SIX
I SIT NEAR THE FRONT NEXT TO THE GIRL, COCO. IT’S the obvious choice. I’m not ashamed of my predictability. Two of the boys huddle together, their desks close. It looks like they’re playing some kind of card game. One boy sits by himself, his slight shoulders hunched over his desk. He’s small, hardly big enough to pass for a freshman. Face buried in a book, his long, spindly legs stretch out far beneath his desk and he reminds me of a puppy that hasn’t quite grown into his limbs and paws. Hard to imagine he’s a carrier. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe they made a mistake.
Coco doesn’t look up from her desk as I lower into a desk near her. She carves intently, her expression focused. A quick peek at her work reveals an elaborate geometric design.
No one gives my presence much reaction. Several minutes pass and I begin to think this won’t be so bad. Boring, yeah. But not bad. Certainly not dangerous. And then I hear a chair scrape the linoleum floor. My skin tightens, the back of my neck prickling, but I don’t turn to look. I stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t sense someone approaching. As though pretending he doesn’t exist and is coming my way will make him not real.
Coco moves from geometric angles to swirls now. Her pen works faster on her desk, whirring on the air, the pitch reminding me of an aria I sang last year at the bank’s Christmas party.
“Hey.” The word hits the back of my neck in a hot gust of breath.
I jump a little. Masking my fear, I look over my shoulder. It’s only one boy. He occupies the seat behind me, his body dwarfing the desk. He’s wearing a vintage-looking gray shirt with green sleeves that fits him tightly. He smiles. It’s totally insincere though.
His companion watches with interest from his desk. Suddenly, I feel like a lot weighs on this moment, on how I react. I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans. Like a new inmate arrived in prison, I’m being evaluated on all sides.
“Hey,” I return.
“Where you from?”
“Does it matter?” For some reason I hesitate to tell him where I live. I don’t want to come across as the spoiled little rich girl that’s fallen low. Even if I am.
“I suppose not.” He smiles widely. “Nothing matters anymore. Our life is this Cage.”
“Maybe yours,” I return.
His smile vanishes. “Oh. You think so? You think you’re special?”
“This is only temporary. Few more weeks and I’ll graduate—
He laughs and I stop talking. “Stupid bitch. You think I just mean this room? We’ll be in a cage for the rest of our lives. Whether it’s this one or another one. Graduation?” He shakes his head. “You think that’s going to save you? You think you’re going to get a great job or something? Go to college? Right now, the only thing that’s going to help you is how many friends you can make in here.” He looks me over, his cold eyes assessing. “You any good at making friends?”
Friends? As in becoming his friend? Something twists sickly inside me. I don’t answer, but he keeps talking anyway.
“You’re dead to your old friends. You’re swimming in a different pond now. You’ll need new friends. Carriers. Like you.” He leans back in the seat and crosses his thick arms over his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but his words hang there. Like me.
I open my mouth, but can’t think of a proper response, too disgusted with the idea that I am somehow the same as him. That carriers everywhere are all the same. Even if that’s how we’re treated. Even if that’s how everyone views us. I’m different. The exception. It’s arrogant thinking, but all I can cling to.
He smiles, clearly satisfied that he’s put me at a loss for words. Leaning forward, he runs his hand along my arm, his fingers soft as moths’ wings. I slap it away. A mistake. His smile fades and he grabs my offending hand, giving my fingers a hard, cruel squeeze. My heart gallops in my chest, stunned that he’s even touching me like this . . . hurting me.
I glance quickly at Brockman. He’s reading his magazine. I try to wiggle my fingers free, but he holds tightly, twisting my fingers until they’re bloodless. Until I have to clench my teeth from crying out. I debate calling for help, but he clicks his tongue at me, drawing my attention. “Hey, don’t look at him. I’m talking to you. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. There are a lot of things that can happen to you. When Brockman leaves to use the bathroom. When he falls asleep at his desk. Hell, even right now. So let’s get off on the right foot.”
I swallow back my whimper and hold his gaze, searching for some scrap of emotion in eyes as glassy and dead as a mannequin’s.
“Leave her alone, Nathan,” the little guy interjects. “She doesn’t need any tips from you.”
I’d forgotten about him.
“Shut up, Gil,” Nathan snarls at him, his face instantly contorting into something mean and ugly. “Keep your nose in your book and I might forget you exist for the rest of the day.”
Gil doesn’t look away. He glares at the bigger boy. “You mean until he gets here.”
Nathan releases me and lurches from the desk. In two strides, he’s at Gil, pulling him up by his collar. He backhands him once, the sound a startling crack on the air.
