Lock-In (Night Fall ™) Read online

  LOCK-IN

  J O N A T H A N M A R Y - T O D D

  Text copyright © 2011 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

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  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Cover photographs © iStockphoto.com/dblight (doors);

  © iStockphoto.com/Kevin Cooke (handprint).

  Main body text set in Memento Regular 12/26.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mary-Todd, Jonathan.

  Lock-in / by Jonathan Mary-Todd.

  p. cm. — (Night fall)

  Summary: When a high school lock-in, meant to ease tensions between the lacrosse team and a group that likes to play werewolf, goes awry, Jackie does not know if she is safer in the panic of the dark hallways or with the crazed student council president determined to maintain control.

  ISBN 978–0–7613–7743–6 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction.

  3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Werewolves—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.M36872Loc 2011

  [Fic]—dc22 2011000960

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1—BP—7/15/11

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-7951-5 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2951-2 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2952-9 (mobi)

  For 8th & College

  and other small-scale disasters

  1

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when my friend Francis hit the Internet. As early as sixth grade, he told me he was going to make a splash. He said it the same way he said almost everything, like he was half-kidding and with a grin that showed he knew just how he sounded. But basically I believed him.

  About one thousand years later, as a junior, I watched the clip on YouTube for the first time. It started with a reporter from WBNE, our local TV station, talking to a local farmer. Callie Murdock owned land on the edge of Bridgewater. For weeks, she complained, kids had been stealing her chickens.

  “Not even to eat,” Callie said. “Just killing ’em sometimes! I found some still on my land. Dead as doornails.” She tapped a shovel on the ground for emphasis.

  “I know who it is, too,” she went on. “Those. . . wolf kids! I’ve seen ’em around. Just lurkin’ near the farm.”

  The clip cut to the same reporter talking straight to the camera: “For most citizens of Bridgewater, Halloween season ended months ago. But a new trend in the halls of Bridgewater High School finds some teens wearing their best werewolf gear each day of the week. Connor Tailors, Mike Sizemore, Gwen O’Gara, and Francis Masterson are at the front of the pack. These Bridgewater High eleventh-graders say it’s simple self-expression.”

  The camera cut to four teens in black jeans and black T-shirts. Gwen faced away from the camera. A fake-fur tail hung from her belt in back.

  The camera zoomed in on Connor, the tallest of the group. The close-up revealed his deep-red colored contacts. “We don’t think anybody’s just, like, human,” he said. “We’re just letting out the animal parts of ourselves.”

  For most of the clip, Francis just fiddled with one of the many bracelets on his wrists. But he perked up when the reporter asked about the lost chickens. “When I heard about that, I was as worried as anyone else,” he said, totally straight-faced. “It’s getting so you can’t even cross the road here anymore.”

  The clip cut to Principal Weston in his office. “Well, there’s nothing about tails in the dress code,” he chuckled. “As long as they’re in their seats and learning, I don’t see a problem. These things come and go.”

  Last time I checked, something like a hundred thousand people had watched the footage. I was shocked at the reaction, and then shocked that I was so shocked. Because again, Francis getting semi-famous? Totally plausible. He was good at putting himself out there. And I guess the wolf thing wasn’t something most people saw every day. Worth a click. I think the whole situation was just much dumber than I’d expected.

  Nowadays, it’s easy to say that I should have taken Connor’s words more seriously. Everyone in Bridgewater should have. But back then, I just didn’t know. Nobody did.

  2

  I don’t know if the wolf kids were out for attention. Other than Francis, anyway. But after that video blew up on the YouTubes, they got it. Lots of it.

  The clip maybe wasn’t great for peer relations at Bridgewater High. Before the wolf kids went viral, things had been tense between them and the lacrosse team. Some name-calling in the hallway. At worst, a pushing match that didn’t lead anywhere. All of it seemed . . . not fun, but pretty normal. And I guess pack behavior is what you can expect from kids who’ve decided they’re actually, you know, wild animals. Still—things seemed uglier after the clip got so many views.

  I tried talking about it with Francis once or twice. He and I had been best friends from age five ’til sometime around the start of high school. No real reason why we drifted apart—I think we both just felt like ninth grade meant we were supposed to go looking for something else. For Francis, it had been drama club, movie club, and then pretending to be half-canine. Anyway, we were still friendly.

  “Fwwwwancissss!”

  That was Blake Golding, attacker for Bridgewater High Lacrosse.

  “You know, Blake, lots of fascinating people were named Francis,” Francis replied. “Francis Scott Key wrote our national anthem! How ’bout that?” Francis shot Blake a big fake grin and got shoved against his locker. I walked up to him afterwards.

  “Seems like that kind of thing has been happening to you a lot lately.”

  Francis chuckled. “Yeah. I’m thinking about getting a paw-print tattoo like the one Connor has. Maybe they’ll make fun of me for that instead.”

