It was a while before they cleaned out Marybeth's locker. In the first few days after That Night, nobody even thought of it. Too busy hugging and crying. And then there were funerals, and the mayor made a speech about how their fair city would never again be compromised by such a threat. It was a town, and everyone knew it was a town, but they all agreed that the mayor's words had been very stirring. Casey's mom bought a big red, white and blue ribbon rosette and wore it on her lapel.
Later, there were the not-funerals. Memorials. The photocopied fliers with holiday snaps and 'have you seen this man?' headlines turned yellow and crinkled up at the corners and fell off the phone poles.
Eventually, though, somebody remembered the locker. Delilah would always say that it was Zeke, but Zeke said that it was Delilah, and everyone else was just terrified that it hadn't been them. That it had been so easy to forget such a huge potential threat.
So one day they hung back after class, and Stokes said 'hey, the gang's all here' in her old sharp clever voice, and they all grinned because it was kinda cool to be back doing stuff like this again. Normal life wasn't nearly rush-inducing enough for them anymore.
Stan and Zeke used a crowbar to pry the door open while the girls kept watch, but even the teachers had gone home and there was nobody in the hallways but them.
"We few, we happy few..." Delilah muttered. "You guys got it yet?"
"Yeah, almost," Stan answered. "Wait." The hinges made a high, thin screaming sound. "Okay, done."
"Careful," warned Casey, as if they needed reminding. "They can lie dormant."
"Thanks, Captain Exposition," Stokes said. "We wouldn't have thought of that."
"Fuck you, preppie." Casey's retort had no sting to it - couldn't, when his mother had ironed his goddamned jeans that morning.
They'd all done it, in their own ways: Zeke by joining the team, Stan by getting average grades and playing no sport. The girls by being fresh-faced, neither glittering nor harlequin-dark. Casey with a little less obvious cleverness, a little more evident confidence.
Blended into the crowd. Not outsiders, not stars. Just faces, easy to forget. Nobody would ever think twice about them or suspect them of rebellion. Covert ops.
Marybeth's locker had almost nothing in it. A notebook, unwritten-in. A walkman with a copy of Lisa Loeb's first album in it but no batteries. Two light blue hair elastics and a plastic comb with some water-pale strands still looped through the teeth. Some pennies and a cobweb in the lower lefthand corner.
"Guess it really is over," Stokes said quietly.
They all knew that she was wrong. It would never be over, for them.
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Later, there were the not-funerals. Memorials. The photocopied fliers with holiday snaps and 'have you seen this man?' headlines turned yellow and crinkled up at the corners and fell off the phone poles.
Eventually, though, somebody remembered the locker. Delilah would always say that it was Zeke, but Zeke said that it was Delilah, and everyone else was just terrified that it hadn't been them. That it had been so easy to forget such a huge potential threat.
So one day they hung back after class, and Stokes said 'hey, the gang's all here' in her old sharp clever voice, and they all grinned because it was kinda cool to be back doing stuff like this again. Normal life wasn't nearly rush-inducing enough for them anymore.
Stan and Zeke used a crowbar to pry the door open while the girls kept watch, but even the teachers had gone home and there was nobody in the hallways but them.
"We few, we happy few..." Delilah muttered. "You guys got it yet?"
"Yeah, almost," Stan answered. "Wait." The hinges made a high, thin screaming sound. "Okay, done."
"Careful," warned Casey, as if they needed reminding. "They can lie dormant."
"Thanks, Captain Exposition," Stokes said. "We wouldn't have thought of that."
"Fuck you, preppie." Casey's retort had no sting to it - couldn't, when his mother had ironed his goddamned jeans that morning.
They'd all done it, in their own ways: Zeke by joining the team, Stan by getting average grades and playing no sport. The girls by being fresh-faced, neither glittering nor harlequin-dark. Casey with a little less obvious cleverness, a little more evident confidence.
Blended into the crowd. Not outsiders, not stars. Just faces, easy to forget. Nobody would ever think twice about them or suspect them of rebellion. Covert ops.
Marybeth's locker had almost nothing in it. A notebook, unwritten-in. A walkman with a copy of Lisa Loeb's first album in it but no batteries. Two light blue hair elastics and a plastic comb with some water-pale strands still looped through the teeth. Some pennies and a cobweb in the lower lefthand corner.
"Guess it really is over," Stokes said quietly.
They all knew that she was wrong. It would never be over, for them.