Scored Page 16

  The stage was totally blocked by police and students, some of whom stood on chairs chanting “Police state!”

  “So this is illegal now?” the girl shouted into the mike.

  Gripping Cady’s hand, Imani pushed between two clusters of students until she could see a sliver of the stage. Diego stood there toward the back, looking down at something in his hands.

  “I can’t see anything,” Cady shouted over the growing chants.

  There was a low rumbling from somewhere, and the cops who were still blocking most of the stage started fidgeting with their hands on the butts of their pistols.

  “All right,” the black-and-white-haired girl said. “Let’s do it.”

  Imani tensed, pulling Cady close to her.

  A terrible screech emanated from the stage, followed by a low boom boom boom!

  Imani braced for gunfire or a stampede to the exits, but the cops didn’t move. The chants of “Police state!” began to fade as she realized that someone was playing music. Loud, peculiar music.

  When two cops faced each other to yell into each other’s ears, a sliver of the stage became visible again. This time, Imani could see Diego better. He had his head bent over the neck of a bass guitar. At his side, the girl played a distorted guitar riff while singing nonsense syllables into the microphone. Imani pushed her way between the two cops, pulling Cady after her. Behind a drum kit at the back of the stage, a guy with a shaved head beat out an irregular rhythm.

  Cady plastered her mouth to Imani’s ear. “This is the Chaos Foundation?”

  Never in her life had Imani felt stupider than she did at that moment.

  “It’s a band?” Cady asked.

  A great mushroom cloud of embarrassment engulfed Imani as she watched the trio play their music. Diego Landis was a bass player. Not a dangerous radical plotting subversive acts. He was a musician, a guy in a band. The ordinariness of it, the sheer harmlessness of it, stunned her.

  When the first song ended, the crowd cheered and whistled, then half of them headed for the exits, drawn, Imani figured, by the potential for police action more than by the band itself. The police conferred among themselves for a moment, then they too left.

  No one was arrested.

  Cady tugged on Imani’s arm and asked what they should do. The sting of Imani’s stupidity had yet to subside, but there was one consolation: the fact that Ms. Wheeler, because she was the one who actually called the police, would look even stupider.

  Imani grinned in spite of herself. “Can we sit for a minute?” she asked.

  Cady nodded, and they took two seats in the back. With the crowd thinned to a few dozen, they had a good view of the stage, where the trio had begun another song.

  The Chaos Foundation was not a band in the same sense that, say, the Beatles were a band. They didn’t play songs you’d dance or hum along to. To Imani, it sounded more like traffic than music. Cady tried to immerse herself in it, bobbing her head along with the beat, but as soon as a rhythm was established, the drummer, obeying their defining ethos, would veer into new avenues of chaos.

  “Nobody’s dancing,” Cady said. “Is that a bad sign? Do you like this?”

  Imani couldn’t say whether she liked or disliked the music. It seemed beyond her. But she didn’t want to leave, and, after a while, she found herself focusing entirely on Diego, picking out the deep rumble and phwaatt of his bass against the wall of noise. His white shirt was rolled up past his elbows, and the sinewy muscles of his right arm pulsed with his plucking. His head was lowered over the instrument, dark hair swaying, eyes closed. Imani had never seen him so unguarded.

  “You’re staring.” Cady’s hand fell in an arc in front of Imani’s face.

  Imani sat upright and forced herself to look at the drummer instead.

  When the song ended, Diego twisted the tuning pegs while squinting against the spotlight into the sparse crowd.

  “He is cute,” Cady said.

  Imani shrugged.

  When the Chaos Foundation began another, quieter song, Cady scooted her chair right up to Imani’s. “So I have to ask. Did you …” She bit her lip. “Did you watch the …”

  “The footage?”

  Cady’s tiny features puckered into a cringe. “God, I hate that word.”

  “Me too,” Imani said. “Of course I didn’t watch it.”

  Cady sighed. “I didn’t think you would. But thanks.”

  It had been harder to resist than Cady probably realized. There was so much Imani wanted to know. Was it worth it? Was it wonderful? Did it hurt? Did Cady still love Parker?

  “So what now?” Cady asked.

  Imani shook her head. Less than a week remained before her final score was in, enough time to minimize the damage, perhaps, but no more than that. She tried to picture the numbers on that sheet of paper Mrs. Bronson would tape to the glass wall. Fifty-two? Forty-two? Lower? Is that what she was now? A bona fide lowbie?

  “Are you all right?” Cady asked.

  Imani realized she’d shuddered. “Do you ever wonder who you are?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever think you don’t know anymore?”

  Cady inclined her head at Imani, a pose of authority undermined by her size relative to Imani and her adorable features. “I know who you are,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Imani answered. “You do, don’t you?”

  The song ended, and the singer thanked the crowd, the members of which were already heading to the bar.

  “He just saw you,” Cady said. She motioned with her head to the stage, where Diego watched Imani while winding a cable. “Should I go to the bar or something?” Cady asked.

  “I don’t know,” Imani said. “I’m not sure what to say to him.”

  “Well, he’s coming over, so think quick.” Cady extricated herself from the chair and went to the bar.