I jerk in my seat at the blatant violence. Brockman lifts his head up from his magazine, looking into the Cage, his expression mildly concerned but mostly just annoyed. At Everton, teachers intervene at the slightest whiff of a fight. With a pronounced sniff and swipe at his nose, he goes back to his magazine. I gawk. He’s not going to do anything.
“He’s not here now, wimp.” Nathan gives him a shake. “Or every morning, for that matter. If I were you, I’d watch your mouth. Plenty of chances for you to get a pounding. He can’t protect you every minute of every day.”
That said, Nathan flings Gil back into his desk. The boy’s hip crashes into the top of the desk. He winces as he falls awkwardly into his seat. He folds into himself, pulling his thin frame close.
Then Nathan looks at me, evidently remembering my existence. “You better learn how things work around here quick.” Those dead eyes slide off me as he returns to his desk.
I glance over at Gil. His breath is a wheezy little rasp as he clutches at his hip.
“You all right?” I whisper, convinced more than ever that he’s like me and in here by mistake.
“Yeah. Stupid ape.” His eyes widen. “Oh, not you—”
I smile. “I know.” I shoot another glance at Nathan, engaged in his game of cards again.
“He’s right, you know. You should try and make as many friends as you can. Allies are important.”
I glance around the Cage. My choices aren’t exactly overflowing. So far, Gil looks like the only candidate. He must read that conclusion in my face because he starts shaking his head. “I won’t exactly help your rep. I’ll just get you beat up or . . .” His gaze lowers, skimming my body before quickly looking away.
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. The sudden flush in his cheeks says it all, and I understand. A shiver rolls over me. Ironically, being labeled a dangerous individual has left me a target for violence. How messed up is that?
“Really. For your sake. We shouldn’t talk. Find a friend that can actually intimidate guys like Nathan and Brian back there.” His head jerks slightly in the direction of the boys playing cards behind us.
He returns to his desk, leaving me to stare at his profile as he picks up his book.
“Listen to him.”
I snap my gaze to Coco. The first words out of her mouth, but it’s like she never spoke. She’s not looking at me. She’s still hard at work carving up her desk. She’s back to geometric patterns. No more angry, fast-spinning swirls.
Not a glance. Not another sound from her. Listen to him. That’s her advice? That’s it? Frustration wells up inside me as I sit. Alone. Ignored. And realize that it might not get any better than this.
I must have dozed off. I lift my head from my arms at the sound of the Cage door opening. My heart leaps. For a moment, I think that this horrible day is over and I can go home. A quick glance at the clock reveals I still have hours to go. My heart sinks.
I look up as another student enters the Cage. A boy. Mr. Tucci hadn’t been wrong apparently.
There are six of us.
I don’t have time to wonder at his tardiness because I get my first good look at his face and everything inside me seizes hard, like a car locking up on its brakes.
My gaze shoots to the tattoo collar around his neck. The sight of the circle H transfixes me. It’s familiar. And not because I’ve seen it on some news feature calling for greater involvement from the Wainwright Agency. I saw this specific one yesterday in Mr. Pollock’s cubicle.
The same sun-streaked hair almost brushing his shoulders. The smoke-blue eyes beneath thick, slashing eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. Sean O’Rourke.
He tucks a lock of sun-streaked hair behind his ear as he moves inside the Cage, his stride loose and confident. It’s like he doesn’t care that he’s advertising himself as a carrier for everyone to see. It’s like he’s comfortable with what he is. Not a hint of shame to him.
He hasn’t seen me yet. I don’t breathe, facing forward, watching to see where he sits, expecting him to sit with Nathan and his buddy. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes the first desk he reaches, close to the door, close to me.
He slides into his chair, his frame almost too large for the desk. And that’s when he looks up at me. Heat crawls over my face, but I can’t look away from the recognition lighting his eyes. His expression doesn’t change. He remains stoic and unaffected.
After a moment, he arches one eyebrow—and I realize I’m gawking like some middle school girl drooling over her first crush.
With a small gasp, I snap my gaze straight ahead. A quick glance reveals Coco still doing her thing like nothing has changed. Like a confirmed carrier hasn’t just walked into our midst. Gil glances at me. I only get a brief look at his face, but it’s enough. He gives a slight encouraging nod and I know he’s telling me that this new arrival is the type of “friend” he thinks I should have. It dawns on me that Sean O’Rourke must be the “he” that Nathan said couldn’t protect Gil forever.