  Connor Tailors was new to Bridgewater this year. He’d come from somewhere in Michigan and brought the whole wolf thing with him.

  “Well, try not to do anything too stupid,” I said. “I don’t want your next YouTube smash to be you eating a live turkey.”

  “No promises, Jackie. Everything’s gotta be bigger in the sequel.”

  As Francis headed to class, Student Council President Rosa De La Torre approached me. Unlike Francis, I’d managed never to fall in with a crowd. Freshman year, I tried cross-country for a few weeks. My brother Pete, a year older, had already made varsity. The girls’ coach said that anyone from the same gene pool would be a natural. I liked the spaghetti dinners but hated the running. Lately my thing had been updating the student council website. My parents said it’d be good for applying to colleges, and there was no chance of getting shin splints.

  Rosa had been upset with me ever since I put a picture of a Speedo-wearing bodybuilder on the site’s homepage. (Explaining the joke— “Stud. co.?”—didn’t help.) But basically we had a good working relationship. She looked at me and then looked at Francis down at the end of the hall.

  “Those emo-werewolf kids give me the creeps,” Rosa said. “What were you even talking about?”

  “Francis is harmless. Some crimes against fashion, maybe, but—”

  “I’m just saying, Jackie. You’re a part of student council. What you do reflects on people other
than you. You need to figure out what kind of image you want people to see.”

  At the time, I didn’t know how right Jackie was. But in not too long, the pressure to choose a side was going to get a lot worse.

  A bell rang. I was late to Principles of Physics.

  “Understood, Madame President.”

  3

  For some reason, my mom has an easier time making an event out of dinner if the food comes from another country. Monday night is not potato-salad night, although we almost always have potato salad. But Tuesday nights are Enchilada Nights at the Ballards’.

  “You’re really wolfing those down tonight, Pete!” Mom said.

  Pete was like a whole foot taller than me, and sometimes it seemed like he was twice as skinny. Which I don’t know how he pulled off, because every Tuesday he ate like six enchiladas. But again, running was his thing.

  My dad took a second to laugh at the joke he was about to make. “Hey, speaking of wolves,” he said, “what has Francis gotten himself up to? I saw that video . . .”

  “Oh god,” I groaned, “I guess that makes everybody.”

  “Werewolf kids!” Pete said between bites. “Think they’re werewolves. I think it’s ’cause of Twilight.”

  “Francis says that Connor says he’s never seen it,” I said. I turned to Dad. “Francis, at least, doesn’t think he’s a wolf-person. I think he’s just happy to find people he can talk about old horror movies with.”

  “Great enchiladas!” Pete said to Mom, closing out our werewolf talk. “Good Enchilada Night.”

  Anyone who didn’t know Pete might think at first that he was dumb. He really wasn’t. He just didn’t seem to worry about anything. Crosscountry, classes, getting along with people—it all came easy to him.

  “These are good, hon,” my dad said. “They have some real bite to them.” I glared at him while he let out another laugh.

  4

  I got to school the next day right after the first Big Incident happened. A group of kids were gathered in the parking lot in front of Bridgewater High. A police officer tried shooing them away, which proved sorta worthless. The cop just seemed to attract more kids. Another officer dragged a roll of yellow tape around some parking cones like a nonspeaking character from C.S.I. Within the cones, I saw a tiny maroon sedan with its front window busted in.

  The window had one huge dent with like a million cracks in it. It was ready to totally fall apart at a touch. Someone had written AWWWWOOOO! in shaving cream on the car’s hood.

  In the inner ring of gawking students, Francis stood with Connor and Gwen O’Gara. Gwen had her hands cupped over her mouth. She looked pale. Like, more pale than those kids usually looked. No way the car was anyone’s but hers.

  I squeezed toward the wolf kids and called out.

  “Francis! What . . .”

  “Lacrosse kids,” he sighed. “Had to be.”

  Connor didn’t acknowledge me but suddenly spoke to Gwen: “They’ll regret this. We’ll make them.”

  The lacrosse guys were not discreet. I should know, I sat behind two of them in Advanced Algebra.

  “Todd didn’t even mean to break the windshield!” one said. “Just busted on him while he was writing on the car. He got up on it.”

  “Man, Todd is an idiot.”

  “Todd is hil-ar-i-ous.”

  I’m sure it wasn’t long until Francis or one of his friends heard the same conversation somewhere else. By the end of the school day, the whole wolf pack was deep into plotting. I passed them after classes ended, taking the long way to the student council room. They were huddled in a semicircle near some vending machines in the back lobby. They looked extra-packlike.

  “Psst!” I fake-whispered to Francis. “What are you guys talking about?”

  He looked over at me and then looked back toward his friends. I decided to pester him for just a second longer.

  “Twilight? I knew it. No shame in that, man, those are good movies!”

