The Ward

13


10:00 P.M., SATURDAY


The doors open.

We’re in a fish tank. And that makes us the fish.

The Tank didn’t get its name from nowhere—it’s a basement, gutted and fitted anew with floor-to-ceiling concave sheets of glass. One of the few lucky buildings in the Ward to be restructured after the Wash Out. Never completed, though. Upstate pulled the plug on any rebuilding ’cause of the Appeal, and we got left with half-finished buildings, like this one.

Installed with some mighty fancy technology, but no faucets in the bathrooms.

Aven and I both look around, though she’s the one with wonder on her face. “This place is incredible!” she yells, spinning in a circle to get the full 360. “I can’t believe you get to come here every month. I think this is heaven.”

The mucky water’s been set aglow with underwater lighting, and Aven is plastering her face to the glass to get a better look.

It strikes me as funny that for us in the Ward, heaven is down, not up.

“Can you believe I’ve never seen it from Before?” she asks.

I don’t answer, and my appreciation for the view right this moment is minimal. It just conjures up less than glamorous memories from last night. Reminds me how, for the first time, I’ve come to the Tank as a loser.

I turn to face Aven again, and catch sight of her running off, skipping from glass panel to glass panel.

“Wait up!” I call through the music, but she never stops for longer than a few seconds. Not even the whirlwind of colored lights overhead has time to catch her. I run after, zigzagging myself through a dozen dancing bodies, until finally, she’s winded.

Her breath leaves a circle of fog on the glass in front of her face. She looks at me, all seriousness. “How come . . .” I see her asking, but her voice trails off and I can’t hear any more.

I move us a few feet to the left, under one of the antinoise beams—they cancel out the music using opposite sound waves, or some other science voodoo of the sort. It’s quiet under here, but I can still feel the heavy, electronic beats ’cause they make my nose hairs buzz.

“How come you never told me how wonderful this place is?” Aven asks again, looking around our invisible bubble like it’s magic.

I’m quiet. Outside this window, we watch the sad remains of a parked truck as it does nothing but rust. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad,” I say at last. “That’s all. Didn’t want to make you wish for things that couldn’t be.”

Aven sighs. “All I had was my imagination. Hours to do nothing but wonder when it was finally going to be over.”

At that I flinch, though she’s not saying it to be mean.

“It would have been nice to have something like this to think about.”

The realization stings—I’d never thought of it that way. All these years, I could have been treating her more like a sister, telling her things. I’m about to say that I’m sorry, but she tugs at my hand, and I know she knows.

“Some friends are here,” I say, thinking how now is as good a time as any to catch her up to speed on the last three years. I glance around the club, landing on every near-reddish head of hair I see. None of them are him, though. “You want to take a loop together?”

“Lead the way. But first . . .” Aven riffles around for something in her shawl, opening a small pocket in one of the corners. “You need makeup.”

I really don’t know this girl. Is this what she’s been thinking about all these years stuck in bed?

Parties and makeup?

“Where did you get that?” I examine the stick of kohl eyeliner like it’s a black bullet gone astray that could hit my face at any moment.

“One of my scavenges. Been saving it since Nale’s. Can I . . . ?” she asks, leaning in with the weapon of cosmetic destruction.

“Noo way.” I shield myself with my hands. “That’s all you.”

Aven leans her head on my shoulder and gives me her best puppy eyes.

That’s all it takes: just one tear-jerking iota of unhappiness on her face—even the fake kind—and I’m a goner. I lean my back against the cool glass and close my eyes. “Fine. But please don’t make me look like one of those girls on Broad Walk.”

“What girls?” She looks at me, confused, and unscrews the stick of compressed coal. I open one eye.

Oh. Right. “Forget it. Just . . . you know, go easy.”

We’re quiet for a few moments, and I try not to squint while she prods over my eyeballs with that black junk.

“Open.”

I open my eyes.

“Close.”

This is exasperating.

She uses her fingers, presumably to blend the stuff. “Ren, you need moisturizer.” I’m mentally giving her the middle finger.

You know when your eyes are closed, but by way of some freaky sixth sense you can tell you’re being looked at? Well, that’s the vibe I’m getting right now, so when I hear Aven tittering like she’s trying to be quiet, I know it’s bad.

“That’s a good look for you.” It’s a guy’s voice. Deep, kinda husky. I can’t quite tell because he’s standing outside the antinoise beam.

Oh no. He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not . . .

He’s here.

“Derek,” I groan. “Don’t you dare laugh.” I make like I’m going to throw him a left hook.

“You look haaawwwt, Renny.” Aven nods her head with altogether too much cheer. “The liner makes your eyes really exotic. Like Cleopatra. Or Mata Hari.”

Both sluts who died gruesome deaths. At least they were pretty.

Though I did just suffer a major blow to the head, I think Derek is kinda . . . gaping? His mouth is open and yet there are no words there. Oh, this is too good. “No making fun,” I say, pointing at him.

Derek laughs and touches his hand to his chin. Aven mimics him. Together they look like they are examining a confusing piece of art, like that one of the toothy shark in the formaldehyde.

The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living.

Saw that one at the New Met with the orphanage. Everyone stared at it just like that, how Aven and Derek are staring at me.

So . . . I guess that makes me the shark. And whaddya know? I’m in a tank too.

I turn and try to catch my reflection in the glass, but a seven-inch-thick pane of glass isn’t the best place to look for accuracy. Still, Aven’s handiwork appears . . . not awful.

I’m caught in a moment of unadulterated girlyness when Derek taps me on the shoulder. “Don’t I get an introduction? I didn’t know you had friends who are girls.” He points to Aven—the girl he’s heard about for three years but has never met.

