Blood-Dimmed Tide
PROLOGUE
Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea…
The words keep time with my pounding heart. Dashing, darting…hurtling forward. It’s like a nightmare. Chasing after the school bus, the train, a minivan. No matter how fast I run, I can’t get there in time. I’m left stranded, alone, surrounded by abandoned warehouses, darkened streets and smelly drunks….
This isn’t a dream. I know where I’m going. I just can’t move fast enough.
Jagger. Jags! I asked you not to do this. Begged you…
My cheeks feel wet. How did I not see the approaching storm? But the streets aren’t slick and the pitter-patter of rain does not mingle with the sound of my feet slapping against rough cobblestones.
I touch my face. Taste the droplet. Salty…
That’s when I know I’ll be too late. Instinct, ESP or maybe just plain terror breaks through. Because it’s my fault. I pushed too hard; it went too far.
Whatever terrible thing I am about to see, I could have stopped. No matter what anyone tells me, no matter who insists, “You can’t blame yourself,” I will always know, deep down, that it’s a lie.
PART ONE
SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER
1
My sweaty palm pushes the Media Center door open on the second day of senior year. The single most important class of my life is about to begin.
“Don’t look so worried, Val,” Marci tells me. “We got this covered.”
I give my best friend since eighth grade a pained look. Sunny Marci. Always seeing the bright side. Except this time, she’s especially naive. There’s no way it’s a sure thing.
Together, we move to the table Mr. Carleton assigned to us. Yesterday, he divided the class into two permanent Campus News teams. First order of business today: each crew votes for producer. The job I covet. The position I worked really hard, during both sophomore and junior years at Washington Irving High School, to get. If mine, it could propel me straight into the college of my dreams.
I steal a glance at my competition. Raul Ortega. His dark chocolate eyes take everything in. Taller by about three inches than me, he wears his hair in a brush cut that tops a solid body. Raul’s definitely the guy you want on your side in a fight. Not that he’s a hothead. On the contrary, the dude’s cool. He knows his way around TV Production almost as well as I do. Exactly the reason he might get more votes than me.
He feels my look, turns. Grins nervously. Oh yeah, Raul wants it, too. The real question is: which of us does the group want? Besides Marci Lee, the team consists of Omar Bryant and Henry Dillon. With five votes, there won’t be a tie.
Mr. Carleton takes attendance and then says, “Okay, folks, you know what to do.”
For a moment, our table is silent. Afraid that I’ll come off as either too confident or too bossy, I resist the urge to take charge. Raul’s busy giving the other two boys meaningful glances. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. Did he talk to them last night? Make them promise to vote for him?
That would totally suck.
Marci jumps in. Energetically, she tears a piece of paper into five pieces. “You all have something to write with?”
Henry whips out a pen. A classic overachiever, he skipped both second and third grades, won a national award for drawing in eighth and captains the chess team.
“I’ve got extras!”
Underneath the curtain of brown hair that covers his forehead, Henry shoots Marci puppy dog eyes. He’s been quietly crushing on her for at least a year. Quietly—since she’s dating a football player. Doesn’t matter to Henry. He’d probably faint if Marci actually kissed him.
Omar extends a well-manicured hand. “I forgot a pencil.”
“Forgot?” Marci counters. “Or never had one in the first place?”
He wriggles his eyebrows. She indulges him a laugh before handing over a slip of paper.
At first glance, Omar Bryant’s a diva. When he was eight, he put on a sparkly cape for Halloween and refused to take it off until Christmas. Didn’t care what anyone said—then or now. But dig deeper and you’ll hit the sensitive soul of a true artist. Everyone in Campus News knows he has a great eye and a steady hand. When he gets behind the lens, his focus is total.
Marci hands out the rest of the paper. Names are scribbled. Without a word, we all fold the slips into tiny squares, as if that can disguise who voted for whom. Five tiny bundles are tossed onto the table.
“I’ll count.” Carefully, Marci unfolds the first piece of paper. “Valerie Gaines.”
I keep my face neutral because that doesn’t mean much. It’s either my vote—or hers. The second paper has Raul’s name on it. So does the third.
A wave of disappointment hits. I told Marci I might not win. Not if it’s boys vs. girls—with the boys outnumbering us.
Marci gives me a cheerful look after unwrapping the fourth vote. “ValGal.”
Obviously, that’s hers. The score’s tied. Raul leans forward, triumph etched across his face. I can practically see the writing inside the final piece of paper.
Raul Ortega.
“Valerie,” Marci says.
“What?”
She waves the slip. “The last vote’s for you. You won!”
The shock on my face is genuine. As is the surprise in Raul’s eyes. Marci shoots me an “I told you” smile before prancing to the whiteboard. She grabs an orange marker and writes Valerie Gaines, B Team Producer.
Mr. Carleton nods. “Team A, you have a winner?”
Scott Jenkins raises his hand. His stick-up sand-colored hair and square jaw make him look skinnier than he actually is. Given who’s on A Team, he’s the person I’d vote for, too.
Scott’s good but I’m better. I work harder. I care more. I won’t ever let my team down.
The teacher heaves himself out of his chair. “Good choices, folks. Now listen up! Rule review so you can’t say you didn’t know ’em when you break ’em. Each show consists of four segments, no more, no less, interspersed with anchor ins and outs. Sixteen minutes total. Remember to look for the angle. What’s the way into the story? Teams alternate weekly broadcasts. B Team’s up first, then A.”
Which doesn’t make sense. You’d