Brimstone Read Online Free Page A

hats. Pretending you were going to drop someone off a balcony was not “hazing.” It was “terrorizing.”
    “Then you won’t mind if I look at your camera.”
    I had to clamp my teeth on some choice words that would get me expelled. I was offended for the entire fourth estate. As a journalist, I wanted to tell him to get some sort of court order and then we’d talk. As a high school student still five weeks and three days from graduation, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop him.
    Furiously mute, I dug into the backpack at my feet and handed over the camera. Halloran turned it over, his big thumbs pressing tiny buttons as he reviewed the pictures on the memory card. Pictures of the Spanish Club’s fund-raising table, with its rows of gum and candy, and last night’s basketball game, including a stellar shot of Eric Munoz nailing an NBA-worthy jump shot.
    But no Biff, a.k.a. Brandon. No bug-eyed Jessica. No terror-stricken Stanley.
    Halloran grunted with frustration, started to say something, then thrust the camera at me. “Get out of here, Quinn. And don’t be late for first period, because I’m not giving you a pass.”
    I didn’t have to be told twice. Despite the big windows, the office felt claustrophobic. Maybe it was Halloran and his power trip. Maybe it was the wall behind his desk, filled with pictures of past sports triumphs—not the school’s, his own. The thought that this was what bullies grew into, minor tyrants who took jobs where they could relive theirglory days by continuing to terrorize students, made my head ache.
    I felt immediately better when I left the office, as if the air were somehow cleaner. My granny might say something about the Quinn ability to sense things unseen, but more likely it was the evil power of Halloran’s aftershave.
    The warning bell clanged directly over my head. I had five minutes to find a caffeine infusion before English, which was on the other side of the building from the nearest Coke machine. (I had them all plotted on a sort of mental MapQuest.) I could make it if I ran. But pairing my graceless jog with a hurriedly gulped-down soft drink seemed like a recipe for disaster.
    So I went to class, sans soda.

    In English, we turned in our homework assignments, and were given the rest of the time to work on our term papers, due in a week. My theme concerned Jonathan Swift and the use of sarcasm in social commentary, and Lisa was flipping through my notes.
    “I could get behind a guy who proposed that eating Irish children would solve both the famine and the population problem. I’m going to remember that when my despotic plans come to fruition.”
    “He was being satirical, Lisa.”
    “Maybe I am, too. Maybe not.” She wiggled her eyebrows maniacally. Lisa had finished her paper a week ago. Her subject? Machiavelli. Sometimes I thought my friend was one of the drollest people I knew. Other times I thought she was one of the scariest.
    “What did Halloran want?” she asked.
    “Are there
no
secrets in this school?”
    “My spies are everywhere.”
    “Girls!” We jumped guiltily as Ms. Vincent called from her desk. Well,
I
jumped. Lisa merely turned complacently. “Are you working on your papers, or are you gossiping?”
    My compatriot replied with a composed lie, “I’m helping Maggie, Ms. Vincent. She needs advice on solidifying her argument.”
    The teacher accepted this with insulting ease. “Why can’t
I
be helping
you
?” I hissed at Lisa as we pretended to get back to work. “I’m the future Pulitzer Prize winner. You’re just the future Lord High Poobah of the World.”
    “You can be helping me next time.” She brushed a glossy lock of hair over her shoulder and asked again, “What did Halloran want?”
    “The pictures I took of yesterday’s bully-o-rama.”
    Her brows lifted. “You got actual dirt on Brandon Rogers?”
    “Yeah. Snapped a really unflattering picture of the prom queen front-runner, too.”
    “You didn’t hand