Endangered by Lamar Giles

you. Why “Panda”?
    On this, I’m slow to respond. When the pause lingers, another message comes through.
    SecretAdm1r3r: I know why others began calling you that—I don’t believe a word of that nasty tale, by the way. I want to know why YOU keep the name . . . considering the connotations. Come on. Fair is fair.
    It’s still hard to type. The last time I told the story—the real story—I pretty much dropped a nuke on my life.
    SecretAdm1r3r: I know so many truths about you already. What’s one more thing?
    PandaD: Fine. It came from my mom. When I was a kid, mean girls teased me because I’m mixed race. They said I had weird skin, and hair, and eyes. I came home crying one day, and Mom sat me down with this book we got from the San Diego Zoo. She flipped to the pandas and told me, “They’re black and white, just like you. They’re beautiful, just like you.” It stuck, and it helped.
    SecretAdm1r3r: Until it didn’t.
    Until it didn’t.
    PandaD: What’s the deal with this photo challenge you dropped? If I don’t do it, you’re going to expose me? WTF, dude? If we’re in the same gang, why blackmail me?
    SecretAdm1r3r: I sense hostility. Calm down. I don’t like the B-word. What I’m proposing is a friendly competition. A way to sharpen our focus. Pun intended.
    PandaD: I don’t need my focus sharpened. I don’t even know what that means.
    SecretAdm1r3r : I’ll tell you sometime. But you’ll have to participate in my project if we’re going to get to know each other better.
    PandaD: I get you’re not going to tell me who you are. But, are you someone I helped? Did one of the people I exposed hurt you in some way?
    SecretAdm1r3r: You’ve helped me. And I’m going to help you. I’m going to help you see what it is you’re really doing. Clearer than your best lens.
    PandaD: I don’t need to SEE what I do. I KNOW what I do. I do good.
    SecretAdm1r3r: Yes, but there’s always room for improvement.
    I start to type something snarky, but epic. The ultimate comeback. Only, before I get a word down, my computer sounds an angry buzz.
    SecretAdm1r3r has left the chat .
    The hell?
    I wander downstairs, dazed. A million thoughts and questions remain in the aftermath of my abruptly ended chat with my Admirer.
    How is it possible for someone to seem so creepy and cool at the same time?
    Dad’s upright on the couch and Mom’s stretched sideways like a lazy cat, her feet on the cushions and her head wedged in the crook of his shoulder. On the TV, a grayish-green blob swirls in from the Atlantic Ocean over a zoomed-in map of Virginia and North Carolina. The weatherman points excitedly at the storm spiral.
    â€œâ€”we can expect upward of three inches of rain with wind gusts as high as fifty miles per hour tomorrow afternoon—”
    Drifting into the kitchen for a snack, my confusion persists.
    Who IS this guy? How do I show him I’m the superior shooter?
    My phone buzzes again. Ocie’s doubling down on the apologies, insisting I respond. In the same moment, the weatherman’s voice turns all doom and gloom (“—expect dangerous lightning strikes near the coast—”), and I’m thinking about beating my admirer’s Dante . Talk about the perfect storm.
    Pun intended.
    I nearly drop the milk when the idea hits.
    It’s so exciting—so awesome—that I’m trembling when I text Ocie back.
    Me: R U really sorry?
    Ocie: Totes
    Me: Wanna make it up 2 me?
    Ocie: Ok?
    Me: Free up ur evening tomorrow. I’m going to need ur help.
    I think on it a moment, then send a follow-up text.
    Me: U might want 2 bring an umbrella.

CHAPTER 10
    WE’RE ON THE HIGHWAY, CREEPING THROUGH rush-hour traffic.
    Ocie’s tapping on her thigh in a rhythm I still hear in my head even though I’ve cranked the radio to drown it. Tap-tap-tap , stop, Tap-tap-tap , stop,