Free Endangered by Lamar Giles Page A

hive-mind reaction to a well-timed burn.
    Now the bad days are not just a memory.
    I’ve time-traveled to when such jokes weren’t just a Brock thing, but a Portside High thing. My bag’s dropped from my shoulder, my fist clenching the strap while the satchel dangles an inch from the ground, heavy likethe spiked ball of some medieval warrior’s mace.
    I say, “I prefer your superhero outfit,” and I glance at his nether regions. “Those little tight shorts assured me there was nothing to fear.”
    The onlookers are laughing harder. Not at me.
    Brock’s not known for letting others have the last word. I’m not in a giving mood either. His chest expands, gathering air to say something nasty. Hall Ghost persona be damned—I’m not backing down.
    Before it goes further, Taylor inserts himself between us, gets in Brock’s face. “Back off.”
    Again, Brock plays like he’s taking the high road. “I’m sorry, dude. This you?”
    â€œThis.” As if I’m property to claim. I can’t decide if I’m more offended by Taylor assuming I need him to fight for me, or the implication that I somehow belong to him. Wisely, Taylor shakes his head. “You know it ain’t like that. Just back off.”
    Brock smirks, flicks a “You believe this guy?” signal to some nearby toady. “Sure will, Sheriff. I don’t want no trouble with the law.”
    Brock forces his way between me and Taylor, bumping Taylor’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
    I walk away, unwilling to lend credence to their childishness by being a witness to whatever happens next. If they fight, they fight. I won’t let it be over me.
    The resulting sounds aren’t that of a scuffle, but of footsteps chasing me.
    â€œLauren, bist du okay ?” He’s asking if I’m okay, in German. Like he used to. Making me want to claw his eyes out.
    â€œI’m perfect.” I speed up, hoping to outrun this conversation. I can’t beat his long legs, though.
    â€œBrock’s a messed-up dude.” He says it like everyone who meets Brock doesn’t get that instantly. Also, like he’s not a messed-up dude. “I had to say something.”
    â€œWhere’s your shield?”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œAll this time and I never knew your lying and backstabbing was an act. You’re really Captain America, defending my honor.”
    â€œLauren? Still?”
    I’m visualizing the mace again. “No one calls me Lauren around here. Especially you.”
    Outside my homeroom, he stops, makes a quarter turn, like half of him wants to run while the other half needs to finish this exchange.
    I say, “I’d prefer you don’t talk to me. Ever. If you do feel the need, know that you’ve lost your ‘Lauren’ privileges.” His back is to me now, and I expect him to walk away. “You call me Panda,” I say, intending to add the stinger “It shouldn’t be hard for you to remember, since it’s the name you gave me.”
    Taylor’s no longer paying attention to me. No one is and I’m feeling slightly shunned. I sidestep to see what’s drawn everyone’s attention.
    Oh.
    Keachin’s back.

CHAPTER 13
    MUTED COLORS, NO MAKEUP, HAIR UP and away. Keachin’s taken a page from my Hall Ghost playbook.
    Her friends form a protective bubble around her like a popularity Secret Service, escorting her through the stunned spectators. As she passes, a wave of gossiping murmurs follow. Keachin maintains a stiff spine, her chin high and eyes on the horizon. So dignified. She may be prom queen yet.
    When she turns the corner, the volume cranks. Girls simultaneously pitying and cat-clawing, boys being crass or wanting to be the one Keachin allows to comfort her during this trying time.
    â€œWasn’t expecting that,” Taylor says.
    â€œMe neither,” I say with no snark. He