Hysteria by Megan Miranda Page B

pages, “I think we’ve
     already established that Golding was saying, underneath it all, that without civilization,
     we are essentially savages.”
    I opened my notebook and wrote, We are savages.
    Mr. Durham stopped flipping pages and smoothed down a corner. “They stop thinking
     for themselves. When they kill Piggy, do they know it’s Piggy? Do any of them know?”
    Krista spoke. “They had to know. How could they not? It’s pretty unrealistic.”
    “Is it?” Mr. Durham asked. “You’ve all witnessed herd behavior.”
    I wrote, herd behavior. Yes, I had witnessed it. At the ice cream shop.
    Everyone leaned forward a little over the tables. Everyone but me. This wasn’t news
     to me.
    “It can be as benign as shopping on Black Friday — haven’t you heard of people stampeding to get the cheap televisions? Trampling others?
     And when you cheer at a sporting event, would you get up to shout or cheer or boo
     on your own? Or do you only do it because everyone else is doing it? Because you are
     part of something greater?”
    Silence in the classroom.
    “And trends,” he continued. “I mean, really, who thought mullets were a good idea?”
    A few of the guys laughed.
    “Or blue eyeshadow,” Chloe said.
    “Or bell-bottoms,” another kid said.
    “Exactly,” Mr. Durham said, nodding his head and smiling.
    “But it starts somewhere,” Bree said. “Right? I mean, blue eye shadow didn’t just
     appear from nowhere. Someone had to start it.”
    “Yes, the idea comes from somewhere,” Mr. Durham answered. “Is that person more culpable
     than the followers? Less? If one person says, ‘Pull that person from the car and beat
     him to death,’ and twenty people oblige, who’s at fault?”
    We stayed silent.
    “And that, my friends, is why it’s nearly impossible to convict a mob.” He cut his
     eyes to me for a fraction of a second. I didn’t know why he was thinking of me. I
     hadn’t been part of a mob or influenced by group thought. No, it was just me. My decision.
     I chose death.
    “So,” Krista said, speaking carefully again, “ Lord of the Flies is really just a metaphor for bad fashion decisions?” A few giggles escaped around
     the room.
    Mr. Durham grinned. “Or maybe it’s just one big allegory for high school.”

    Reid showed up for study hall again, as promised. He spread out his work across my
     floor, and then he put a finger to his lips and motioned for me to come toward him.
    I crouched beside him and said, “What?”
    “Tonight,” he said in a voice that was so low I had to lean even closer. “New students
     get initiated.”
    “Initiated?”
    Apparently I spoke too loudly because he glanced toward my open door. “Tradition.
     They’re going to take you after lights out.”
    “And do what with me?”
    “I’m not telling.” He was fighting a smile.
    “What the hell, Reid?” I sat cross-legged across from him, his notebook between us.
    “Mallory, it’s fun. I’m only giving you the heads up because . . . Because. We all
     did it. It’s tradition.”
    “Tradition. You sound like my dad — at Monroe, it’s tradition that blah, blah, blah.”
    “It’s really not so bad here. And personally, I’d give just about anything to learn
     more about my dad.”
    Crap. There were words I was supposed to say now. But they seemed so worthless, so
     I pressed my lips together instead.
    “Sorry,” he said, like someone had to say it. “I’m just saying. This is practically
     my home. I like the traditions. You will too. I’m just giving you the heads-up. I
     feel like I owe you one.”
    Because we used to be friends. Right.
    “Nobody’s taking me,” I said.
    He started to speak, then stopped. Then grinned. “Are you fast?”
    “Yes.”

 
     
    Chapter 7
    R eid was right. I didn’t need him to tell me when it would start. I heard the doors
     latching softly first, then the light padding of footsteps. Someone tested the handle,
     gently, but I had locked it.