Many years ago, when I was a new writer, I needed to have the final scene clear in my mind, if not actually on paper: a goal to work toward, even if the path itself wasn’t immediately visible. But about seven books in, I somehow forgot to choose my ending before I began to write. And although I got into a panic when I realized it, the back of my mind just patted me on the hand and said it would be fine. And it was.

That’s why I knew Lockdown was a book even though it began as stories. From the outside, the creation of Lockdown looks like chaos: six short stories that for some reason their author decided to glue together into a novel.

But that’s the reverse of the process. Do you know the term “walking back the cat”? It’s an Intelligence reference to finding the cause-and-effect pattern in a series of apparently random events. Yes, you have a school lockdown: in this novel, you know that from the early pages. But how does it happen? What are the links, invisible but steely, that tie the alarm clock of principal Linda McDonald (see the last post) to the can of spray paint carried by one of her students…

2:45 am, Career Day

Chaco

Chaco put his head around the dark corner of A Wing, filled with . . . what was the word? Foreboding. Yeah, so the janitor made him nervous. Gave Chaco misgivings.

Scared the shit out of him.

Far as Chaco knew, Tío wasn’t nobody’s uncle, wasn’t even from Mexico like everybody Chaco knew. Sure, he talked Spanish, but his accent was, like, exotic—from somewhere else. Nicaragua, maybe? El Salvador? Tío was just the limpiador, walking up and down in his dirt-colored uniform and cleaning the floors. Big thrill for the old guy was the day he got to shut off the water in the girl’s baño, stop it running all over the floor. Real hero, man.

Maybe the reason Tío made him nervous was cause the dude was so pinche quiet. Tío talked quiet, he didn’t turn on a radio the minute the bell rang—even his cart with all the mops and brooms, the same one the last janitor used, didn’t rattle and squeak so much. And, like, the other day when one of the substitutes shouted some question down the breezeway at him? Tío didn’t just shout back an answer. Instead, he put away his broom and walked over, all polite, to see what the guy wanted.

Funny thing was, the teacher looked a little . . . Not embarrassed. More like he thought maybe Tío coming at him so quiet (like Angel) meant the old guy had a knife. Edgy, maybe? Wanting to edge away?

Anyway, yeah, Chaco felt a little edgy tonight himself, crouching in back of A Wing, away from the all-night floods, a can of spray paint in his hand. He really, really didn’t want to turn around and find Tío there, looking at him.

Which was stupid. Or—what was that word he’d found the other day?—ludicrous. (Chaco had a private collection of perfect words—words he’d never, ever use out loud.) Tío didn’t spend the night at school, and no way could he just guess who’d done a tag. Chaco knew all about crime labs and forensic science and stuff, so he was wearing a set of his uncle’s overalls he’d fished out of the trash, and his most beat-up pair of shoes, and he’d dump it all on his way home. He’d take a shower in the morning so he wouldn’t smell like paint. How would Tío know?

Besides, there wasn’t really much choice. He was almost thirteen—and, he was family to Taco Alvarez.

So now, at near to three in the morning, Chaco the Tagger crept down the A Wing breezeway, the old rubber on his shoes making a kissing sound against the smooth concrete. Nothing moved, no cars went by. Under the main breezeway, into the entrance arch— and there it was, all shiny and new-looking, hundreds of little chips and tiles with pictures of school things and people on them. He hesitated, just a little, ’cause really, it was kind of dope. Intricate, like. And a man didn’t tag someone else’s art unless it was enemy action. But this was a school, and in the end he had to prove himself to Taco (and Angel) and yeah, to Sofia Rivas. Though she’d probably just give him one of her looks, all arrogant, or maybe condescending.

Chaco’s arm went up to shake the can, making the little ball inside ting back and forth five, six times. He chose his spot with care, right there on the face of the school secretary for his first letter, and—

And as if the pressure of his finger had triggered a lot more than paint, the universe exploded into a blinding glare of flood-light, outlining every tile, giving texture to the grout, showing the cheerful expressions on a crowd of pieced-together figures.

The can bounced and skittered across the walkway as Chaco fled into the night.

**

Lockdown goes on sale June 13, but you can pre-order a copy from: Bookshop Santa Cruz (signed), Poisoned Pen (signed), your local Indie, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.

Lockdown (June 13!) is set in a middle school’s Career Day, when a spectrum of professionals are coming to talk about their work.

The school’s entrance archway is a mural of tiles and splintered objects that make for a history of the school, and there’s a brief scene where the principal stands looking at it, musing that this is a metaphor for the school itself.

A look into the backgrounds of eight hundred people at any given school across the country will produce a mind-blowing spectrum of ethnicity, family ties, and participation in the events that define our history. Even one classroom can provide a writer with a lifetime of stories, from the quietly personal to the headline-making.

The days when we could be confident about knowing our neighbors’ histories is gone.

Take Guadalupe Middle School, for example. An ordinary central-coast school, one eighth grader among hundreds, she looks like any of the other Hispanic kids. Except…

7:03 am, Career Day

Mina

Mina Santos had three mirrors in her bedroom, and they all showed a different person.

The one she was looking at now, hanging on the back of the door, showed a Nice Girl—at least, down to her ankles where the boots started. Long black braid, orange T-shirt, plaid skirt that reached her knees, black tights. Pretty much the same girl it showed last year, and the year before: a girl so short and fresh-faced, you’d think she was a child if you didn’t notice her chest. (One reason she wore baggy shirts at school.)

The dressing table mirror, the one with the circle of bright light to help her judge when she had more makeup than Mâmân would permit, showed Mina her too-large nose, coarse pores, and (oh, God!) what threatened to become a moustache.

The third mirror was on the wall next to the closet. Not much bigger than an iPad and surrounded by a pretty enameled frame, the mirror itself was so old its glass was dim, with freckles along the edges. It had belonged to her grandmother, who’d received it as a present for her thirteenth birthday back in Tehran. It was about the only thing Mâmân had from that whole family, and she gave it to Mina last year, when she turned thirteen.

At the time, Mina thought that was sweet. Later, she worked out that two months later, her grandmother had not only been married, but pregnant, too. Mina didn’t look at this third mirror much now. It had a way of showing her the face of a grown woman, which was more than a little creepy.

Anyway: three mirrors, and none of them gave her the same truth as the mirrors at school.

**

Lockdown goes on sale June 13, but you can pre-order a copy from: Bookshop Santa Cruz (signed), Poisoned Pen (signed), your local Indie, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.