He must be joking. Sean O’Rourke . . . a good guy? The evidence is there. On his neck. He can’t be. My insides heave and tremble at the thought of approaching him. How does one even befriend a carrier? An imprinted carrier? And just to remain safe? It seems a bit of a contradiction. And one I’m not about to put to the test.
The bell rings at two thirty and I anxiously start gathering my things, stopping when Brockman’s voice rings out.
“Not yet, Davy. That’s for the regular kids.” My face burns at being singled out—and the reminder that I’m not a “regular” kid. “Ya’ll leave in thirty minutes after the halls have cleared out.”
I sit in my chair and face forward, blinking eyes that unaccountably sting. After everything, this shouldn’t get to me. This shouldn’t make me want to cry.
But it does. Regular kids. Which I’m not. None of us in here are.
My gaze sweeps around me. He’s looking directly at me, his expression still that blank nothingness. I make the mistake of wondering what he’s thinking as he stares at me with those deeply set eyes. Because my mind immediately wonders if it has something to do with gags and hacksaws.
I spin back around. Only a couple more months of this. I slip down in my chair, fortifying myself with that reminder. In the grand scheme, a couple months won’t amount to much.
The minutes drag by. Finally, Brockman announces, “Okay, you can get out of here. See ya tomorrow.”
I’m the first out of my desk. I fly past Sean as he rises, casually stuffing a notebook into his backpack. Like someone announced the building is on fire, I move, swing my backpack on my shoulder, and truck it out of the Cage.
Even thirty minutes after the bell, a few students loiter in the halls, but fortunately none point at me like I’m some sort of freak show. The newest addition to the killers on campus. I cross my arms, tucking the colored ID flapping against my chest out of sight. Just in case. No need to call undue attention to myself.
I’m almost to the parking lot—Mom and I took separate vehicles so I could get home on my own—when I realize I left my purse in the room. Everything is in it. My wallet and phone. My keys. Stupid.
Groaning, I spin back on my heel and head back into the building. I pass Gil. His eyes meet mine, widen for a moment, and then jerk away as he scurries past. I don’t see any of the others on the way back down, and count my blessings.
When I arrive at the Cage, it’s empty. Brockman’s no longer at his desk. Guess he was as eager to leave this place as we were.
The gate is unlocked, thankfully. My bag is under the desk just where I left it. Just to be safe, I give it a quick inspection to make sure everything is still there.
And that’s when I hear a sound. Like someone . . . crying.
I glance around, confirming I’m alone in the Cage. Thinking someone might be hurt, I inch forward, scanning the room. The door to the storage closet is shut, but as I near it I hear the noise again. A muffled whimper. Louder this time. I close my hand around the knob, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.
I turn the knob and push open. The door swings soundlessly. A path of bright fluorescent light spills into the dim room directly on two people.
It takes my mind a moment to register what my eyes are seeing. Coco pinned between Mr. Brockman and a rack of basketballs. Kissing. His back is to me, but one of his hands grips her shoulder, the other her butt. The sight of that hand on her snares my attention. His nails are jagged and shorn to the quick like he spends a good portion of every day chewing them.
I take it all in within a moment. With a quick, horrible sweep of my gaze.
Brockman doesn’t see me, but Coco’s eyes are opened. The heavily lined eyes fall on me. They glitter through her ragged bangs, locking on me. Rage lights up their depths. The venom there stabs me. She tears her face free. “Get out! Get out of here!”
Brockman swings around.
I gasp and slam the door shut, unwilling to watch another moment. I hate that I saw what I just did. Just as much as I hate that they saw me seeing them. If I could burn the image from my corneas I would.
This time I run.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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911 Transcript
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Operator 3026, what is your emergency?
MARIE DOYLE: This is Marie Doyle at 1919 Elmwood in Boerne. I have a carrier living down the street from me.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: (typing) D-O-Y-L-E. 1919 Elmwood.
MARIE DQYLE: Yes.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Okay, ah, yes, ma’am. Um, has the carrier done anything specifically—
MARIE DOYLE: She’s a carrier! That means she’s a killer.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: But she hasn’t assaulted you in any way—
MARIE DOYLE: Are you kidding? (loud slam) Are you a mother? I have two small children. How am I supposed to let them play outside? We moved here because it’s supposed to be a safe place. . . .
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand your distress, ma’am, I do, but unless she threatens you or your family, I can’t help you.
MARIE DOYLE: Great! You’ll come when I’m dead then? Fantastic! Good people like me shouldn’t have to live in fear. This is wrong. Carriers should be behind bars. I watch the news. That’s where they’re headed.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand, ma’am. But for now you’re going to have to sit tight. Stay vigilant. If she makes the smallest threat, please . . . call us back. . . .