  Normally this would have been enough to make Francis snicker like an idiot. But if he was amused, he sure didn’t let on. Connor squinted at the both of us.

  “Jackie,” Francis muttered, “Um, don’t you have anywhere to be?”

  I started back down the hallway.

  5

  Ididn’t see Francis for the next few days. I spent the weekend solving physics problems and updating member profiles on the student council site. I wasn’t sure what he got up to, but after the second Big Incident the following Monday, it was easy to guess.

  Normally I ate lunch with Mira Patel, a sophomore I knew from the drawing class we had the hour before. She was way better than I was.

  “You should at least think about joining the web team, Mira,” I urged. “You could do some rad graphics for it.”

  “I don’t know why you spend so much time on that stuff,” she said, prodding a piece of carrot cake with her fork.

  “Neither do I. But it’d be really great to have someone else around who understands that Rosa De La Torre is insane.”

  We were on the verge of a breakthrough when shouts erupted at the other end of the cafeteria. (The whole lunch crowd goes silent when a fight starts, which is nice.)

  “Sick, man!”

  Todd Fry, captain, Bridgewater High Lacrosse, was upset. Like really upset. Blake Golding and a few other letter-jackets flanked him on both sides. Todd stood at the head of the table where Francis, Connor, and the other wolf kids sat.

  “Chicken guts in our equipment room!? You’re sick, man!”

  Connor looked up at him, glowering. He pushed his bangs to one side and let a grin slip.

  “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

  Todd grabbed the rim of Connor’s lunch tray and flipped it into the air. Most of the food actually got on Francis, but in a half-second Connor was on his feet. The adults supervising the cafeteria got to the table in a hurry too. (The Bridgewater High cafeteria is actually a terrible place to start a fight if you don’t want it broken up right away.)

  A couple teachers moved in and separated Todd and Connor. Mike Sizemore picked up a cup of Jell-O like he was ready to chuck it, but he put it back down when Principal Weston appeared.

  Weston asked the teachers to keep the groups apart and take them to different rooms in the guidance counselors’ office. He walked through the cafeteria, fuming, toward the exit on Mira’s and my side of the room.

  “This isn’t going any further,” he muttered to one of the grown-ups placed near the door. As Weston headed out of the cafeteria, Rosa stood up a few tables away and moved to follow him.

  “There goes your president,” Mira said. “What do you think she wants?”

  “I’m sure she’s got a solution to all of this,” I laughed. “Maybe student council will pay for lacrosse lessons for the werewolves. And eyeliner for the lacrosse team. Let them walk a mile in the other’s paws.”

  6

  Rosa did have a plan. It should have struck me as crazy right away, but mostly the idea of extra work was what stuck out. Doing web stuff meant I went along mostly unbothered. Rosa insisted on everybody’s participation this time, though. It was going to be big, and somehow she got Principal Weston on board.

  Connor and Todd were the only ones who got in trouble for the cafeteria thing. Some teachers saw Connor shake his fists and Todd flip the tray, but I guess they couldn’t prove anything else, like who messed up Gwen’s car the week before. Anyway, I’m sure Principal Weston wanted to do something before he started getting swamped with calls from concerned parents. Before Weston made the event official, Rosa filled in student council at our Thursday meeting.

  “We’re having a lock-in,” she announced. “Friday night to Saturday morning, three weeks from now. We’ll have trust-building games, student bands—it’ll be like a chance to get to know other students for the first time. A fresh start!”

  The rest of us mostly looked around at each other. Slightly less enthused.

  Macy, the student council
treasurer, spoke up. “What about the stuff that’s been happening, the fights? Don’t we wanna keep some kids, like, as far away from each other as possible?”

  Rosa’s smile dropped off for a second, then curled back up. “Bridgewater High is a small school. You can’t expect people to stop running into each other. Principal Weston and I agree that nothing’s going to get fixed until we all try to understand each other a little bit better. We have the administration’s full support. But it’s up to us to organize it.”

  At that point, I started to get curious. “Um, I know I like trust-building, but how are we gonna get people to actually go?”

  Rosa did the smile-frown-smile thing again. “Attendance is mandatory, except for the boys’ and girls’ basketball teams. They have away games. But everyone gets half their civics credits taken care of just for going. It’s like getting credits for going to a party! For kids who still don’t attend, the administration will . . . figure something out.”

  7

  The next couple weeks went by in a flash. All of us in student council kept busy putting together Rosa’s Fresh Start Lock-In. It seemed like everybody else was lying low. No more smashed windshields, animal guts, or uncomfortable conversations in the Bridgewater High cafeteria.

  Money for the lock-in came from fundraisers earlier in the school year. This was the pile of money that usually went toward school dances. Which the lock-in sort of was, except this time I’d be bored and watching the clock for like four times as long.

  I think Rosa spent most of the funds on streamers. No kidding. In the days before the lock-in, I’m pretty sure all I did was put up paper streamers.