The Well's End by Seth Fishman Page B

resume on Sunday to make up for it. We’ll have Saturday off, but are not allowed to leave campus for any reason. The crowd is none too pleased. There’s some shouting, then loud applause from the student body, and a couple seconds later, the door bursts open and a senior, Devin Harris, strides purposefully out. A large group of his friends are close behind, cheering him on. A few of the teachers from the room try to impede their progress, but there are just too many kids. Devin gets to his Mercedes SLS and hops in, and so do a couple of his friends, who immediately roll down their windows and lean halfway out, cheering and raising their hands and sticking out their tongues. One even does a mock Taylor Swift “heart” gesture, and the crowd cheers.
    Devin spins his tires and peels out, fishtailing on purpose in the snow, drawing an even larger cheer from the crowd. The whole student body must be outside now. The dean is near the door, watching with disdain. I turn around, looking for Brayden, but can’t spot him. And then I feel ashamed to have shifted my thoughts so quickly from my father to him. I grab Jo’s arm, and we watch the boys together. Rob leans in, sticks his head between the two of ours and rests his chin on my shoulder. I guess it’s that easy. Just get in a car and drive away. I don’t have one, of course, but Rob has an old 4Runner, and I’m sure we could take that. Dad said to go through the woods, but it would be so much faster by car.
    â€œThey’re idiots, you know?” Rob says, his voice so close it echoes in my head.
    â€œYeah,” I respond automatically, though maybe they aren’t. For the moment, I don’t feel the need to participate in Rob’s perpetual negativity.
    Devin has reached the end of the parking lot and zooms down the long entrance to the school, a small tree-lined road that runs three-quarters of a mile before it hits the campus’s surrounding brick wall. Beyond the entrance is a roundabout that leads to the nearest county road, but you can’t see it, as there is a row of pine trees in front of the towering wall, so that from this far away, the border of the school looks like a forest. The only drivable way in and out of the school is through the front gate, a wrought-iron fence, intricately shaped and perpetually open. We all watch Devin and crew streak for freedom as if we were in a movie theater at the closing credits, except when Devin hits the roundabout beyond our view, something must’ve gone wrong. At first we can hear him honking, long impatient hand-on-horn honks. Then there’s a series of loud pops that echo harshly around the mountains, and the whole school, all assembled in front of me, ducks involuntarily.
    We hear Devin’s tires screech again—he’s taken the roundabout in a full circle and is suddenly bursting back toward campus and into view, going way faster than before. The hood is riddled with bullet holes, but not the windshield, and some absurd part of me says,
at least they weren’t trying to
hit
the students.
The car bounces and swerves and then, in one twist, he can’t control the wheels and no amount of winter-driving experience can save him. The car plunges into one of the enormous oaks lining the road, about fifty yards out, and one of his friends, a stupid kid named Will, a nationally ranked welterweight wrestler, shoots through the front window and lands in a clump in a snowdrift.
    The students erupt. Dozens begin running toward the car, but just as many mill about, screaming. Another clump scatters in all directions, heading to the dorms or into the auditorium. Jo’s dad shouts, “Holy crap, stop!” and tries to physically prevent some of the kids from moving toward the wreck. I take off for the car, though, because I have to know what’s stopped them and why. Without a glance, I know Jo’s right next to me. I’m running hard, feeling the