Struck

  “You’re going to miss lunch,” I said.

  Parker looked at me. “They’re gone,” he said.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Jake. Kadin. Asher. They left the city. Last time I heard from Asher he said his family might take off, but …” He shrugged as if he didn’t have the energy to elaborate on how his friends had disappeared without so much as a farewell text.

  “Are they coming back?” I asked.

  Another shrug, and then his shoulders slumped. “Would you?”

  I didn’t answer, because the answer was no. We might have left, too, if it weren’t for Mom’s condition. Travel was not advisable for people with her disorder. Besides, we didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  I hadn’t seen Parker this dejected in weeks. I racked my mind for words of comfort, but came up short.

  I hadn’t made anything more than acquaintances since moving to L.A. Friendships were complicated, and I didn’t need any more complications in my life than I already had. But Parker had made three good friends—or so he’d thought—since moving here. I’d actually felt a little jealous of how close they’d become. Parker and Mom were the only people in L.A. who knew my secrets, and that made them my only real friends. The only two people in the world I could trust.

  “I’m sure they would have called to say goodbye if they could have,” I told Parker.

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re gone now.” The carefully controlled tone of his voice told me that it did matter very much to him.

  I considered mentioning that I’d seen Quentin in the cafeteria. Knowing that one of his second tier friends was still around might cheer my brother up. I opened my mouth and then closed it again, thinking of that weird look in Quentin’s eyes, and the strange, synchronized way he and Schiz and those others had moved together.

  And that scar.

  “Did you see this?” Parker pointed to a flyer tacked in the center of the wall.

  EARTHQUAKE SURVIVORS’ GROUP

  MON–FRI, 6–8 PM

  SKYLINE HIGH SCHOOL, ROOM 317

  Room 317. Why did that strike a chord?

  “Maybe something like that could help Mom,” Parker said.

  “She won’t even leave her room,” I reminded him. “You think we could get her clear to the school?”

  “We could at least try. Nothing we’ve done so far has worked.” There was tension in his voice. I could tell he was still irritated with me for getting in the way of him playing hero that morning.

  There were plenty of other copies of the flyer pinned to the wall. I pulled free the one Parker was looking at. “We’ll show it to Mom, see what she thinks.”

  I folded the flyer and tried to stuff it into my pocket, but it caught on something. I drew out the tarot card Katrina had given me. I’d forgotten about it.

  Meet me in room 317.

  “Is that a tarot card?” Parker asked.

  I stared at the image of the stone tower perched on the lip of that cliff. The jagged yellow lightning. The falling, screaming people, their eyes open as wide as their mouths. It was unnerving how those eyes seemed to point right at me, like the eyes of the dead on the memorial wall.

  “Yeah,” I said distractedly.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  I didn’t want to tell Parker what happened in the lounge with Katrina. Didn’t want to burden him with another helping of crazy.

  “Found it.” I stuffed the card, along with the folded flyer, back into my pocket. What I wanted to do was toss the card in the trash and hope I never saw Katrina again. But it looked like an antique. I couldn’t just throw it away.

  “Mia?” Parker said, his voice somber. “You think Mom’s okay alone?”

  “I’m sure she’s fine.” As his older sister, it was my job to lie to him in the name of easing his troubled mind.

  “Liar,” Parker said (apparently I sucked at my job), and shook his head at me. His heavy blond hair swept the arches of his eyebrows. Probably anyone who saw Parker and me together had no idea we were brother and sister. My hair—which I’d finally grown to the nape of my neck after my last lightning strike seared every strand from my head—was one stop away from black. Parker’s eyes were bottle-glass green. Mine were cloudy gray. He looked like our mom. I looked more like our father, who had died of stomach cancer so long ago his face wouldn’t stay in my memory. I had to keep referring to the photo albums to remind myself what he looked like, and I always got a little jolt of surprise when I saw my own eyes staring out at me from the pages.

  “We should go home and check on her,” Parker said. “If we hurry, we’ll be back in time for fourth period.”

