The Jump, page 13
I glare at her as we pass, but she keeps her eyes on Jax before whipping her head back around to walk through the doors and out into the parking lot.
I don’t even think Jax noticed.
Thump!
I run into the back of him, bumping the side of my head against the back of his.
“Man, watch where—” I begin.
If he did watch where he’s going, he’s distracted by something else, stopped in the middle of the aisle, frozen there like a statue. I peer around him, afraid of what I might see, and then anxiety shoots through me like a bolt of lightning.
It’s Purple Suit Guy.
Only this time, his suit is forest green. Still velvet. He’s taller than I remember him from last night, standing at the salad bar, reading the descriptions of everything carefully.
I don’t think Monopoly Man has seen us yet, so I grab Jax and duck into a nearby aisle.
“Spider, what the hell is wrong with you?” whispers Jax, turning around to face me.
“What do we do?” I ask Jax, crawling past him and peering out from around the corner. A white man with a goatee and a buttoned-up flannel shirt goes by with a cart, leering down at us with inspecting eyes, as if we’re one misguided eye twitch away from him calling security.
“The hell do you mean, ‘What do we do?’ We look for the clue! Team ROYAL can know we’re here. What are they going to do, attack us? We’d all be kicked out of this place and arrested.”
Does he have to say the word “arrested” so loud around all these white people?!
“Jax, listen, we don’t even know what we’re looking for. Can’t we figure something out about this clue first before waltzing over and joining Black Gatsby at the salad bar?”
Jax glares up at me with eyes flashing and eyebrows knit together.
“Do you want to win or not?” he asks.
Now that he’s so close, I realize the whites of his eyes are a bit redder than usual, his bottom lids the slightest bit darker. He’s blinking more, indicating his eyes might be dry.
“Jax,” I say, the shock setting in. “Did you… did you sleep at all last night?”
“Is sleeping going to get us to the next clue?” he snaps.
I don’t know if he sees the pain in my eyes, but… that hurts. I realize this is important for him. It’s important for all of us. I would give my soul to guarantee that Umma’s restaurant gets to stay right where it is in Capitol Hill, techies in suits and all. But he can’t miss sleep like this. He can’t push himself to the brink. None of this is worth his health.
“I’m just… concerned about you,” I say. “I’m your friend, Jax. Come on, hear me here.”
“I can sleep after I win,” he spits, pulling out his phone and peering around the corner at—what was his actual name?—Karim, that’s right. I look too. He’s stopped in front of the hot food, reading every inscription before moving on to the sign above the next dish.
An associate with dark curly hair walks up next to him and asks, “Can I help you find anything, sir?” Karim dons his biggest smile, and in a voice slightly different from the one we heard last night, slightly brighter, slightly crisper, says, “Oh no, thank you, I’m just reading the ingredients. I’m on keto now, you know.”
“Oh, nice! Nice!” says the employee, sliding his hands into his pockets.
I have to roll my eyes. Of course he is. Jax has his eyes trained on Karim, and I hear him whisper under his breath, “The question is, how do we get to the bar?”
“You don’t,” says a sharp voice from behind us that sounds strangely familiar, and suddenly Jax’s and my skinny asses are being lifted into the air by our shirt collars.
“Hey, what the hell?” I demand, fists swinging before I can think. I open my eyes to realize I’m face-to-face with Lucas, his white, oily forehead glistening under these fluorescent lights, ice-blue eyes smiling devilishly.
“So,” he says, super loud for no reason, “it’s the second-rate clue-stealing wannabes. Just two of you this time?”
I swat his arm away, and he lets go of both our shirts. I straighten out my collar and look to Jax for help. What the hell do we do now?
“We’re here looking for the next clue, man, just like you,” says Jax—quite diplomatically, I might add.
“Seems you’ve lost half your comrades,” booms Karim from behind us. We’re sandwiched between the two of them—Karim at the endcap, and Lucas in the middle of the aisle. Jax and I look back and forth between both of them, and I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing: It’d be so nice to have a parkourist with us right now.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Yas.
ME: Help. Thirty Foods. Bellevue. Now.
“Speaking of comrades, where’s your Russian ballerina?” I have to ask.
“Sigge is on a special mission while we snag this next clue.”
“Didn’t seem like you were snagging much at the salad bar over there.” Jax smirks. “Lazy asses. Couldn’t even find the clue before stopping for lunch.”
I see exactly what Jax is doing, and I play along.
“Sad,” I say. “They don’t even know where to look.”
Karim’s eyes narrow at that, but he straightens his white-and-purple shirt collar under his purple blazer and glances at Lucas before saying:
“Well, who can blame you for not stopping for lunch? If I were a man of your… uh… class, I might not stop for lunch here either. Overdraft fees these days. Tsk, tsk, tsk. It’s a shame what the banks are doing really. You have my pity.”
Oh, fuck this guy.
“I don’t need pity from a guy in a Wish suit,” spits Jax. A muscle twitches under Karim’s eye, and his smile falls so slightly, at first I’m not sure I saw it.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping on Wish. I own stock in Wish’s parent company, you parasite.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I say, hatching an idea and hoping Jax catches on quick once we’ve got an out. “He owns stock in Wish’s parent company, and yet never learned to match his socks.”
