"Let me get this straight," says Principal Strickland. "You just happened to stumble into a, as Mr. Gomez has described, 'Fullmetal Alchemist-type cult S-word', at the same time that Mr. Messina-Park was in the same space, running what I can only describe as an illegal, and highly immoral, tooth racket inside school grounds, and you so happen to find said people already dead."

"i take offense to that," says Brayden, still reading his magazine, or just watching the pretty people dressed pretty, whichever tickled his fancy. "first, it ain't illegal to help kids remove them milk tooth things. you don't need a permit, as long as the kid consents. dads do it all the time. an' second, so far, about morals, i know only that what is moral is what makes you feel good after and what is immoral is what makes you feel bad after. ernest hemingway, death in the afternoon."

We all stop for a second to admire the only two cells in Brayden's brain come up with a compelling argument.

"what?" he says, surely after feeling everyone's stare on him. "i like classical stories. they talk about tits and shit."

"Don't quote Hemingway to me, Mr. Messina-Park," says Mrs. Strickland. "Ms. Vazquez caught y'all red-handed!"

I wish I could say she caught us red-handed, but that would be too on-the-nose, 70% of the people in the room have blood gushing from an orifice that is seldom used for gushing, or have blood on them. It rises to about 93.7% if you count the pile of bodies in the corner, which principal Strickland seems to count.

If you are asking where that .3% is for, it's because one of the corpses is missing an arm and two toes, which, again, Principal Strickland seems to be making a fuss over.

As we are all sitting down in front of Mrs. Strickland's desk, shoes caked in blood - which, if you haven't tried, is the second-worst cake ever, right behind liver and buttercream frosting cake -, including Lee Vazquez, who sat in her calm and poised air of badassery, Mrs. Strickland is fighting to keep her coffee inside the cup she is cupping with her hand.

Wait, is that where the word comes from? It cups the coffee as we would cup the cup? Wild.

Anyways, it is a hard task, given that she is shaking from top to bottom, and to the top again, as if the hair on her body is doing some kind of wave, like in a soccer game.

Between us, a thick layer of air particles going about their business, not being interrupted by external forces, nor being forced to vibrate to any particular frequency. Meaning, silence, dead silence. As dead as the bodies beneath us. But if you think about it, there are always bodies beneath us. The silence, however, is becoming a bit awkward.

"So," I say, trying to brighten the mood, "first time seeing a dead body?"

It is a simple, even innocuous question, made to brighten the mood, but it makes Mrs. Strickland, and the contents of her cup, jump one inch to the right.

"Why is Ms. Higgins unconscious?" she asks.

As nobody dares to answer, she repeats the question again.

"I asked, why is Mr. Higgins unconscious?" she repeats, louder and stronger. "Mr. Gomez?"

"Why me?"

"Because, last time I checked, you were the one looking over her as you showed her the school," she says.

And sure enough, there she is, "sitting" on a chair while unconscious, right between Jungkook and Harry.

"She ain't unconscious, chief," says Jungkook, grabbing one of her arms and flailing it around. "See? She's waving at ya."

Harry grabs the other arm, and, following his beefy friend's vibe, changes his voice to a high pitch tone, which sounds as high as a bass tuba. "Yeah, look at me, I'm what's-her-face. I'm o-kay!"

Principal Strickland slams her mug on the table, spilling what little coffee she had left. "I don't know what kind of fool you take me for, but this is beyond acceptable. You will all stay here until the police arrive and we can sort this out."

As she reaches for the phone, four voices call her to stop almost immediately. Three of them are the ones you should expect wanting nothing to do with cops, but the last one is surprising.

"Ms. Vasquez?" says Mrs. Strickland, placing her hand on the phone. "Got something to say?"

She stands up, shaking dust, and what I can only assume blood flakes - part of a balanced breakfast for vampires - off her plaid skirt. Her wavy back hair is almost shimmering in the low light room. Something about her makes me want to describe her from top to bottom, and back again.

Her ebony skin, tanned and soft, is like a marble polished by a thousand greasy kids thumbing it during recess. Her eyes, as deep and shining as a pool made of the same marbles, dance on her perfectly symmetrical face. Even her teeth are as shiny as marbles. She is marbleous.

