Page 8
Author: Sophie Jordan
His voice fades and his eyes flare a little, like he’s worried he said too much. Others? Does he mean what the world in general thinks? If the media is to be believed, people believe the Agency should have more control than it already does—that carriers should be more than identified and monitored. That we should be locked up. Better safe than sorry.
Or is he talking about our friends?
I kiss him. Mostly just because I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to think about what my friends are saying. I don’t want to think about me. HTS. It’s all I am anymore. Everything. My new reality even though I’m not a monster.
I want to have something it doesn’t touch. Even if it’s only pretend.
The kiss is slow and sweet. Maybe even hesitant. Like we’re new to each other again. It’s definitely not the hot, fumbling desperation of before. We’ve come close to going all the way several times lately. Zac’s been pressuring and I’d been considering it more and more. But now it feels like we’ve lost ground.
When we break apart, he doesn’t say anything about killers anymore and how I’m definitely not one of them, and for that I’m glad. It’s almost like he’s convincing himself.
It’s just his smiling eyes on me. “I have to get back home. Are you free tomorrow night?”
I nod.
“Good. Carlton is having a party. ”
Something inside me sinks. I assumed it would just be the two of us. Recovering ground. The idea of being around all our friends . . . my old friends. The kids I no longer go to school with. Tori hasn’t even called since I told Zac. I tried calling her yesterday but she didn’t pick up. He has to have told her. Everyone must know by now. Their silence tells me all I need to know. Everything has changed. But Zac wants me to hang out like nothing has.
I force a smile and lie. “Sounds great. ”
I’m all about being something I’m not, after all. A carrier. A killer. In this instance? Pretending like everything is okay? I’ll have to get used to that.
I take careful measures to be on time, but not too early the next day. I don’t want to be caught alone with anyone. Definitely not Mr. Brockman, but not any of the other students, either.
Sean, of course, I knew, wouldn’t arrive until later. For whatever reason, that was his pattern. I keep my head down, eyes averted as I slide into my desk. It doesn’t matter though. I eventually have to look up, and the first time I do it’s like Coco has been waiting. Her heavily lined eyes stare at me, unblinking. I feel the blood rush to my face.
I’m sorry, I mouth to her, not really knowing what to say except that.
She looks at me dully before shaking her head and looking away, like I somehow disgust her.
I wish I could rub out the image of her with Brockman from my eyes . . . erase the knowledge from my mind. I haven’t allowed the horror of it to fully sink in. Maybe the horrors of the last few days have numbed me to something so horrible and shocking.
An hour into the morning, and an office aide drops off some manila folders.
Brockman enters the Cage to hand them out. The pair in the back sigh heavily as they take their folders. He stops by my desk and holds out my folder to me. I’m paranoid about looking Brockman in the face. I’ve been dreading it. I try to take the folder, but he doesn’t release it, holds it hostage until I look up at him.
His gaze is intent. “Doing okay, Davy?”
I nod. The grapefruit-sized lump in my throat prevents me from speaking.
He continues, “Settling in? Everyone treating you well?”
I can only stare. He leans down and it takes everything inside me not to arch away. I guess it’s my innate politeness—drilled into me ever since I could tie my own shoes. Ironic. I’m here because of my inherent dangerousness, but it’s my inherent politeness that makes me put up with this. With him.
He grasps my shoulder, squeezes. And I see that hand as I saw it yesterday. Nails blunt-tipped, chewed up to the quick. My stomach rolls. Bile rises in my throat.
“I’m here for you . . . if you ever want to talk. I’ve got your back. ” He smiles. It’s patronizing at best. What I really see lurking in the curve of his lips is the smug knowledge that he knows I know that I’m at his mercy.
I dismiss the idea of reporting him. I know enough to know that I lack any credibility. My word won’t matter. I remember my conversation with Mitchell. It’s like he said. I just have to make it through May. After that, I’ll figure out what comes next. Clearly it’s not Juilliard anymore. Everton will notify them of my expulsion. That dream is dead. But not every dream. Zac flashes in my mind. No. Not all of them.
I find my voice. “Thanks. But I’m fine. ”
He angles his head and sets my folder on my desk. “Really?” The single word carries doubt.
I lift my chin, determined to convince him that I’m fine and will never have need for his particular type of friendship. “Everything is good. I like it here. ” Maybe I went a bit far with that last part, but it’s almost worth it to see the flicker of surprise cross his face.
He lets go of my shoulder and straightens. “I see. Well. Good. Good. ”
He didn’t believe me for a second. There’s a glint of annoyance in his eyes before he turns away and moves on to Gil. I almost smile.
Until I see Coco, twisting around in her chair. “You think you’re so smart?” she whispers and, even though she’s whispering, her voice falls hard.
But there’s something in her eyes. A vulnerability, a fear, that gives me pause. I shake my head. “No. I don’t—”
“Keep your paws off Brockman. ”
“You don’t seriously think I would let him touch me?”
Her dark eyes flash and I know I offended her. Hot color creeps up her caramel-hued cheeks. “Oh. You’re so good, aren’t you? Better than me, is that it?”