  “Parker … no. She has to get used to us not being home every second. It might be good for her to have some space without us hovering over her.” I tugged on his shirt and started toward the cafeteria. “Come on, you might still have time to get lunch.”

  Parker followed, but stayed one step behind me.

  At the end of the missing persons wall, the twin of the flyer I’d helped myself to caught my eye. At least, I thought it was the twin. There was a slight difference that, when I noticed it, made my stomach drop.

  LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS’ GROUP

  MON–FRI, 8–10 PM

  SKYLINE HIGH SCHOOL, ROOM 317

  6

  I SHOULD HAVE eaten more of my lunch. By the time last period rolled around, my stomach was hollow and I was so exhausted I could barely drag myself to the commons to check the schedule of relocated classes. Electives had been canceled until further notice, but everyone had to show up for daily math, science, English, and history if we wanted to finish the school year and, in my case, graduate. Classes had been rearranged and consolidated on the first floor, partially due to a shortage of teachers and the drastically reduced student body, but also because the upper floors had sustained more damage during the quake than the lower.

  All I had left today was English lit with Mr. Kale, the same teacher I’d had before the quake, and also my least favorite. He acted like he was schooling us in military strategy, not flowery nineteenth-century prose and poetry. And he always knew when you studied the CliffsNotes instead of reading the actual book he’d assigned.

  There was a disorderly line to check the schedule. I queued up and watched as aid workers in bright orange T-shirts set up tables and organized the mountain of ration boxes they’d be handing out in an hour. Some of the aid workers wore Tasers on their belts, like Militiaman Brent’s, or canisters of pepper spray. With several hundred half-starved teenagers to feed, they were smart not to take chances with letting the crowd get out of control.

  As the line moved forward, the girl and boy in front of me stepped in sync, their fingers threaded, heads together, whispering intimately.

  “So what did you decide?” Boyfriend said into Girlfriend’s ear. “Do you want to go?”

  Girlfriend’s answer was hesitant. “I don’t know … I want to, but don’t you need a password or something to find out where it’s gonna be? It moves every night.”

  I realized they were talking about the Rove and leaned closer to eavesdrop. I thought the Rove, an ultra-exclusive, traveling party that moved to a different location in the Waste every night, was a rumor, something Rance Ridley Prophet concocted to make Los Angeles sound even more corrupt, more worthy of Old Testament–style annihilation. But apparently these two thought it was real.

  “My brother’s friend is an usher,” Boyfriend said. “He gave me the inside info so we can find it. Check it out.”

  Boyfriend pulled a thin book with a well-worn cover from his backpack. I tilted my head to read the title. The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot. My brows drew together. How was a book of poetry supposed to get you into the Rove?

  The couple must have sensed my spying. They glanced back at me with narrowed eyes, and Boyfriend slipped The Waste Land back into his bag. “We can talk about it later.”

  The two of them checked the schedule and left, hands still locked, like they we
re afraid to let go.

  I frowned at their retreating backs, feeling a pinch of envy. I’d never had a boyfriend, and didn’t think I ever would. My freakishness was written all over my body, and I couldn’t imagine letting anyone—any guy—see that part of me. But it would be nice to have someone to care about … someone to care about me. Especially now.

  I put the couple and their talk of the Rove out of my mind. I hoped they were wrong and the Rove didn’t exist. And if it did … if there really was a group of people partying in the Waste where so many had died, where my mom had almost died, I couldn’t help but agree with Prophet. Maybe Los Angeles did need to be taught an Old Testament–style lesson.

  I checked the schedule and was surprised to see that Mr. Kale was in his usual room on the third floor. He was the only teacher who still had a room up there.

  Room 317.

  The empty third-floor hallway was covered in a thin layer of plaster dust that had shaken from the ceiling. I hoped it wasn’t mingled with asbestos.

  Most of the classrooms were closed off with yellow tape. I peered through windows as I passed, and saw glimpses of disarray, shattered windows and desks lying on their sides and papers scattered everywhere. Why had Mr. Kale wanted to stay up here? It was creepy on this floor.

