Contact by Chris Morphew

I said under my breath, pretending to write something historical as Mr Ranga walked past.
    â€˜Yeah,’ Luke whispered back. ‘I think you might have mentioned that already.’
    In the last twenty-four hours, he and I had been keeping an uneasy truce about the whole Jordan thing. Actually, Luke was still saying he hadn’t done anything wrong, so the truce was basically me deciding not to punch him.
    I’d actually started to think that we had a decent shot at being mates. I mean, yeah, he was a bit of a dumb-arse sometimes, but this end-of-the-world stuff had kind of forced us together and, hey, I’m open-minded. But there were some lines you didn’t cross.
    Neither of us had seen Jordan before school this morning. She’d given us strict orders to stay right away from the medical centre. Didn’t want to do anything to attract suspicion. But there’d been no sign of her at school either. And Tuesday mornings were double history for Luke and me, so the next time either of us could track Jordan down would be recess.
    Assuming she’d even made it out of the medical centre in one piece.
    â€˜Shouldn’t have let her go,’ I said.
    â€˜ Let her?’ said Luke. ‘As if you could’ve stopped her.’
    â€˜I could’ve negotiated.’
    Luke snorted. ‘This is Jordan we’re talking about.’
    â€˜Listen mate, I can be very persuasive when I –’
    â€˜Peter,’ snapped Mr Ranga from across the room, finally realising that neither of us had done any work all lesson. ‘What’s the answer to question seven?’
    â€˜Um … Nazis?’ I tried.
    â€˜Nazis. That’s your answer to the question: What were some of the staple food sources of allied forces serving in World War II? ’
    â€˜Just trying to think outside the box, sir,’ I said.
    A few people laughed, but unfortunately Mr Hanger is not what you’d call a think-outside-the-box kind of guy.
    â€˜Would you like me to leave the room, sir?’ I asked hopefully.
    â€˜Actually,’ he sneered, ‘I think a detention would be more appropriate. How does this afternoon work for you?’
    Recess was almost over. Still no sign of Jordan.
    â€˜This is not good,’ said Luke, checking the time again.
    â€˜You reckon?’ I said, seriously re-evaluating my No Punching policy.
    We were waiting down near the bike racks outside the maths block. She was meant to meet us here as soon as we all got out of class.
    â€˜Maybe she went straight home with her mum,’ said Luke.
    â€˜She would have emailed,’ I said distractedly, scanning the playground again. ‘Uh-oh.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Pryor.’ She was marching across the playground towards us, looking disturbingly happy. Never a good sign.
    â€˜Run for it?’ asked Luke.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜But if Jordan’s already –’
    â€˜ No, ’ I said. ‘Let’s see what she wants.’
    We walked out to meet her.
    â€˜Morning, miss!’ I said. ‘Have you got our next assignment for us?’
    â€˜Come with me,’ she said, veering back around toward her office.
    We followed her back over the grass to the quad, kids stopping to gawk at us the whole way. Freckles and a few of her midget posse saw us coming and started charging over, probably armed with yet another page of suggestions for us. I glared at them and shook my head. They stopped, disappointed.
    â€˜What’s this about, miss?’ I asked as we headed into the admin building.
    No answer.
    Pryor stopped in the doorway to Staples’ office.
    â€˜Mrs Stapleton,’ she snapped. ‘I will tolerate no interruptions this morning. Is that clear?’
    Without waiting for an answer, she swept off down the hall again, swiped her card, and let us into her office.
    Luke glanced back over his shoulder. I could see exactly what he was thinking.
    Last chance to bolt.
    And