  Diego arrived a few seconds later, his bass guitar slung over his shoulder. “You came.”

  “Well, you were right,” Imani said. “Words could not have described that.” Although, she thought, they would have been awfully helpful.

  Diego slumped slightly. “You hated it,” he said.

  “No,” Imani said. “I don’t think I’m qualified to hate it. I didn’t get it.”

  Diego leaned his bass guitar against the table and sat down. “I’ve been told we’re an acquired taste.”

  “Like bluefish?” Imani asked brightly.

  “Yeah,” he said doubtfully. “Like bluefish.” He twisted around to look at the bar, where Cady sat alone drinking a ginger ale. “Did you come here with Cady Fazio?”

  “Yup.”

  Cady waved nervously at him, and he waved back.

  “Isn’t that bad for your score?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  Diego looked at her searchingly, and Imani realized she’d become unfathomable to him again.

  “Diego,” she said, “can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you a spy?”

  Diego’s eyes widened.

  “Is that why your parents enrolled you at Somerton High?” she asked. “So you could spy on Ms. Wheeler?”

  He looked like he’d just been ambushed, and for a moment Imani dared to hope that his answer would be yes. It would make it so much easier to confess her betrayal if he did it first.

  “You’re actually being serious right now, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re honestly asking me if I’m”—he paused to parse the concept, as if he could only consider it in sections—“a spy?”

  Imani sucked in air through her teeth. “So you’re not?” she said.

  “Why on earth would I spy on Ms. Wheeler?” he asked.

  Imani deflated quickly. She glanced at Cady, who was staring at her over the lip of her glass. “I’ll be right back,” she said. Imani rose to leave, but Diego put his hand over hers and anchored it to the table. Imani froze, half out of her chair.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she s
aid. She stared at his hand, too nervous to move. “I was just, um, curious about why, you know, with your family’s money, you weren’t at a private school or something. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Diego let go of her hand and settled back in his chair. “Okay, look,” he said. “I was thrown out of Benford Arts Academy for completely bogus reasons.”

  “What?” Imani sat back down in her chair. “You were thrown out of another school?”

  Diego looked to the side for a moment to compose himself. “I have a small problem with authority,” he said. “Which some people consider a weakness.”

  “Thrown out?” Imani repeated. “Like expelled?”

  Diego nodded. “My parents decided they weren’t going to spend any more money on private schools, so they told me I’d have to finish out at Somerton.”

  “As punishment,” Imani said, her mood darkening.

  “Actually, I prefer it to the private schools I went to,” he said. “It’s weird, but I like being around so many scored kids. I don’t have to worry about fitting in. I’m an automatic outcast.”

  Imani stared at him.

  “What?” he said. “I’m not saying I like the scored. But it’s better than hanging around a bunch of overprivileged rich kids.” He closed his eyes for a second. “And yes, I know I’m an overprivileged rich kid too. So please don’t feel the need to remind me.”

  Imani was flabbergasted by this turn of events. Every time she discovered something about Diego, he revealed another layer.

  “Did Ms. Wheeler know this about you when you arrived?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “She tried to use it to keep me out. She has a personal grudge against my mother. A lot of people do.” Diego rolled his eyes. “It’s a huge pain in the ass having a semi-famous mother. Sometimes I wish she’d just go back to corporate law.”

  “Wait,” Imani said. “Aren’t you involved in her work?”

  Diego snorted. “Uh, thanks but no thanks,” he said.

  “You’re not?” Imani was stupefied.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I totally respect what she’s doing. But me? I just want to graduate, play my music, and see where life takes me. I am in no way interested in politics.” He spat out the word as if it were a bug that had flown into his mouth.

  Imani stared at him. “But you’re so political in class!” she insisted. “You’re belligerent.”

  “I know.” He grinned at her. “It’s fun, isn’t it? Especially with you there. Your nose wrinkles in this amazingly cute way when you’re upset, like—there.” He pointed at her nose. “You’re doing it right now.”

  Imani’s hand went to her nose.

  “I love that,” he said.

  Imani held his teasing gaze for a while, then turned away.

  “Why do you always do that?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Look away,” he said. “You always look away just when it’s getting interesting.”

  She faced him now, and he wasn’t grinning anymore. He looked nervous. “Did you really come here for the music?” he asked.

  Imani shook her head.

  Diego smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Diego—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t invite you here for the music.”

  “Diego, really—”

  “Just—” He held up his hand to stop her. Then his voice fell to a whisper. “Just keep looking at me.”

  Imani did keep looking at him, wondering if her nose was doing that thing he loved. She could see his chest rise and fall in nervous breaths and knew hers was rising and falling too. How, she wondered, had they wound up here? She’d shown him nothing but contempt, heaping doses of it. Now he was looking at her the way Malachi Beene once had.

  “How many days until your final score?” he asked.

  “Diego—”

  “I can wait,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to make things worse for you.”