  By the time I made it to room 317, the final bell for fourth period was a distant memory.

  I turned the knob, ever so gently, and eased the door open …

  “—and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species—”

  Mr. Kale looked up from the open book perched in his hands. He saw me in the doorway and his voice cut off, but his face remained expressionless. I could tell when he was annoyed, despite his deadpan demeanor. Mr. Kale had eyes the color of crude oil. They matched his hair, which he wore one length to the nape of his neck, combed straight back. His cheeks were pitted with pockmarks, and the lines around his mouth looked like they’d been carved with a scalpel.

  “Welcome back, Miss Price.” His gravelly voice put my skin on edge. Mr. Kale always sounded like he’d been gargling broken glass. When he read aloud, whether it was Dickens or Shakespeare, he made the prose seem like it came from a hard-boiled detective novel.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to inter—”

  Mr. Kale bulldozed over my apology. “I assume you kept up with the reading while you were away, since I handed out a complete syllabus at the beginning of term.”

  Seriously? What kind of teacher expected you to make homework a priority during a state of emergency?

  Mr. Kale smiled thinly. He seemed to take particular pleasure in torturing me. “Can you tell us, Miss Price, how Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein relates to the Greek Prometheus myth.”

  A blank stare was the best I could do. I’d seen every film version of Frankenstein ever made—the monster and I had a lot in common—and I still had no idea what Mr. Kale was talking about.

  “A Modern Prometheus is the novel’s subtitle.” As much as I wanted it to be, the voice that answered wasn’t mine. For one thing, it was male. For another, it knew the answer. I searched for the owner of this voice and found a pair of the most beautifully tortured blue eyes I’d ever seen gazing at me through a pair of black-framed, Clark Kent glasses. And the face behind those glasses … angular, with a curvy, elegant mouth. And above those glasses … soft, dark hair.

  Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t been in Mr. Kale’s English class before the quake. I would have noticed. Noticing would have been the only thing I could do. Like I noticed how perfectly healthy he looked, not skinny and malnourished. Like I noticed how neat and clean his clothes were, as though they’d been ironed. Like I noticed his manicured fingernails.

  But if I just focused on the eyes, the tortured blue eyes, I saw someone who had suffered more than any of us.

  As I had when I first encountered Katrina, I decided immediately that this guy did not fit. There was something off about him. Or something on.

  Mr. Kale turned from me to the guy in the glasses. “Mr. Parish, is it?”

  “Jeremy,” he said.

  Jeremy, a hungry little voice repeated in my mind.

  “Jeremy,” Mr. Kale repeated. “I understand that you’re new to my class, and maybe your other teachers exercised a more liberal style of education, but in my classroom you will raise your hand before you speak.” Mr. Kale turned back to me.

  “Take your seat.”

  I beelined for a desk at the back of the room, by the bank of windows that looked west, toward the ocean. I had to pass by Jeremy to get to it, and when I did he locked those infinitely sad eyes onto mine. It was like he’d reached out and grabbed me, like his look was as good as a touch. My heart beat erratically, imitating the drum circles that used to gather on Venice Beach, a chaos of percussion. I reached my desk and folded myself into it, thankful that the window nearest me was open a crack, and I could feel cool air, damp from the ocean, drifting into the room.

  I dared a glance at the back of Jeremy’s head. He had the kind of hair you wanted to touch without permission.

  He turned slightly and looked at me.

  I ducked my head like I was dodging a bullet.

  When I peeked up again, Jeremy was facing front. I sighed and opened my notebook, poised my pen, and tried to look studious. Tried to look anywhere but at Jeremy. I could feel the pull of him like a freaking tractor beam.

  Mr. Kale folded his arms and strolled back and forth in front of the class. Actually, a stroll might have been what he attempted, but it came off as more of a march. Mr. Kale seemed incapable of something so unmotivated as a stroll.

  “What else, then?” he asked. “Who was Prometheus?”

