When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (novels to read txt) 📗

I can use the remainder of my lunch money to buy a bag of chips to split with Marcelina. I almost always want to take a carb-crash nap during fifth period, but it’s study hall anyway, so nobody notices if my eyes droop a little.

I start to make my way toward the table. Iris catches my eye, and I remember that she wanted to talk to me about something—she wanted to “run something by me.” I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to pry Maryam off her when something happens.

It’s that thing where all the attention in a room shifts, and without anyone saying anything, you know that you need to look. Maybe it’s the way conversations shift to whispers; maybe it’s the way heads turn to point in the same direction. Maybe it’s one of those shared-consciousness things, where everyone is sharing a wavelength, and it twitches toward danger. Meerkats poking their heads up out of holes, looking at a shadow on the horizon.

That’s the thing that happens. Without knowing why or how, something in the room makes me look up at the door to the cafeteria.

There’s a cop.

Her eyes sweep across the cafeteria. She’s wearing a full uniform. Dark blue, designed to make sure everyone around her remembers the authority she has over us. We’re small enough that we don’t have a dedicated police officer who works here all day, like some of the bigger schools do. But still, it’s not rare to see cops here. Kids get caught with drugs or they start fights or get the wrong person on staff mad, and the police show up.

It always feels wrong to see them on campus, though.

Even if the fear I feel right now is amplified and more personal than usual, I’ve always been afraid of cops. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen how some of my friends get treated differently by police than I do. Or maybe it’s Dad’s and Pop’s stories of things that have happened to them and their friends at protests and marches and parades and all the little moments in between those things. Or maybe it’s because police officers bring loaded guns into schools where we have regular drills about how to hide from people who bring loaded guns into schools. I don’t know—they just scare the shit out of me, okay? And they scare the shit out of just about everyone I know.

I don’t know how to reconcile how I feel about the police with how I trust Roya’s mom. I’ve known her since I was too young to remember ever not having known her. She’s put Band-Aids on my knees and made me grilled cheese sandwiches. It’s hard to think of her as the same kind of person who makes Pop’s hands tighten on his steering wheel when she drives behind him. But then again, I don’t often see Roya’s mom in uniform. She wears suits most of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with a gun in her hand.

Maybe I wouldn’t trust her so much if I saw her with a gun in her hand.

The cop in the doorway doesn’t have a gun in her hand, but she’s resting her hands on her belt, which hangs heavy with threats—baton, taser, cuffs, pistol. She’s got short gray hair and a long, hawkish nose. She looks like she’s seen it all before, twice, and wasn’t impressed. Assistant Principal Toomey stands behind her, and they’re both looking around as if all eyes aren’t on them.

I’m holding my breath, trying hard to look normal. The cop’s flat stare passes over my face without pausing. It lands on the table where we usually have lunch, and she points, and they start walking toward the place where everyone but me is sitting.

I slide onto a bench and watch what’s happening across the cafeteria. The girl I’m next to—an underclassman I’ve never met—gives me a look, but doesn’t tell me to leave. Toomey and the sharp-nosed cop walk up to the table and say something. Paulie answers, and Iris nods. Maryam’s eyes are locked on the officer’s gun, and I see Marcelina grab her hand under the table to give it a squeeze.

Roya stands up, shaking her head and looking pissed. She gestures to Iris’s fries, and the assistant principal shrugs. The cop rests a hand on the butt of her baton and gives Roya a sizing-up look, and my stomach clenches.

“Ah, fuck!”

I turn to look at the girl next to me, the one who frowned when I sat at the end of her bench. She’s swearing, and she’s got one hand cupped underneath her nose, which is streaming blood. No, not streaming—gushing.

“Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing a pile of napkins from the freshman at the opposite end of the table. As I do, I notice that my palm is glowing. Oh god, what did I do?

“I’m fine,” she says, grabbing a fistful of napkins from me and mopping up her chin and upper lip. “I think—I think it’s over, actually? That was so weird, I never …”

I don’t catch the rest of what she’s saying, because I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. When I look over, Iris is standing up and putting her hand on Roya’s arm. Maryam is staring at the table, her face fixed, her gaze distant. Roya sinks back into her chair, her arms folded, and glares at the cop. Iris says something to Marcelina. Then she walks out of the cafeteria in front of the assistant principal, her posture defiant, high red ponytail swinging. She doesn’t turn back, doesn’t pause before leaving. She looks like a warrior.

The cop stays behind, saying something to Roya, who rolls her eyes. They exchange a few more words before the officer leaves. I finally let myself inhale. My breath comes as ragged as if I’d been drowning.

I don’t come to the table until she’s gone. Maybe I’m a coward, but I don’t think I could have kept my