The Predicteds

Daphne is the new girl in town and is having trouble fitting in. At least she has Jesse... sort of. He wants to be more than "just friends," but there's something he's not telling her about his past. Something dangerous. When a female student is brutally attacked, police turn to PROFILE, a new program that can predict a student's capacity for drug use, pregnancy, and violent behavior, to solve the case. As the witch hunt ensues, Daphne is forced to question her feelings for Jesseand what she will do if her first love turns out to be a killer.

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Attention: There has been a shooting on school grounds. The building is currently under full lockdown. Please check back here for updates. -Quiet High website "OH, DEAR, MRS. MCCLAIN SAYS, HER LIVER-SPOTTED HAND unhelpfully lingering on the fire extinguisher. "Gross," a girl who is actually named Lexus says when I finish. She shakes her smooth cap of hair in disgust. "Somebody get this girl some water," Mrs. McClain calls, finally moving into action. "I'm fine," I say. "It's just my first week of school." Blank stares all around. What they don't know is that this happens to me every first week of a new school, even though this is my ninth new school since kindergarten. It's not always this, exactly, but it is always something. The first day of second grade, I threw up in Mrs. Horvath's purse. The third day of fourth grade, I sneezed so hard, I broke a blood vessel in my nose and spewed blood all over some kid whose name I can't even remember. In seventh grade, I leaned against the fire alarm and set off the overhead sprinklers. Tenth grade? I hit an icy patch with my car and drove over the assistant principal's left big toe (and lost my learner's permit). This time around, it was the choking. I was just sitting there, chewing gum, trying to make it through a coma-inducing demonstration on balancing chemical equations, when I felt the fruity chunk slip down my throat. Suddenly, there was no air at all. After a brief moment of panic, I stood up and staggered around, not knowing for sure what to do. My feet got caught in the strap of my bookbag, and I staggered, zombie-like, from left to right, spilling the bag's contents. Finally, the guy in front of me jumped up and moved toward me. One, two, three, then four painful Heimlich maneuvers later-under the watchful stare of twenty-two pairs of eyes, including Mrs. McClain's rheumy gaze-I spat out the gum and took a giant breath. Shortly after, I threw up on my savior's shoes. Hello, Quiet High. I've arrived! "Get her some water!" Mrs. McClain yells again. My rescuer appears in front of me. "You're going to be okay," he says reassuringly. I nod. "I'm Jesse, by the way." He sticks out his hand as if we are at a cocktail party chatting over meatballs stuck with toothpicks, instead of standing with a puddle of my vomit between us. "Pleased to meet you," he says without any sign of sarcasm. "Ah, thanks," I say to this kid, this odd misfit among the cowboys and jocks who populate Quiet High. What else can I say? Sorry that I spewed stomach bile on your Skechers? I expect him to be insulted by the bite in my voice-or too grossed out to be near me-but he gives me a half-smile and then leans over to set my bookbag upright. I bend down with him. Up close, I notice that behind his sleek, plastic-framed glasses, he has shiny brown eyes and eyelashes that curl up. Around his neck is a skinny tie, knotted loosely. Mrs. McClain herself finally hands me a cup of lukewarm water. "It's going to be okay, honey," she croons, her warm bony hand delicately patting my back, her coffee breath spreading over my cheek. Her wrinkled face suddenly crumples as she looks at the f loor. Her voice changes. "You'll need to clean this up immediately. Health code standards," she adds sharply. Her bony hand now feels like a cold claw inching across my shoulder blade. "Oh," I say. "Where are the-?" I stop when I realize I have no idea what tools I'll need to clean up barf. How about a HAZMAT suit? "Over there." She motions toward a supply closet in the corner of the room. "Mops, buckets, paper towels, sanitizer, rubber gloves, sand, everything you need." Sand? What do I need sand for? What exactly does she expect me to do? I reluctantly head for the closet as conversation resumes around me. Skinny Tie trails behind me, following me to the supply closet. I give him a little kiss-off wave, part "Thanks for saving my life!" and part "Please don't ever speak to me again, because I'm mortified!" I step inside the clammy darkness, close the door behind me until it latches with a satisfying click, and take a deep breath. Just enough light from the classroom filters in underneath the door so that I can easily find my way to a f loor-to-ceiling shelf unit in the back. It's towering with textbooks and assorted junk: beakers, test tubes, cleaning supplies, and a strange collection of what appear, upon closer examination, to be Star Wars figurines. There's a small sink on the left side, and I lean over it, lapping up the cool water like a parched dog. I rinse and spit a few times before I wash my face, and then squint at the tiny mirror. It's too dark to see if I look as rotten as I feel. I consider f lipping on the light switch by the door but decide against it. The darkness is soothing. The dull murmur of the class barely makes it through the heavy wooden door. Away from the lull of McClain's scratchy voice, I feel kind of relaxed. It's sort of nice in here, kind of like how I imagine a morgue would be, only warmer and less creepy. I move to a Red Cross bucket in the corner and tip it over to make a comfy seat. Why rush to clean up puke? Maybe if I wait long enough it'll disappear. Or maybe I'll disappear. I prop my feet on a stack of books and lean against the shelves. I drift someplace between awake and asleep, a pleasant middle ground that has no good name. Sometime later-seconds or minutes, I don't know-I hear the screams, the abrupt scuff le of desks and feet, and a sudden chorus of pained cries. "Help!" someone yells over the din. And then as quickly as it all begins, silence resumes, and I wonder if I've imagined it. My paralysis lifts quickly, and I scramble to the door, tipping the bucket over in my haste. I trip on the handle and catch myself before I land on my face. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear it: Mrs. McClain's voice is plain, calm, and strangely indifferent, like she's talking about her bunions. "He's got a gun," she says. "Nobody move."