Page 126 of Faux Real
“So, you think I should go?” I ask quietly. “You think it’s a good idea.”
“If this is something you’re passionate about,” she shrugs, “then don’t let it slip away.”
“Right,” I say as we fall into silence, the chirps of insects and uncertainty dancing in the air.
She didn’t tell me to stay. That’s my answer, isn’t it? If she wants me like I want her, she’d make me stay. Wouldn’t she? I would. I would do anything.
“We should probably head back now,” Kennedy says, propping herself up as she takes her phone out of her purse. “Shit, it’s late. They’re probably doing checks soon.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” I say, standing up and offering her my hand. She takes it, and a buzzing sensation shoots up my arm. I drop my hand, clearing my throat. “Come on, stay close.”
Kennedy grabs the back of my jacket as I slowly maneuver us back down to the campsite, carefully this time. I’d like to avoid having to actually use her first aid kit.
“Oh my God,” Kennedy cries as a wolf howls in the distance. “How much further?”
“We’re almost there,” I say, my phone vibrating in my hand. “We’re back in service now.”
“Thank God,” Kennedy says, pausing as she lets out a gasp.
“What?” I stop, making sure I don’t flash the light directly in her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Shit.” Kennedy covers her mouth.
“What is it?”
Kennedy turns her phone toward me, showing me the latest blast from Hilton Hears. Posted an hour ago.
We hear that: one of our very own has a possible bun in the oven. Or would that be Cornbread? We’re not all that surprised, when you have that many cooks in the kitchen, something is bound to get baked. Our only question is... will the daddy be Runningback to help? Let’s place bets. Don’t worry. I think we’ll all get our Quarterbacks.
I blink. “What does that even mean?”
“Nothing good,” Kenny sighs.
“Who are they talking about?” I ask as we emerge back onto solid, stable ground and head toward Kennedy’s cabin.
“Cornbread?” Kenny offers. “Put it together.”
“Corrine?” I whisper, everything clicking. “No way.”
She shrugs. “Looks that way.”
“Fuck,” I muse. “Think Sawyer knows?”
“I don’t think so...” Kennedy frowns as she rereads the blast, letting out a gasp. “Oh my God.”
“What?” I ask as we turn the corner to the far cabins. “What now?”
“Nothing,” she peeps, pocketing her phone. She squints when we approach her cabin, the lights on and students gathered around with teachers blocking the entrance. “What’s happening?” She picks up her pace. “I hope Max is okay!” She pushes through a crowd of students dressed in pajamas, phones in their hands as they try to record something. “Max?” She looks frantically around the room until she finds Max in the corner talking with Mrs. Patella. “What’s going on?”
“Ken—” Max whispers, an apologetic glimmer in her eyes.
“What...” Kenny stammers as Mrs. Patella stalks toward her. “Is something wrong?”
I scan the cabin, both Max and Kennedy’s beds turned over, suitcases unzipped, drawers open. An uneasy feeling grips my chest,déjà vuflashing in my mind. I’ve smoked enough spliffs in school to know that they’re looking for something.
“Miss Carmichael,” Mrs. Patella says in a stern voice. “We’ve received a very disturbing tip that you are in possession of prescription drugs.”
Shit.
