Free Undertow by Michael Buckley

realize that I listened to the other things he used to say to me back when doing the right thing was more important than being safe.
Be the person who stops the fight.
    â€œSit down, Deshane,” I say as I leap to my feet.
    â€œUh, Lyric?” Bex says, reaching for my hand.
    Deshane looks at me like I materialized out of thin air. I haven’t talked to this kid since he and I sat out the fourth grade field trip to the aquarium because we kept laughing at the tour guide’s lisp. I hope he remembers.
    â€œGet out of my way, bitch.”
    Okay, I guess he doesn’t remember.
    He tries to get past me, but I block him, then do it again. He looks at me, laughs, then shoves me so hard, I tumble over my desk and slam my shoulder onto the floor. There’s a flash of red, an instant ache, and spots before my eyes. Oh, man, I’m going to have one serious migraine.
    Bex kneels beside me. “There’s my wild thing,” she says with a proud grin.
    â€œStay in your seats!” the soldier roars. He’s on his radio shouting for backup. Seconds later the door flies open and ten heavily armed men storm into the room. They stomp down the aisles and drag Deshane and Jorge into the hall, then come back for Ghost.
    â€œGet your hands off me,” he hisses as they pull him out of the class.
    There are hands on my arms too, and I realize I’m not being helped to my feet. I’m being arrested.

Chapter Seven
    T he gymnasium is now a temporary holding cell for students waiting for the bus to the Tombs. Twenty-five desks complete with chairs bolted into the hardwood floor make up five neat rows. I’m handcuffed to one. Some whimpering freshman is to my right. Ghost is to my left, grumbling in his barky language, and Deshane and his pals are behind me, laughing. They aren’t taking any of this seriously.
    I, however, am freaking out. We’ve been here for three hours, and I’ve been trembling every minute of it. What I did was dumb. Apart from the fact that I’m going to be stuck in a jail cell with who knows what, a trip to the Tombs will put me into the system. I just invited the police to peer into my hiding places, uncover my secrets, examine my DNA. Flags will go up. Questions will be asked about my parents, about why my mom doesn’t have a Social Security number or a driver’s license or a birth certificate. They will come for us, just like my father warned they would, and it will be my fault. Right now I’m missing my phone. I just wish I could call them and tell them to run.
    The doors to the gym open, and footsteps approach. A man in a tight, short-sleeved oxford shirt and khaki slacks approaches, along with a small handful of soldiers. He’s got a crewcut and a jaw like a mason block and a hint of a tattoo poking out of his sleeve. When he gets to my desk, he stops, sips from a mug of coffee, and eyes me up and down.
    â€œSoldier, can you take Ms. Walker’s handcuffs off?”
    A young private unfastens the cuffs. It feels good to be out of them. My wrists have been rubbed raw, but being free also means I’m on my way to jail.
    â€œCome with me, Ms. Walker,” he says.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œI’m David Doyle, the new principal.” He wanders toward the exit.
    I look back to the soldier, expecting to find his gun in my face, but he’s not paying any attention to me. He goes back to where he was stationed and turns his eyes to the other students.
    â€œMs. Walker?” Doyle is gesturing impatiently. “Please keep up.”
    Two things could be happening here. Maybe he’s escorting me to the police van for transport to the Tombs. Or (and this feels more likely) he’s already figured out what I am and he’s trying to lure me out of the room to avoid causing a scene. Neither of these is a good scenario, but I don’t know what other choice I have but to follow him. I might have Alpha blood, but I do