue,” Chas begins, reaching into his pocket and sliding out a lighter. He offers it up to me, and we both pretend nothing happens when his fingers trace across my palm. “The janitor keeps a gas can in the shed out back. I only know that because I’ve taken girls—”
“Kwang-seon,” I warn, and he stops. He seems cocky and self-assured, but that’s the truest sign that he’s nervous as fuck right now. The more nervous he is, the more he talks about girls and plays up his slut persona. “Where is the shed?”
Chas gives me instructions on how to find the storage shed while he disappears to the computer science room. How he’s going to get the girls to … do something with the footage and keep their mouths shut after the fire is discovered is beyond me. But somehow, I trust that he’s got my back.
The shed is easy enough to find, situated at the back of the building and behind the student greenhouses. We had greenhouses back at my old high school, too, but we grew vegetables in ours for the school lunch program. Here at Whitehall, they grow exotic plants and do strange experiments with interbreeding and cultivation. It’s never appealed to me.
I pause in front of the shed, checking around to make sure that I’m alone. For the moment, at least, it appears that I am. Unfortunately, there’s a padlock on the door and I’m seriously lacking in bolt cutters here. With a curse, I circle the shed, peeping in the windows and spotting the red gas can sitting beside a riding lawn mower. There’s a professional crew that takes care of the landscape normally, but just in case a tuft of dandelions or daisies sprouts here or there, they’ve got an emergency fix on hand.
My eye twitches. I sure wish my worst problem was a stray cluster of flowering plants. That’d be nice.
After several rounds of circling the shed, I realize that I don’t have many choices here. Either I break a window and take the can, or I don’t do what Justin wants today. He never specified that I had to get this done in a New York minute, but I also know that today is a rare day when nobody is in the theater. Usually, Danyella is there with a handful of drama club members.
I look around for a stray rock, brick, gardening tool, anything at all … but this is Whitehall Preparatory Academy, where the best shine bright. There’s nothing around for me to use; the campus is as sterile and perfect as the Vanguard’s ice cavern.
I’m basically out of fucks to give at this point, so I end up slipping my blazer from my shoulders, wrapping my fist in the fabric, and then punching the rearmost window as hard as I possibly can. The old glass gives way easily enough as I rush to knock off the sharp shards around the edges.
Climbing in is substantially more difficult, but I pad the workbench below the window with the blazer, saving myself from the worst of the glass. My feet hit the dusty floor and I waste no time in snatching the gas can, making sure the cap is screwed tight before I shove it out the window and onto the grass.
I manage to escape without getting blood on anything, so I consider that a victory.
Or, as much a victory as someone in my position can have.
Chasm is waiting at the theater when I get back, giving my ruined blazer a look before I shove it into my bag.
“Let’s do this,” I say, carrying the gas can down the aisle between the seats. I use my keys to let myself backstage, knowing with every step that I’m going to relive this moment for the rest of my life and hate it with a passion that burns far hotter than any fire I could possibly set.
