window. They were both laughing at something. My eyes filled with angry tears. The only reason they were safe and sound was because of what I was doing. And to do it, I was going to have to betray Coyote and his friends.
CHAPTER TEN
The Saturday before my action was scheduled, I was supposed to be writing a report on how European colonization was still affecting countries today. But instead I just stared out the window, wondering how I could get myself out of the mess my parents had made.
I jumped when my cell phone began to vibrate across my desk. It was Marijean.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Hearing her voice made me feel guilty. Marijean and I had been friends so long that we knew each other inside and out. Which was exactly why I had been avoiding her.
“Working on that paper for history.”
“Do you want to come over and work on it here?”
“No, I should stay here and concentrate. I didn’t do that great on the last test, and stupid Tamson said if I didn’t get an A on this paper, I might get a C for the whole class.” I had never gotten a C in anything before.
“A C?” Marijean echoed, stunned. She was a B or C or sometimes even a D student, not because she wasn’t smart, but because she didn’t care that much. But she knew that I cared. “Ellie, what’s wrong with you? Is it your dad? Is it Coyote?”
“I don’t know.” It was all of them, but of course I couldn’t explain. “Maybe I have spring fever. I’m just kind of not myself these days.”
The pause on the other end of the phone was so long I thought for a second that the call might have been dropped. Then she said, “Are you mad at me?”
“No!” I tried to reassure her. “It’s just that I’ve had a lot of things on my mind. And you’re right. I’m worried about my dad, and I’m not sure where things are going with Coyote. I like him a lot, but I think he just sees me as a friend. He’s really nice to me—but he’s really nice to everyone.”
“Well, don’t forget your other friends,” Marijean said softly. “I’m always here if you want to talk.”
She was clearly hurt, but I told myself I was doing her a favor keeping her in the dark. I would go back to being Marijean’s best friend as soon as this whole thing was over.
After we hung up, I gave up on my paper. Maybe I would work on it later. Besides, what difference would a C really make? A C was the least of my troubles. So I got on the bus and went across the river to the Bins. If I kept myself busy, maybe I wouldn’t spend as much time worrying.
The Bins was called that because it was full of bins, and each of them was full of unorganized and unwashed goods. The place had a fake-strawberry smell, some weird fragrance/ disinfectant that couldn’t quite overcome the cumulatively nauseating stench of thousands of used items. The worst were the preworn shoes.
But the upside was that everything—coats, sweaters, socks, pillowcases, scarves—cost just ninety-nine cents a pound.
I had just picked up an interesting-looking square of blue-and-yellow waterproof fabric—it might have once been a tablecloth, although a foot-wide circle had inexplicably been cut out of the middle—when I saw Blue enter the store. She walked over to the nearest bin and picked up a bolt of faded red velvet. She had half unrolled it and was running her hands over it when she noticed me. A smile lit up her face. Picking up the bolt, she walked over.
I couldn’t help but smile back. And it was a relief, in a way, to see her. With Blue, I only had to pretend halfway.
“Looking for something special?” Blue asked, with a meaningful lift to her voice. Coyote had briefed me on the fine points on what to wear to an action. You wore dark clothes, but not head-to-toe black, because that was too obvious. You bought shoes that were two or three sizes too big and stuffed the toes with newspaper, so the cops wouldn’t be able to trace you through any footprints you left behind.
CHAPTER TEN
The Saturday before my action was scheduled, I was supposed to be writing a report on how European colonization was still affecting countries today. But instead I just stared out the window, wondering how I could get myself out of the mess my parents had made.
I jumped when my cell phone began to vibrate across my desk. It was Marijean.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Hearing her voice made me feel guilty. Marijean and I had been friends so long that we knew each other inside and out. Which was exactly why I had been avoiding her.
“Working on that paper for history.”
“Do you want to come over and work on it here?”
“No, I should stay here and concentrate. I didn’t do that great on the last test, and stupid Tamson said if I didn’t get an A on this paper, I might get a C for the whole class.” I had never gotten a C in anything before.
“A C?” Marijean echoed, stunned. She was a B or C or sometimes even a D student, not because she wasn’t smart, but because she didn’t care that much. But she knew that I cared. “Ellie, what’s wrong with you? Is it your dad? Is it Coyote?”
“I don’t know.” It was all of them, but of course I couldn’t explain. “Maybe I have spring fever. I’m just kind of not myself these days.”
The pause on the other end of the phone was so long I thought for a second that the call might have been dropped. Then she said, “Are you mad at me?”
“No!” I tried to reassure her. “It’s just that I’ve had a lot of things on my mind. And you’re right. I’m worried about my dad, and I’m not sure where things are going with Coyote. I like him a lot, but I think he just sees me as a friend. He’s really nice to me—but he’s really nice to everyone.”
“Well, don’t forget your other friends,” Marijean said softly. “I’m always here if you want to talk.”
She was clearly hurt, but I told myself I was doing her a favor keeping her in the dark. I would go back to being Marijean’s best friend as soon as this whole thing was over.
After we hung up, I gave up on my paper. Maybe I would work on it later. Besides, what difference would a C really make? A C was the least of my troubles. So I got on the bus and went across the river to the Bins. If I kept myself busy, maybe I wouldn’t spend as much time worrying.
The Bins was called that because it was full of bins, and each of them was full of unorganized and unwashed goods. The place had a fake-strawberry smell, some weird fragrance/ disinfectant that couldn’t quite overcome the cumulatively nauseating stench of thousands of used items. The worst were the preworn shoes.
But the upside was that everything—coats, sweaters, socks, pillowcases, scarves—cost just ninety-nine cents a pound.
I had just picked up an interesting-looking square of blue-and-yellow waterproof fabric—it might have once been a tablecloth, although a foot-wide circle had inexplicably been cut out of the middle—when I saw Blue enter the store. She walked over to the nearest bin and picked up a bolt of faded red velvet. She had half unrolled it and was running her hands over it when she noticed me. A smile lit up her face. Picking up the bolt, she walked over.
I couldn’t help but smile back. And it was a relief, in a way, to see her. With Blue, I only had to pretend halfway.
“Looking for something special?” Blue asked, with a meaningful lift to her voice. Coyote had briefed me on the fine points on what to wear to an action. You wore dark clothes, but not head-to-toe black, because that was too obvious. You bought shoes that were two or three sizes too big and stuffed the toes with newspaper, so the cops wouldn’t be able to trace you through any footprints you left behind.
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