Today Tonight Tomorrow(18)

“Don’t insult me,” he says. “That suit is a cotton-wool blend.”

We’ve inched close enough for me to read the Latin on his chest: QUIDQUID LATINE DICTUM, ALTUM VIDETUR. He’s probably dying for someone to ask him what it means. I plan to google it later.

He zips his backpack and swings it over one shoulder. There’s a pin on it, a shiny enamel basket of corgis and the words FREE PUPPIES! I have no idea what this means either, only that I’m 98 percent sure he isn’t running an underground dog-breeding operation.

“Is everything…?” I wave my hand to indicate the word “okay,” unsure if finishing the sentence would indicate some kind of closeness we’ve never had.

“Curvy?” he asks. He taps his chin. “Twisted? My charades skills are a little rusty. How many syllables does it have?”

“No, I—I ran into your friends at lunch. They said you had an emergency?”

The tips of his ears turn scarlet. “Oh. No. I mean, yes, but everything’s okay now.”

“Good,” I say quickly, because if his friends don’t know much about his personal life, I know even less. I’ve always imagined he does homework in his suits, eats dinner in his suits, sleeps in his suits. Then wakes up and does it all again. This T-shirt and the revelation about his arms have poked holes in my McTheories. “That it wasn’t serious, I mean. I’m glad you can still play. Then I don’t have to feel bad when I beat you.”

“Even though you won’t deign to sign my yearbook?” He says this with a lift of his brows, like he knows exactly how shitty I feel about it.

Now it’s my turn to blush. If my bangs were longer, I could hide behind them. “I wasn’t—I mean—”

He holds up a hand to indicate it’s fine, though his remark makes me uneasy. “I’m going to find the rest of the Quad.”

McNair and his friends call themselves the Quadrilateral, abbreviated as the Quad, and yes, it is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard. But it does make what they said about his personal life even stranger. Almost like the Quad is more of a triangle with an extra appendage hanging off it. They’re splitting up next year too, Neil to NYU, Adrian to one of the UCs, Cyrus to Western, and Sean to the UW.

Kirby and Mara wander back to me. Mara is frowning down at her phone. “It’s 12:02. Are we sure we’re in the right place?”

“Unlikely that all three hundred of us got it wrong,” Kirby says.

Another few minutes pass, and a nervous energy pulses through the crowd. I can’t help wondering if one of the juniors made a mistake. The game is different every year; the juniors spend most of their last quarter in student council planning it. Despite all our behind-the-scenes bickering, McNair and I executed a flawless Howl last year. Our clues, when connected on a map, formed the outline of a wolf.

“It said noon sharp,” Justin Banks yells.

“Did they forget about us?” Iris Zhou asks.

From a few yards away, McNair’s eyes snag mine, asking a silent question: Should we do anything? And I’m not entirely sure. We’re not presidents anymore, but we’re used to taking the lead.…

“This is bullshit,” Justin says. “I’m out.”

As he stomps off the field, nearly three hundred phones buzz, chime, and ding at once. A text blast from an unknown number.

WELCOME, SENIOR WOLF PACK

Surprised yet? We’re just getting started. Only the first 50 players who make it to our secret location will remain in the game.



Here’s your riddle:

2001

1968

70

2.5

“2001, 2001…,” Kirby says. “That was before we were born. What was going on in 2001? Besides some really questionable fashion choices?”

Google isn’t off-limits, but the clues are always designed in a way that makes them difficult to find online.

“Oh!” Mara exclaims. “Maybe it’s a reference to that old movie? 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

“Say it a little louder,” Kirby says.

“Sorry. Got excited.”

We decide to head for my car, since I’m the only one of us who drives to school. Kirby and Mara live close enough to walk. The rest of the seniors seem to have the same idea. Most people split into groups, some racing toward the parking lot and others to the bus.

“I think Mara’s right about the movie,” I say as our shoes hit concrete, willing my mobile browser to work faster. “I watched it with my dad once. Or more accurately, he watched it, and I fell asleep. And… it came out in 1968!”

“There has to be some link to Seattle,” Kirby says. “Maybe it was shot here.… Nope, Wikipedia says England.”

“You’ve been in AP classes for three years and you’re still using Wikipedia?” Mara sounds horrified. Before Kirby can defend herself, we arrive at my Accord and its mangled front bumper. “Rowan! Oh my God, your poor car.”

“It still drives,” I say, a little sheepish. “Get in.”

“If it’s movie-related, maybe ‘seventy’ is referring to seventy-millimeter film,” Mara says, sliding into the back after Kirby claims the front passenger seat. “Are there any theaters in Seattle that still use seventy millimeter?”