The minute Karim’s eyes are down at his feet, we take off, Jax to Karim’s right and me to his left, sprinting for the salad bar like our lives depend on it.
That’s how JERICHO gets down!
The salad bar is a food circus, and by that, I mean every food in existence is here, in fancy silver—what do they even call these things? Bins? I spot a sign at the very end that says PLEASE USE PROVIDED TONGS. CAUTION: CHAFERS ARE HOT! So, I guess they’re called “chafers,” then. Whatever. The point is, there’s food here from every culture in the world—sushi and saffron rice, biryani and spanakopita, goulash and ratatouille, mahjouba and pastel de nata, and something called “pljeskavica” that looks like a particularly delicious burger patty in a pita pocket. I can’t read these labels fast enough. I look around and realize Jax has disappeared, and by the time I spot him on the other side of the buffet, looking at the signs on that side, a voice has appeared in my ear to ask tersely, “Sir, can I help you?”
That same guy that was talking to Karim before like they were old friends is looking at me with unabashed suspicion, and he didn’t ask warmly “Can I help you find anything?” But “Can I help you?”
With an implied “out of the store” at the end of that.
All right, time to hack this situation like I hack everything else. I put on my freshest British accent, just to throw him off even further as he stares down at this clearly Asian customer of his.
“Morning, sir. Might you direct me to the spelt flour? I’m making lavender scones for a brunch party this weekend, and a few of my guests require gluten-free refreshments.”
His face is absolutely priceless.
But I can’t bask in that for too long, because I see Lucas, lurking about twenty feet behind him. He knows not to make a scene here so we don’t all get kicked out before we figure out this clue.
“Uh, u-um… sure! It’s in aisle seven,” he says, tripping over his words.
“Thank you,” I croon. “Your service is most appreciated.”
“Yo, man,” comes Jax’s voice behind me, “over here.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, crouched in front of the refrigerated wall of yogurts, milks, and cheeses, but when I look back at the employee, I refuse to break character.
“Ah, there’s one of my cohorts now.” I grin. “Would you care to show us where on this wall we can find the Roquefort?”
If I can just keep this guy close to us while we look around, I know we can keep Lucas and Karim from hassling us. Speaking of, Karim steps out from the aisle behind Jax and is marching toward him like he’s about to put him in a chokehold. I rush forward as loudly and belligerently as I can with an “Ah, look! Here’s another one now,” stepping between them and standing almost nose-to-nose with Karim. “I was just looking for you, actually. How are you with yogurt, Karim? Yogurt is keto, correct?”
And just like that, I’ve convinced the associate that I both (1) know Karim personally enough to call him by name, and (2) know Karim well enough to know his dietary needs. I’m safe. And since I’m with Jax, we’re safe. Whatever clout Karim was chasing with the associate earlier is now all of ours to share. The workers think we’re all here together.
I narrow my eyes with a grin and tip my head just enough for him to know I’m beaming the word “checkmate” to his brain telekinetically. I hear shuffling behind me, the sound of footsteps walking away as I see the associate leave out of the corner of my eye.
“You think you’re so smart,” hisses Karim. “But you’re flying blind, just like we are, looking for clues in a store that’s so far above your parents’ class, I’m surprised you can read.”
Another associate walks up to the dairy wall, picks up a tub of yogurt, and starts scanning.
“Flying blind, as far as you know,” I say. The less they know about where we are in figuring out the clue, the better. I pull out my phone and step away from him, turning back toward the salad bar. Jax, who by now has walked the whole way around it, joins me and gives me a long, blank look before turning to Karim.
Has he found anything?
Would he have told me?
“Why y’all hassling us anyway?” asks Jax, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You here to find clues or give us a hard time?”
“Both,” says Karim, smiling triumphantly. Two beeps ring out from his pocket, the ringtone available only on the newest iPhone, and he proudly slides it out of his pocket, holding up the slender platinum device.
“Whelp, gotta go. My colleagues need me.”
And he turns to disappear down the aisle of crackers and cookies.
The associate scans another item, inching closer to us, this time a pack of presliced fresh mozzarella cheese.
“So what now?” asks Jax, his voice a whisper. “I have no idea what to look for at the salad bar.” He looks down at his phone and reads aloud to me, his voice soft:
THE NEXT CLUE IS UNSTEALABLE.
THE ORDER SEES.
FIND THE BAR ON THE GOPI….
But just as he’s about to read the next line, my eyes lock onto the next product under the associate’s scanner—another pack of some white dairy product, this one labeled “Gopi Paneer.”
GET YOUR PHONE AND SAY CHEESE.
Cheese!
As in paneer cheese!
“It’s a barcode!” I shriek, completely forgetting where we are and how important it is that we whisper. The whole store seems to go silent until Jax steps closer and follows my eyes.
“You got a barcode scanner?”
I’ve already got my phone out and the app open. I grab the pack of cheese and flip it over, my heart racing as I take in the eye symbol of the Order. The scan processes and my phone dings with a new message notification.
