Pyre: The ultimate high

Part I

Mr. Rivers' head makes a crunching sound as it smacks the blackboard. His eyes roll back as he slithers to the portable's floor. The chalk he'd been holding drops beside him with a soft crack, breaking in two.

Trevor stands over him, flushed, breathing hard, his face as blank as the blackboard. Then he walks to Rivers' desk to rifle through the drawers.

I sit there with Jake and the rest of them, staring. Ten seconds ago, we'd been listening to Nancy give some keener reason why Hamlet is such a fucking pussy. Rivers had been leaning against her desk, beaming that creepy smile and staring halfway down her crisp white blouse. Then Trevor burst into the portable, rushed Rivers and — bam — Rivers is a human puddle.

"Ohmigod." Nancy rushes toward Rivers, breaking the spell. Everyone else starts screaming and scrabbling for the door.

I lean forward. There's a lot of blood. Nancy's feeling for his pulse, but his right foot and leg are twitching. The miserable shit might even be dead.

Beside me, Jake stands up. I grab the tail of his untucked shirt and pull him down.

Nancy shouts at the kids streaming out the door, demanding someone get a teacher. No one looks back. She pulls out her cell, takes a photo and then dials 911. She glances over at Trevor, fear in her eyes as she holds the phone to her ear. He doesn't notice. Pens and post-it notepads rain down on the floor as he searches the desk.

"Come on," Jake whispers, gesturing toward the open door. I shake my head. The school only has three portables; there's no one else out here during fourth period. We've got a few minutes. Besides, if anyone asks, I'll say we were too shocked to run. They'll believe that.

Trevor grunts. We all look to see him on his knees, reaching up under the desk. There's a tearing sound. He stands up holding an iPhone, the back of it is covered in masking tape. He continues to kneel in front of the desk, reverently holding the phone as tension drains out of his face. Pulling the tape off, he clicks it on, checks the screen and then shoves the phone inside his jacket pocket. He rises and then sits down on top of the desk, staring at the clock like it's a puzzle he can't solve.

Then he pulls a plastic baggie from his jeans pocket.

He puts it on the desk. Picks it up. Looks at it. Puts it down.

Jake glances sideways at me and sniffs. I nod, though I never figured Trevor for a cokehead. Runs with the jock crowd, plays defense for the hockey team, his body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. Hot, sure, but cookie-cutter.

I look him up and down, reconsidering. He's not the kind of guy whose body instantly screams bouncer — he's too short and too narrow through the shoulders. But he's got these unbelievable pipes. And he launched chubby old Rivers like he weighed nothing.

Deciding I want to know more, I nudge Jake.

Jake shrugs. He's always got my back, whether it's taking notes or comparing notes on guys. "What're you waiting for, man?" Jake calls.

Trevor's head slowly turns toward our desks at the back of the portable. Nancy glares at us, but never stops whispering into her cell.

Jake jerks his chin at her. "She'll have cops here any minute."

Trevor steps past Rivers without glancing down. Like our teacher stopped mattering the second his head collided with the board. He approaches us on silent feet, clutching the baggie like he means to strangle it. He stops on the other side of Jake's desk. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look graven into his bones. He reminds me of the old drunks who hang out in Dad's bar on Sunday afternoons.