TWELVE
“DAVINA, COME UP HERE.”
At the sound of my name, I stand and head to the front of the Cage. I pass Sean. He arrived an hour ago. I don’t look at him. At least I don’t turn my face in his direction. From the corner of my eye, I observe him writing something in his notebook. He doesn’t glance at me.
Since Friday, I’ve taken his advice. I haven’t talked to him. I’ve tried not to look at him at all. Other than a few words exchanged with Gil, I haven’t said anything to anyone at school. Brockman is the only one I talk to and just because I have to.
Every afternoon, Brockman has either Gil or me take our class’s completed assignments to the office and collect any new work. By Wednesday, I know the drill. I guess today it’s my turn.
“Here you go.” Brockman hands me several manila folders, barely glancing at me. This has been his manner since the bathroom incident with Sean. No inappropriate remarks. He doesn’t so much as brush hands with me when he passes me the folders.
“Come right back.” He says that every time. Like I have a choice. Like I have anywhere else to go.
I nod and start to turn but stop at his, “Oh, wait.” I watch as he digs some spare change out of his pocket. “Why don’t you get me a soda, too. Big Red.”
I hold my hand out for the money. He drops the coins into my palm. I slip the change into my jeans pocket and hurry away.
The athletic hall, ripe with the ever-present aroma of sweat, is familiar by now. Sometimes I pass boys or girls heading into one of the gyms or weight room. They often notice my ID badge and look me over like I’m sort of a freak. Like they’re not accustomed to coming face-to-face with a carrier. I can’t imagine I look very threatening.
Three boys emerge from the locker room. They’re dressed in their gym clothes, black shorts with gray T-shirts. A hawk, the school mascot, is emblazoned across the front, its wings stretched in flight.
Their loud voices compete with each other. One of them nudges the guy next to him when he spots me, and soon all three fall quiet, assessing me with eyes that move rapidly, taking special note of my orange ID badge.
One whispers something to the boy beside him and they laugh. It’s a mean, dirty laugh and it makes my skin crawl.
We’re almost side to side now. I walk as close to the wall as possible, clutching the folders, bending them away from me in my hands.
“I thought they were supposed to keep them in lockdown,” one of them says in a distinctly loud whisper.
Lockdown. Like I’m a prisoner. A captive.
I hurry past them before I can hear more. Before one of them gets the courage to actually address me. At least there’s that. They don’t outright confront me. Too uncertain of the girl with the kill gene.
I find a bathroom on the top floor. I prop the manila folders down on the tiny shelf in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. I hardly recognize the pale girl looking back at me. The fear in my eyes is as unfamiliar as my surroundings. I guess I’m uncertain of the girl with the kill gene, too.
I turn on the faucet, pump soap into my palms, and wash them together, letting the cool water run over my hands. If only everything else wrong in my life could disappear as swiftly.
Brockman grunts a thanks when I return with his soda and set it on his desk. There were no new assignments waiting for us. This actually makes me kind of sad. It’s going to be a boring afternoon with nothing to do.
I hesitate a moment before I open the Cage door. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with longing for my old school. My classrooms. People to talk to, teachers that actually give a damn and want to teach us.
Sinking into my desk, I pull out a notebook and start writing. Composing. I hum under my breath as I jot down notes, toying with varying pitches and combinations in my head. I’m so absorbed I don’t hear him approach.
“What are you doing?”
I jump and slam my notebook shut.
Sean stands over me, holding a spiral notebook. It looks small in his large hands. Even the pencil looks fragile, as if he might accidentally break it in his grip.
“N-nothing.” I want to ask him why he’s talking to me. I thought we were finished with that. With him talking to me . . . helping me. I got his message loud and clear. I was in this alone.
“What were you drawing?”
I shake my head, not about to explain that I was composing a piece of music. “Just doodling.”
He eases into the desk in front of me and turns to face me. Using my desktop, he opens up his notebook and pulls out a work sheet tucked inside there. “Thought we’d finish that assignment.”
“The one from last week?”
He nods.
I angle my head. “You want to write my biography?”
“That’s the assignment,” he replies, his voice even, his gaze unflinching.
I didn’t think he cared. He’d hardly been a willing subject when I posed the questions to him. “Okay,” I say slowly.
“Name?”
“Davy Hamilton.”
“That’s not your full name.” He stares at me steadily, his eyes serious. He’s always so serious. I’ve never heard him laugh. Never seen him smile.
“Davina Evelyn Hamilton.”
And then I see it. The corner of his mouth lifts ever so faintly.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just sounds like the name of someone’s great-great-aunt.”
“They were my grandmothers’ names . . . on both sides.”
His pencil scratches the paper. “Of course,” he murmurs softly beneath his breath.
“Parents?”
“Patrick and Caitlyn Hamilton.”
“Siblings?”
He asks the rest of the questions. All basic stuff. I rattle off answers.
“Hobbies?
I hesitate. He looks up at me. “Come on. You have them.” He sounds almost amused at the idea that I would try to deny this.
“Debutante training?” he suggests. “Tennis at the country club?”
I glare. “Funny. No. Music,” I snap.
“Music? You like listening to music?”
“No. I play. I sing.”
“What do you play?”
I sigh. “Piano. Violin. Flute, guitar. A few others . . .” My voice fades.
He lifts his pencil from the desk and looks at me squarely. “You play all those instruments?”
I nod, waiting for him to make a remark, to poke fun at me.
He returns his attention to his paper. “That’s really cool.” The comment is mild enough, but from him it feels . . . I don’t know. Important somehow. I’ve impressed him. For some weird reason this warms me. I doubt much impresses him.
“Is that why you’re always humming?”
“I don’t always hum,” I deny.
“Yes. You do. You’re really quiet, but you do.”
“I don’t think so.” At least I don’t think I always do it. “No one has ever pointed that out to me before—”
“Then they aren’t paying attention.” He just gazes at me as he says this with that serious expression of his, his smoky eyes shrewd in a way that seems older than his years.
His words resonate in me. They aren’t paying attention. But he is.
My face heats beneath his gaze. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
He breaks eye contact with me and goes back to scrawling on the paper. After a moment, he asks, “Boyfriend?”
“What?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” He spaces each word out as though to help me comprehend.