THE ORDER:
JUST ONE FINAL CLUE, AND YOU MAY JOIN OUR ALLIANCE.
CRYPTOLOGY IS ART JUST AS MUCH AS IT’S SCIENCE.
WITH SO MUCH TO GAIN, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO,
HERE’S WHAT YOU NEED TO SOLVE THE LAST CLUE.
I blink in frustration. Is that it? What kind of a clue is that?
But then a link pops up and I click it. It takes me to the internet app.
A single explosive pop!
A shattering of glass.
A tinkling shower all over the floor ten feet away.
A broken window way up in the rafters.
Lucas peering around the corner of the aisle at us and hurling something hard and gray at Jax’s chest.
Jax catches it instinctively, not registering that it’s a gun until he’s cradling it in his arms.
“He’s got a gun!” calls Lucas before disappearing around the corner again.
And then chaos.
Jax
Holding a gun in front of a shattered window in the Thirty Foods specialty cheese aisle was not on the cryptology bingo card of this broke, Black, peace-loving vegan boy.
But here I am, setting it down on the floor and raising my hands into the air, backing away from all the scurrying customers looking frantically between me and the door, abandoning carts and hauling screaming babies through the door with zero time for gentleness.
“I didn’t do that! It was—”
But when I look back, Lucas is gone. Because of course he is.
Spider is looking at me like I’ve got leprosy, even though I’m not even holding it anymore and he knows I didn’t bring it in. But I was still the last one holding a hot potato when it went off and damaged property in a Thirty Foods.
“No, wait!” I yell, more passersby shrieking and shuffling out the door.
Suddenly, boom!
My head slams against the floor. My arms are yanked behind my back and wedged up between my shoulder blades, despite my cries.
“Let me go!” I beg. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Shut up!” shouts the voice of whoever’s pressed their body on top of me. I look up to catch a glimpse of Spider sprinting around the corner, clutching his bag as he makes for the door.
Good, I think. Whatever happens, win the puzzle.
I rest my cheek on the cold tile floor just as a tall figure in purple steps lazily from around the corner—sauntering, really—before crouching in front of me.
“Hope the love of the game was worth it for you, Jax.”
Rage surges through me, and I struggle against whoever’s hands are clamped around my wrists. Who the hell does Karim think he is, walking through here like he owns the place?
“These people,” I spit up at him, “don’t know you. Don’t know how much money you have. You’re Black, Karim. You do know that, right?”
I tried to warn him.
But he’s on the floor with someone much bigger laying their body weight on top of him.
Someone in blue.
With a gun at their hip.
And shiny, silver handcuffs that clamp around Karim’s wrists as if he were as broke and unwelcome here as, well, me.
Yas
I read it again.
SPIDER: Help. Thirty Foods. Bellevue. Now.
No other details. No clues. No context. As I kick my legs up at the front of the 70 bus, I’m left to wonder what the hell is going on. Why is Spider in Bellevue of all places, after school, except to look for clues? Why didn’t he include the rest of us in his venture? What kind of emergency could be happening at Thirty Foods that I’d be able to help better than the authorities?
I mean the fire department, of course. Emergency personnel.
No, this has to be puzzle related. But why didn’t Spider just tell me he was going to investigate the next clue? The last I knew, we were dealing with that twelve-digit number. Had me up till eleven last night researching options, since our lead puzzler wants to sell his soul to have the privilege of kissing the Order’s ass. I take a long, slow, deep breath and try to regroup. I know Jax wants to save Mama’s garden. We all want to save Mama’s garden. But I just wish he’d be more careful. Now Spider is in trouble at a Thirty Foods in Bellevue, and if it doesn’t have to do with Jax overcommitting to the puzzle, I’ll eat my own shoe.
And yet here I am, stepping off the 70 bus and walking past a luxury camping store, a car dealership, and finally under an overpass before seeing the Thirty Foods. And while I expect to see a tranquil scene of rich people walking into the store with designer reusable shopping bags and rolling their carts full of expensive food through the parking lot to their cars, what I’m looking at is a very different scene.
Chaos reigns. People in clothes clearly unfit for running are running. Carts are rolling haphazardly through the parking lot, cars and people dodging them, including me. I dive out of the way of a shrieking man holding the hand of a child who’s begging him to slow down. He doesn’t. He picks the boy up and keeps running, and I look up at the store.
What the hell is going on in there?
“Shooter! Don’t go in!” I hear from somewhere in the lot.
I dive behind a gigantic potted plant, and my heart rate skyrockets into overdrive.
I text Spider frantically.
ME: Where r u?
But I get my answer in the form of what would have been a blur flying out the front doors and past my hiding spot, if not for my reflexes. My hand is gripped around a wad of black sweatshirt and yanking him behind the plant with me before he can register who I am.
“Yas!” he hollers, throwing his arms around me in a big sweaty hug. “You came!”
“Duh,” I say, looking back up at the front doors, where I spot Mr. Red Cap—Lucas was his name, I think—waltzing through the doors like nothing happened. “That guy again.”
“He threw a gun at Jax!” pants Spider.
