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can show you how, maybe next shift?”
    â€œThat’d be fun,” I agree. “It might help to pass the time.” I wish I could offer some cool art project of my own, but my artistic skills are limited to creative highlighting techniques. I should show her my color-coded textbooks. They’re pretty.
    â€œI’m starving.” Janae sits up and unzips her backpack. “But it looks like I am way unprepared.” She pulls out a granola bar. “I don’t suppose we can order a pizza?”
    â€œYeah, having a delivery boy show up kind of blows the whole secrecy thing.” I spin around on my swivel chair like a little kid, considering our top-secret helpline office space. Our converted supply closet is hidden way back in C wing, a section of the school that’s been empty ever since those massive budget cuts two years ago when they increased class sizes. At five minutes to four, each shift team has been instructed to enter the C building casually and make sure no one is in sight before going down the back corridor to the janitor’s closet.
    Today Janae and I both lingered at the school library after school. We didn’t study together because we have no classes in common, and we’d probably draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. At our school, friends sort of match together like puzzle pieces. Not Janae and me.
    The door to the closet-office sports a combination lock. Not the twisty kind they put on school lockers, but one that’s actually inserted into the door, with numbered push buttons that have to be pressed in a certain order to release the lock. At first glance our code (4–3–5–7–5–4–6–3) just looks like a random grouping of numbers. But the numbers correspond to cell phone letters, spelling out “H-e-l-p-l-i-n-e.”
    Janae’s face brightens. “You know what we need in here? A mini fridge. We could stock it with sodas.”
    I nod. “We need to decorate. It’d be like decorating a backyard fort.”
    â€œRight?” Janae laughs and plays with one of the little studs in her left ear, twisting it in a circle. “The neighbor kids and I made these massive forts in the laundry room at our apartment complex. Until some cranky old lady called the landlord. She said it was a fire code violation.”
    â€œBummer.”
    â€œIt’s okay. We egged her car,” Janae says, practically beaming.
    â€œNo way. Really?”
    â€œYep. If there’s a prank that needs pulling, you just come to me. I’m the prank queen. Speaking of eggs, I’m so hungry. And snacks just aren’t gonna cut it.” Janae rolls onto her side. “I’ll just go pick us up some Mickey D’s.”
    â€œYou can’t leave a shift.” This comes out kind of whiny and of course it’s true, but what I really mean is that she can’t leave me alone on a shift. “What if someone calls or texts while you’re gone?”
    â€œDoesn’t look likely at this point.”
    â€œThey might.”
    Janae’s already standing up, and I have the urge to lunge for her ankle to hold her there.
    â€œLet’s text Eric or Garth. I’ve got their numbers.” I grab my phone. I’ve had classes with Eric since freshman year. And Garth Johnson was on my team for our euthanasia debate in government. “They both drive.”
    â€œGood thinking. Here, hand me your phone. I’ll text them.” She holds out her palm expectantly. “There,” she announces.
    â€œDid you text both of them?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    A half hour later, we smell onions and pickles, then hear the metallic clicks of the door code being entered. Garth plops down next to Janae on the futon. The futon tilts with his weight. He pulls out a few sub sandwiches and spreads them out on the sandwich paper.
    â€œDig in!”
    Within a few minutes, Eric’s there too, unpacking a Taco Bell