"I don't want to be the devil's advocate here," she says, her voice as smooth as silk, made of marbles, "but I do have to advocate against calling the authorities just yet."

Mrs. Strickland let's go of the phone and leans back on her chair, cupping the cup once again, despite being empty. I think she just likes to have things in her hands. "Do tell."

"We are in the first week of school. To call the police, on a Thursday of all things, not only would it be a horrible PR for us, but it would also mean that the authorities will have to close up the school for a day while they gather evidence and survey the scene. We would have to notify all parents of the events happening, and lose a day of school in the first week."

"Go on," says the principal, who, inadvertently, began to sip on the empty cup.

"As far as I could see," says Lee Vazquez, "none of the deceased are either faculty or students. They don't seem to be from the janitorial staff either, but we can check if anyone is missing. I say we wait until Saturday, when school is off, and we call the authorities, offering full compliance. We don't make a fuss, we get ahead of the issue, and we don't compromise the education of our students, which is priority number one."

Principal Strickland taps her cup while spinning in her chair the most professional way an adult can do. "I hate to say it, but you are right, Lee. It would be a PR disaster, and my skin is on the line. I can kiss my potential promotion as the district's superintendent goodbye."

The room heaves a collective sigh of relief, and many a sphincter open. Believe me, it stinks.

"But this is not going unpunished," says the principal. "A month's detention, all of you. And you will have to be here on Saturday when the police arrive. I'm sure your cooperation will be more than needed for this to work alright?"

"sure, sure," says Brayden, elbowing me on the ribs while winking in an obviously fiendish way. "of course i'll be here and not in a beach in belize drinking pina coladas."

"Good," says the principal, handing each and every one of us a note. "Now, y'all have a date with Mr. Holland back in detention, so, git. And take Leila-Sue to the infirmary, Mr. Gomez, and you better pray she wakes up."

I know that whatever I say here will be an opportunity for a plot to happen, so I take the path of least resistance by nodding and carrying with me.

As I leave the office, I can't help but notice Lee Vasquez's eyes on me, looking at me with those deep pools of greasy marbles. What is she thinking, I wonder. I want to know, and it makes me worried that I do.

It is a short track to the infirmary, which is in the same convenient hallway as everything else. Why do I get lost so often in the first place? This place has some Euclidean architecture shit.

As soon as I get in, I spot Hayden there, with his arm bandaged, a pirate eyepatch, and a heavy-looking briefcase handcuffed to his ankle.

"Hey," I say, "what's up with the get-up."

"Don't wanna talk about it," he says. "What's up with the unconscious girl?"

"Don't wanna talk about it," I say, letting her gently on a gurney.

"Agreed to not speak about whatever bullshit is happening, because it will somehow legitimize it?"

"Deal," I say. And that's the end of that.

And yet, there is something clanking on my brain, rattling about like a loose marble on an empty shoebox. And it has a name, and a last name, and possibly a middle name.

"I know that look," says Hayden. "Tell me her name."

What? Is he on my mind? Are you reading my brain, magic man? If so, say it, for I know your power.

"I ain't reading your mind, brother," says Hayden. "Is just that I've seen that look before. I call 'em 'bedroom eyes'."

"Dude, what the hell?"

"It is the eyes of a person in love that can't sleep because they can't stop thinking about the person they are in love with. Bedroom eyes."

"That is totally not what it means," I say, sitting next to him.

"Doesn't matter," he says. "Gimme her name."

He doesn't even have to ask it. It is already dancing on the tip of my tongue.

"Lee Vasquez," I say.

By the looks of his eyes, looking at me with that look of incredulity, one would think I insulted his souffle as soggy and not risen enough.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing, nothing," he says, rattling his handcuffs. "It's just...you know, dangerous."

"I know, but I'm not going to do anything about it," l say. She's just a distraction. A sexy, smart, marbelous distraction.

"Naw, brother, I mean, she is literally dangerous," he says. "She is the student council president, and you are the new kid bad boy. That's dangerous."

"How so?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

Hayden grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me in uncomfortably close. "Brother, I think she is your Plot Canon Love."