“No—”
Her knuckles whiten where they clutch the desk. “We’ll see what you think after a month in here. Just remember what I said. Stay away from Brockman. Find someone else. ”
Before I can respond that I don’t need anyone, she faces the front again.
What happened to her to make her think she needs to surrender to Brockman? My jaw locks. Whatever it is, I vow to never let that happen to me.
Opening the folder, I try to focus on my assignments, the chorus of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” weaving inside my head. Right now, I could use some serenity. A wadded ball of paper hits me in the head. Touching my hair, I turn around and glare. Nathan blows me a kiss and throws another paper ball that I jerk to the side to avoid.
With a huff, I turn back around on my desk and study the assignments. They’re a far cry from my usual workload, but I still need to get it done. The goal is that diploma. Even if it’s from the wrong school.
Even if I’m living the wrong life.
Tori
Don’t bring her
Zac
Told u I have 2
EIGHT
I FINISH MY ASSIGNMENTS BEFORE LUNCH AND take my work to Brockman as I’ve watched the others do. I stand at the Cage door until he motions me through. He takes my manila folder from me and I stand there as he flips through my work like he knows what he’s looking at. Like he’s a real teacher.
“You work fast. ” He hands me the folder. “I hope you did it all correctly. ”
I take it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with it now. He’s supposed to turn my work in for me so that the regular teachers, teachers I’ll never even meet, can grade me.
“You can turn that in to the office. ”
This surprises me. “I can walk around on my own?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me like he would like to say something else. Something more. “Classes are in session right now. Just hurry back. Don’t talk to anyone. ”
Who would I talk to? Nodding, I walk out
into the corridor, through the haze of stink—the perpetual sweat that hangs in the hall. I can hear the squeak of shoes on the gym floor and know there’s at least one class going on down here now.
I don’t pass anyone as I head up the stairs to the school’s main floor. It’s a straight shot to the office. The same receptionist is there. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something about me being loose in the halls. Out of my cage.
Her lips just tighten like she’s holding her breath. Afraid to breathe around me. She snatches the folder and turns her attention back to her monitor. It’s still strange . . . wounds me. I’m the kid everyone likes. Teachers. Parents.
I was that kid.
Dismissed, I step back in the hall. A couple of students walk past me into the office. They don’t notice me. Specifically, they don’t notice my special badge. And I’m relieved . . . which makes me feel like a coward. Like I’m happy to hide. Like I need to hide.
Feeling a little bit disgusted with myself, I stride down the hall, letting my shoes strike the floor loudly. Like I can make up for my cowardice by injecting force into each stride.
At the top of the stairwell, there’s a trio of students. Two girls. One guy. It’s the guy that catches my attention. He leans back against the steel railing, relaxed. The girls flank him, talking, moving their hands animatedly with every word. They remind me of butterflies ready to launch into air. It’s a scene I’ve seen countless times. When girls are around Zac. They’re so obvious in their attempts to impress this boy.
And the boy is none other than Sean O’Rourke.
Sean. They’re not frightened of him at all. I slow my steps and watch, thoroughly baffled. If I didn’t have to—before I became one of them—I would never deliberately come into contact with a carrier.
As I approach, the girls’ voices register in my ear. I recognize the pitch, the cadence as perfect as a C-sharp. They’re flirting with him. An HTS carrier who’s been imprinted? He’s proven himself dangerous and they’re into him.
One of the girls reaches out and toys with his orange badge. They must be some type of masochists, I decide. They get off on the danger and potential pain a carrier like Sean can inflict on them.
I give them as much berth as possible as I near the stairs. But just the same, I gawk at them like some kind of tragic car accident. I can’t not look.
Sean’s elbows are propped back on the railing. He holds a can of soda loosely in one hand. He’s wearing a gray-and-black graphic T-shirt. HONEST BEES is written across the front and I wonder if it’s a cool band or edgy hot spot in the city that I’ve never heard of. I pretty much stick to a ten-mile radius of my house. Everyone I know does. The streets aren’t safe. Even the streets you know. No sense roaming the streets you don’t know. And there’s a curfew anyway. That always keeps me from staying out too late. Well, that and my parents. The few times I stayed out late I was always with Zac . . . and no more than a couple miles from home.
His gaze fixes on me. He shakes the sun-streaked hair back from his face as if to watch me better with those deeply set eyes. My hand closes around the rail, and I pause, staring back, seeing what they see in him. Confidence. Edge. The sexy, dark, misunderstood hero you see in movies or read about in books. Only this is real life. And he’s no hero. The tattoo around his neck proclaims that.
The girls notice his straying attention. They look over at me, assessing, critical. The blonde one with dark roots asks, “Who’s that?”
He doesn’t answer. His face registers nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her. Just watches me as I begin to descend, but I can’t help wondering what he would say. Who am I? What am I to him?
And why should I care?
I try to pretend I don’t hear the Cage door opening. The clang of steel. The rattle of the latch. The solid tread of feet. The whisper of clothes as he slides into his seat a few desks behind me. I fill my mind with the lyrics of “Casta Diva. ” It usually focuses me. The notoriously difficult aria flows through my head. I race along with the high notes, grasping for them, but it’s no good.