SEVEN
MITCHELL FINDS ME IN MY ROOM. I’M STILL IN MY bathrobe, my hair a wet, unbrushed snarl. I showered as soon as I got home. As if I could wash away the day. The Cage. The sight of Brockman and Coco in that storage closet. I guess I understood now why Nathan left her alone . . . and why Gil thinks I need an ally.
He catches me tuning my guitar, singing lightly to myself as I adjust the pegs and testing the strings. “Hey.” He drops down on my bed, tucking a pillow under his head. “How was it?”
I set my guitar down and swirl to face him on my chair, tucking my hands beneath my thighs. They’re still shaking. I haven’t stopped shaking since I ran to my car. “I can’t go back.”
“C’mon. It’s just until May. And Mom said it would look good with the Agency if you finished out the year at school. . . . Show them that you can function in the real world—”
I just look at him. I know my expression is bitter. Because last week I was functioning in the real world. I was better than functioning. But now I have to prove it?
“You know what I learned today? That they don’t want anyone with HTS to function in the real world.” I air quote the word function. “They keep us isolated. I’m stuck in a cage with a bunch of other carriers and some pervy teacher.”
He sits up. “What do you mean ‘pervy’? What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” If I tell him, he’ll tell Mom and Dad and then what? In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve discovered just how little influence my parents truly possess. There’s no point going to them for help. They can’t do anything.
He stares at me for a long moment before finally saying, “You’re better than this, Davy. I know you can handle it.”
Shaking my head, I groan in frustration. “Why are you so sure?”
“Because you’re you. You can do anything. When you were three years old you sat down at the piano and played like you’ve been doing it all your life. And as if being a music prodigy isn’t enough, when you were four years old you walked into my room and finished the puzzle that had been kicking my ass for the past week.”
I smile. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah. Well. It pissed me off. It hasn’t always been easy having a little sister who’s better at everything than you are.”
My smile slips. “Sorry.”
He drops a fist on the bed. “Don’t apologize for being smarter than I am. I got over it. Basically, I’m . . . I’m just proud of you. And this crap doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change you.”
My phone chimes. I pick it up and read the message. My stomach dips. “It’s Zac.”
“Told you he’d come around.”
“He’s outside.”
He hesitates for a moment. “Well, you better get dressed. I’ll let him in.”
I wait for Mitchell to leave and then change into jeans and a T-shirt. I’m attacking my hair with my brush when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Zac sticks his head in first. He’s never done that before. Usually, he breezes in like he owns the place. “Hey.”
I wave him inside.
He steps in. “How are you?”
“Okay,” I say because I’m not going to burden him with the kind of day I had. Even if I wasn’t embarrassed—which I am—I wouldn’t want him to know just how different I’ve become. Just how far apart we suddenly are.
He sits on the corner of my bed. “I—I miss you.”
My chest lightens and I finally feel like myself for the first time in days. This is me. Here with Zac. “I miss you, too.” It takes everything in me not to cry. My eyes burn, swollen and unbearably tight, but I keep it in.
He moves, drops onto the carpet, and crouches on his knees before me. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk.” He slides his arms around my waist and looks up at me. “I shouldn’t have run off—”
“No.” I hold his face in my hands. “Anybody would have been freaked out.”
“I shouldn’t have been. I mean, it’s you. . . . I know you’re not some killer. No matter what others—”
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.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
Tori
Don’t bring her
Zac
Told u I have 2