  As if anyone cared. What did it matter who Prometheus was when half the people in this classroom were counting the seconds until their next meal, and the other half had joined a cult whose leader claimed the world was coming to an end?

  No one said anything, and the vacuum of silence grew, sucking us in. I lowered my eyes as Mr. Kale scanned the room, searching for someone to call on. I didn’t think he’d choose me again, even out of spite, but you never knew. Mr. Kale had never liked me. I wasn’t sure what it was about me that got under his skin. Maybe the way I ignored the reading and watched the film versions of books instead, something I was certain he’d caught on to after I handed in an essay on The Scarlet Letter that focused mostly on the sex scenes.

  Mr. Kale didn’t get a chance to call on anyone. Jeremy answered again. He kept both hands planted firmly on his desk.

  “Prometheus was one of the old gods of Greek mythology,” Jeremy said. “He displeased Zeus when he stole fire from the heavens and gave it to man. Zeus punished Prometheus by binding him to a rock, where every day an eagle came to eat his liver. But every day the liver grew back, trapping Prometheus in an endless cycle of torture. Dr. Frankenstein crossed a similar line. Fire from the heavens is lightning, which he used to bring his monster to life. But the doctor tried to play God, and in the end he was punished, destroyed by the monster he created.”

  Okay. Wow. Smart and sexy. A dangerous combo. Jeremy sure didn’t look like a bookworm, except for the glasses. More like a European underwear model.

  Jeremy’s answer should have more than satisfied Mr. Kale. He had obviously read the book and had actually understood it. But Mr. Kale only stared at Jeremy.

  “Mr. Parish, the next time you speak out of turn, you will be asked to leave my classroom. This being your first day, I suggest you follow the rules if you want me to sign your ration card.”

  His first day? School had been back in session for over a week. I wondered why Jeremy had waited this long to start. The only reason Parker and I had delayed our return was because of Mom. But then we ran out of food and with that we ran out of options.

  “Lightning,” Mr. Kale said, strolling to the other end of the room. “Fire from the heavens. The weapon that allowed Zeus to become king of the gods. That brought a monster to life. What is Ms. Shelley’s intent in rela
ting the two stories? Is she saying that humans do not deserve such power? That we misuse it?”

  I sank lower in my seat at the mention of lightning.

  This time Mr. Kale didn’t have to wait for a hand to go up. A Follower named Lily raised hers.

  “Prophet says lightning from God caused the earthquake.”

  “Does he now.” There was a note of mockery in Mr. Kale’s voice that was impossible to miss.

  Another Follower jumped in. “You said it yourself. Fire from the heavens. The weapon of God. It makes perfect sense. God sent lightning to break the sixth seal and cause the earthquake, to punish Los Angeles for its shameless depravity.”

  “Well then,” Mr. Kale said coolly, “let’s hope the old saying is true and lightning never strikes twice in the same place. Moving on …”

  Students shifted uneasily. It wasn’t mention of the earthquake that had my classmates on edge. It was the idea that it might happen again.

  I didn’t know if lightning had caused the quake, but I wasn’t naïve, and I couldn’t deny certain facts. The day of the earthquake, lightning had attacked downtown Los Angeles. There was no other word for it. I didn’t witness it firsthand (although I’d seen footage on the news a few hundred times since) but I felt the attack like a bomb went off inside me each time lightning touched down. Hundreds of people were struck as lightning hammered the ground. Many of them died instantly. And the lightning kept coming, as though the storm were searching for something.

  There was a geological survey going on at the time—which, ironically, had something to do with earthquakes—and a crew had opened up a hole in the ground that went way down into the earth, supposedly for miles, all the way to the Puente Hills Fault that runs right beneath downtown. Lightning struck straight into the hole, and immediately afterward there was an 8.6 magnitude earthquake that lasted over three minutes.

  The top seismologists in the world had formulated a theory that, hypothetically, the friction along the Puente Hills fault line might have acted like a beacon for lightning. When the fault was struck, it increased the pressure exponentially, setting off the earthquake like a nuke buried miles underground.