I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have to Kill You

Chapter Twenty-two

"Eyes closed," Mr. Solomon commanded again, and we followed his instructions.

The projector purred behind me. I felt its white light slicing through the room as we cinched our eyes together and trained our minds to recall even the most minute details of the things we had just seen. I thought about the photo of a supermarket parking lot as Mr. Solomon said, "Ms. Alvarez, what's wrong with this picture?"

"The blue van has handicapped plates," Eva said. "But it's parked at the back of the lot."

"Correct. Next picture." The projector clicked, the image changed, and we had two seconds to study the photo that flashed before our eyes.

"Ms. Baxter?" Mr. Solomon asked. "What's wrong here?"

"The umbrella," Bex said. "There's rain on the window and the coat on the hook is damp, but the umbrella is bundled up. Most people leave them open to dry."

"Very good."

When we opened our eyes, I didn't look at the screen, I looked at our teacher and wondered yet again how he could talk to Bex, challenge her as if nothing in the world was wrong. I didn't know whether to envy him or hate him, but I didn't have time for either, because he was saying, "Eyes closed." I heard him take a step, and I wanted to know how he could stand there when all I wanted to do was run away. "Ms. Morgan, what's wrong with this picture?"

"Um … I didn't… I mean, I'm …"

What was wrong was that I hadn't been able to look my best friend in the eye for days. What was wrong was that people like Abe Baxter live and die, and the whole world goes on—never knowing what they've sacrificed. There was so much wrong that I didn't know where to start.

"Okay. How about you, Ms. Bauer?"

"The teacup at the head of the table," Courtney said.

"What about it?"

"Its handle is facing the wrong way."

"So it is," Mr. Solomon said as the lights in the classroom flickered to life and we all squinted against the glare.

Our internal clocks were telling us the same thing— class wasn't over.

"I've got something for you today, ladies," Mr. Solomon said as he handed a stack of papers to each girl in the front row.

Liz's hand was instantly in the air.

"No, Ms. Sutton," Mr. Solomon said before Liz could even ask the question. "This isn't a test, and it's not for a grade. Your school just needs you to say in black and white whether you are going to keep studying covert operations next semester."

All around me, my classmates started filling out the form—a check mark here, a signature there, until Mr. Solomon stepped forward and snapped, "Ladies"—he paused as everyone looked up—"my colleague Mr. Smith is fond of saying, 'It is a big world full of dark corners and long memories.' Do not"—he paused, surveying us, and I could have sworn his stare lingered on me—"take this decision lightly."

Bex poked me in the shoulder. When I turned around, she flashed a big thumbs-up and mouthed the words "This is awesome!"

I looked back down at the form in my hands, rubbed it between my fingers, and tried to smell if there was poison in the ink.

It's just paper, I told myself. Ordinary paper. But then that very fact sent chills down my spine as I realized the form wasn't on Evapopaper. It wasn't meant to dissolve and wash away. I caught Joe Solomon's eye, and I'm pretty sure he saw me notice that—the permanence of what it meant. And even though it wasn't meant to be eaten, I still got a bad taste in my mouth.