  His blue eye locked on hers, and she had to force herself to look away.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Before he could protest, she went to the bar, where Cady, slurping the remains of her ginger ale, gaped at her in animated query. Imani calmly removed a napkin from the dispenser and asked to borrow the bartender’s pen. When she returned to Diego, she wrote her phone number on the napkin and slid it to him. Then, before he could misinterpret its intent, she gave him his instructions.

  “Tell your mother to call me first thing in the morning.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes,” Imani said. She kept her tone businesslike. “I have information about Ms. Wheeler that could help her.”

  Diego stared at her, puzzled.

  “And I’m sorry,” she said.

  Diego looked at the napkin, then back at her. “What are you sorry for?”

  Imani forced herself to remain cool, detached. “I’m sorry for tomorrow,” she said.

  She motioned for Cady to follow her to the exit. She never looked back at Diego.

  20. something like friends

  DIEGO’S MOTHER CALLED at six the next morning, waking Imani from a deep sleep.

  “My son says you have information for me?” she said. Her tone was cautious, skeptical.

  Imani had gone to bed the previous night convinced that a full confession was in order, and that she would never have the courage to make that confession to Diego. But now that his mother was on the other end of the phone, she began to doubt herself.

  “What exactly is the nature of your association with Ms. Wheeler?” Mrs. Landis asked.

  Imani laughed nervously. “Well, that’s kind of the problem,” she said. Then she began her tale. About one minute into it, Mrs. Landis interrupted to ask if she could record it.

  “Why?” Imani asked.

  Mrs. Landis laughed lightheartedly. “I’m useless with note-taking,” she said. “My hand has already cramped up. Do you mind?”

  “Um, I guess not,” Imani said. Then she told her the rest of the story.

  When she had finished, Mrs. Landis paused before speaking. “Are you saying that Ms. Wheeler told you this would help your score?”

  “At first, she said it was uncharted territory,” Imani explained. “But then yesterday, she told me she was sure I’d get over the scholarship line because of it.”

  “You realize that’s a lie, of course.”

  Imani’s heart sank, which she knew was absurd. Imani hadn’t believed Ms. Wheeler when she’d said it, and, at any rate, she had done so much to destroy her score between then and now that it shouldn’t have mattered. But hope could be so stubborn. Even false, deluded hope. “I figured it was a lie,” she said.

  “Okay then,” Mrs. Landis said. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. That’s all.”

  “Will I see you at the meeting tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” Imani said.

  “Okay. I do appreciate your candor,” Mrs. Landis said. “You did the right thing.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Landis said. “Belatedly, but yes.”

  After Imani hung up, she sat on her bed staring through the window as the sky brightened with the morning. Her confession did not, as she had hoped, lighten her load. If anything, she felt heavier.

  Imani arrived at American history class early that day, took her usual seat, and began slow deep breaths in anticipation of Diego’s arrival. She presumed that Mrs. Landis had told him the whole story but was holding out hope—false, deluded hope, perhaps—that she hadn’t. Imani had already decided not to look at him in class, because no mere glance could make amends for what she had done.

  Students drifted in one by one. Even Mr. Carol arrived on time. It was only when the late bell rang and Mr. Carol sat on the middle desk that Imani realized Diego wasn’t coming. That meant he knew. His mother had told him and he was so angry that he couldn’t bear the sight of her.

  The topic of the day, ironically, wa
s civility in dissent. While Mr. Carol lectured them on how reasonable people could disagree without resorting to character assassination or accusations of stupidity, Imani glanced repeatedly at Diego’s empty chair. She knew he would return to school before long. Pride, if nothing else, would force him to face her. But no matter how eloquently he argued in class, Imani knew she’d miss their private disagreements. Despite his defects, Diego, in all fairness, had a mind to be reckoned with. She realized how much she would have enjoyed cowriting that essay with him, now that it was no longer a possibility. If she hadn’t spoiled things with her appalling betrayal, and he hadn’t spoiled things with his confession of feelings, perhaps, she thought, after her final score was in, they might have become something like friends. Now they’d never know.

  For the rest of the day, Imani wandered through the hallways and endured her classes as if in a daze. Her teachers’ voices were an irrelevant drone, and her fellow students had become universally distasteful to her—both the lowbies and the highbies, but especially the highbies. She no longer envied them. They seemed lifeless, inhuman. What she wanted, more than she’d ever wanted it before, was to be on the river. So, for the second day in a row, Imani decided to cut school early. On her way to the exit, she passed Deon, hugging a chemistry book while avoiding eye contact with everyone. As she watched him shuffle meekly to class, she realized there was one last thing to do before she left.

  She went to the school library, waited for a tablet to become available, then printed out the article Diego had shown her from Neuroscience Quarterly. When the bell rang, she found Deon at his locker. He shrunk from her approach, but Imani was not there to attempt friendship; she was there to help him escape. She told him about Amber’s plan to ostracize him from the gang, and, since she knew Deon would have no idea what to do with such information, she handed him the article she’d printed.

  “The gangs are a bug, not a feature,” she explained, while flipping to the page she’d highlighted. “You don’t have to sit with the sixties at lunch just because you’re a sixty. It doesn’t help you. It might even prevent you from ascending.”

  “But where would I sit?” he asked, without looking at her.