How am I going to get through twelve years of college if I can’t even stay awake in study hall?
Too bad I can’t make a career out of sleeping in class undetected. I could tutor people in that. It’s all about the posture. Chin in palm says bored. Chin on knuckles says deeply in thought.
And that sunbeam drifting through the window next to my desk? It says, Go to sleep, Chloe.
I tilt my head, watching the late May sunshine stroke my arms with soft, golden fingers. I do have all weekend to study. And I’ve got that stupid study group tonight, so I’m taking steps in the right direction. How much harm could one teeny little catnap do?
I give into the warmth and let my eyes slip closed. I’ll worry about my lack of self-discipline after the bell rings.
But the bell doesn’t ring.
There’s no sound at all to wake me, just a cold sinking feeling in my middle. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and my heart changes rhythm. Skips one beat. Then another.
And I know something is horribly wrong.
Chapter Two
I’m afraid to open my eyes, but I do.
Darkness closes around me like a fist. Even still half-asleep, I know this isn’t right. I blink blearily, but everything feels off. The room, the air…me.
Dreaming. I must still be dreaming.
Outside the window, everything is dark. Wait, that can’t be right. It can’t be that late.
Can it?
A slate-gray sky stretches beyond the glass. I see bits of white trailing through it, drifting down like glitter against velvet.
What is that? Flowers? Dust? No, it’s just snow.
Snow?
I bolt out of my seat, the scrape of my chair legs shattering the silence. I’m alone. Goose bumps rise on my arms as I stare at the emptiness.
The clock above the whiteboards reads 9:34 p.m. Mr. Brindell, who I’ve never seen anywhere but behind his desk, is gone. I look around, realizing that it’s not just the teacher. Everyone is gone. Everything too. Books, papers, backpacks dangling from the corners of chairs. I’m in the belly of a skeleton, the remains of a class long over.
Panic shoots through me like a shock from a bad plug, white hot and jangling every nerve.
No.
No, this can’t be happening. It’s a scary dream. A mistake.
I lean closer to the window, but the snow refuses to be anything other than what it is. It falls thickly on the brown grass, clinging to the spindly branches of barren trees.
Where are the leaves? For that matter, where is the freaking sun?
Please let me wake up. I need to wake up.
But I won’t. I feel it in my bones. My heart screams, Nightmare! but my mind says otherwise. This is happening.
I press my hand to the glass then snatch it back in shock. My nails—they’re filthy. I examine the black half-moons of dirt wedged under each nail, black streaks caked into the creases of my fingers.
Okay, this is too creepy. Like horror-movie creepy and I need to get out of here. Right now.
I reach for my backpack, but it’s not there. Gone too is the strappy sundress I zipped myself into today. I’m wearing a black sweater and jeans now. The feel of the soft knit beneath my fingers makes my stomach roll. This isn’t right. Nothing is right.
I find the comforting bulge of my car keys in one pocket and my cell phone in the other. Thank God. I pull it out with shaking fingers and turn it on.
Light blooms on the screen, and I deflate in relief. Outside the world is still screaming all its wrongness at me, but this little glowing rectangle is my anchor. I hold it tight.
I inch farther away from the dark window with its impossible snow, my fingers hovering over the keypad on my phone.
Now what? My parents flash through my mind, but they still think I’m crazy after last fall. I might as well just call the psychiatric ward at Mercy Hospital and save the extra step. No, I can’t call my parents.
Maggie.
My speed dial for her doesn’t work. Too impatient to figure out why, I scan through my recent calls. But she’s not on here.
Impossible. I haven’t gone ten minutes without calling or texting Maggie since we both got phones in the ninth grade. I texted her on my way to the principal’s office like two hours ago.
One glance at the window reminds me that wasn’t two hours ago.
I keep paging, stopping only to make sure this isn’t someone else’s phone. Because the list of names in my recent calls cannot belong to me. Finally, on the sixth or seventh page, I find my mom’s cell phone and a couple of calls to my house, but no Maggie.
I pull up the detail on one of my calls, and fear slithers through me like a living thing. 11/10—6:32 p.m.
As in November 10? No. I read it once and then again. A bunch of other calls are all from November too. I glance up, panicked, finding a calendar on the wall and a flyer for a winter dance that should still be eight months away.
The evidence hits me like icy darts, needling me toward the impossible truth. I’ve been asleep for six months. A coma or something. Somehow, I’ve missed six months of my life.
But that can’t be right either. They wouldn’t leave me unconscious in a classroom. I’d be in a hospital, hooked up to machines and watched by nurses. But if I wasn’t asleep…
Amnesia?
Maybe I’ve also got a terrible case of consumption too. Or malaria. I need to get serious here—no one gets amnesia! But what else could this be? The longest lasting roofie of all time? Alien abduction?
A sinister possibility whispers to me. One word, two syllables, and an endless river of humiliation.
Crazy. I could be going crazy.
I heard it enough last year, whispered behind my back. I saw it on their faces too, expressions that ranged from pity to contempt as they looked at the “troubled girl.” But troubled is way better than insane, and what else could this be?
Sane people forget what they ate for breakfast. Or maybe the names of their new neighbors. They don’t wake up in a dark classroom without a damned clue where they’ve been or what they’ve done for six months.
Adrenaline flares through my middle, making my joints tickle and my stomach cramp. I feel my body poising for flight, my lips going numb, my heart pumping faster with each beat.
It won’t stop there. Not with me. Familiar bands squeeze around my chest in warning, and I clench my fists. I have to calm down before this turns into a full-blown panic attack.
I close my eyes and do all the things my therapist told me to do. I remind myself that I am okay. That I am not sick or dying. My body is giving me extra energy to figure this out, and it’s good energy. It’s okay. I don’t need to be afraid.
“Chloe?”
My head snaps up at the sound of my name and at the person standing in the open doorway of the classroom. Adam Reed. Six feet and a couple of inches of something that scares me half to death.
I feel the blood drain from my face as he makes his way into the room. The light from the windows seems all too happy to highlight his model-worthy cheekbones and broad shoulders. Adam’s so pretty he looks like he could sprout wings and a halo. But angels don’t usually come with criminal records.
Is he here because of the fire alarm? He’s looking at me like that again, with a little bit of a smile on his face. And Adam never smiles, so what gives?
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice small and frightened.
He chuckles. “You called me, remember?”
The idea of me calling him is so ridiculous I can’t even respond. We don’t even nod at each other in the halls. Why would I call him?
Despite my little fire alarm adventure, it’s not like we run in the same circles. I get along with almost everyone. Adam can’t seem to move through the hallways without starting a fight. I sometimes walk dogs at the animal shelter. He sometimes gets pulled out of class by the police. We aren’t just in different social groups; we’re in different solar systems.
He tilts his head, and I take a breath, feeling my shoulders relax. Which is maybe crazier than anything else happening right now. I shouldn’t feel safer with him here. I should feel completely freaked out.