Brack.

How the hell am I going to explain this?

“Derek,” I say, pulling him under the beam—we’re pushing it to capacity so we have to speak louder. “Meet . . . Aven.” I draw a deep breath. I certainly can’t tell him that I think some miracle water shrank her tumor. Then he’d think that brick to my head did enough damage to send me to the loony bin.

We didn’t even have time to think of a story. And really, what kind of story would help in this situation? Meet my sister, Aven, who, as you know, has been deathly ill for quite a few years. Kidding! She’s been fine. P.S. She’s a certified club bunny!

“The Aven?” His eyebrows shoot up, the whites around his irises practically glowing purple under the black light. I can see the suspicion there. He looks at her. He looks at me. He plays ping-pong with his eyes. To me, “And what happened to your face?”

I thought we’d established that, and so I point at Aven. “Uhh, memory loss much? This one had to turn me into an art project.”

Aven grins. “You’d get an A. Actually, I’d get an A—”

With a flick of his wrist, Derek silences her, which makes me want to silence him with a flick of my fist. “No, Ren,” he interrupts. “Your face . . . Yesterday you needed stitches—remember that giant-sized gash by your left eye?”

I bring my hand to my temple, covering where the wound should be. A few minutes ago, the scabs fell away. And only a few hours ago, the flesh had seamed together.

This is bigger than my being a “fast healer.” It’s got to be. Because both Aven and me drank the water.

Unbelievable, that’s the only word for it. I have no answers, no explanations, but I know one thing. My gut’s sending a message loud and clear: I have to play it off like it’s no biggie. Can’t have anyone knowing about the fresh find . . . and if it’s more than that, even more of a reason to keep quiet.

“I’m a quick healer,” I answer, falling back on that, despite how weak it sounds. “Remember that time I sliced my arm on the carburetor? I was better in days.”

“Days, Ren. Not a day.”

I avoid his eyes. If I look at them, there’s no way I’ll be able to lie. Across the room, Terrence has just stepped out of the elevator. His gaze fans around but doesn’t land on us. “Ter is here, guys.”

The moment I step outside the sound bubble, music floods my ears. Derek follows me, then Aven. Thankful for the distraction from questions I just can’t answer, I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle. Ter sees us and shakes his head as he shuffles over, addled by the attention.

After the high pitch cuts out, I realize there’s a loser spotlight on me. People stare, a few point. I slink closer to the glass, trying to find a corner where all those eyes can’t reach.

Ter strides across the room, eyes not on me but behind me. By the time he’s near enough, I expect him to stop, say hi, I dunno, address the girl who just hailed him with a hundred decibels of finger whistle, but he just ignores my ass. It’s only when he stops behind Aven that he turns toward me, mouthing and pointing, Who’s that?

I shouldn’t have let her stay.

Terrence is going to remember her from the orphanage. Had quite a crush on Aven too, if I recall, though it’s been a while. I’d say it was too bad that Ter was adopted before a real prepubescent relationship had a chance to blossom, but that’s ridiculous. He found a home.

“That’s Aven,” I say helplessly, ready for the sky to get on with its falling.

His turf-green eyes widen. “What the . . . She’s . . .” He stammers, just as confused as the rest of us. “She’s . . . here?”

“T-Bone!” She squeals his orphanage nickname, a name I’d just about forgotten, and pulls him into a bear hug.

Terrence looks to me, undecided about hugging her back.

“I’m not contagious,” she assures him. She raises up her arm, showing off her fresh, red welt in the shape of an X. It’s a prize to her, not a brand. Says with a smile, “Confirmed green.”

“I don’t understand . . .” He shakes his head.

“I always told Ren that miracles exist,” Aven says knowingly.

Ter ain’t entirely convinced, but a few seconds later he returns the hug, wrapping his arms around her, squashing her tiny frame against his chest. “You’re okay?” he whispers into her hair, dazed as I was. Am.

Aven giggles. “How have you been? Do you still like your dad? Did you ever get a mom too? I want to hear everything . . . from the moment you were adopted up until this very instant. Don’t leave a thing out.” She takes him by the wrist and pulls him under one of the free antinoise beams in the corner.

“Don’t go too far?” I say first to her, then to Ter.

Aven rolls her eyes, and I swear it’s like I’m looking at myself. “This is T-Bone, Renny,” she says through a grin. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I’ll watch her,” Ter calls back, and they duck off.

I’d trust Ter with my life, but I don’t like this—not one bit. A palm on my arm forces my attention. “What?” I huff, even though I know it’s Derek, and whip around.

He takes me by the arm, leads me back under the antinoise beam.

Technology is cruel—no one should be denied the right to give “I can’t hear you” as an excuse not to talk at a party.

Pointing behind me, “I really should stay with Aven,” I say.

“What the hell is going on? How is she here? Why would you bring her?”

I swallow the insult—my jaw clenches. “I didn’t bring her—she followed me. And why are you acting like I’m hiding something? I don’t know how she’s here. I just know that she is. Can’t you just be happy, like the rest of us?”

I wish I were just happy.

Derek’s eyes are stuck to my face, clinical and detached. He even leans in, like he’s going to examine the wound.

“When did Aven get better? And when did you notice the cut starting to heal?”

The questions—they’re so specific. Like there’s an answer that makes sense, and if I give the right one he’ll figure it all out. A twinge in my gut stops me from answering straightaway. I feel myself wanting to lie—why, though? It’s more than not wanting to break CVH guidelines and tell him about the fresh, and it’s more than being afraid of him thinking I’m crazy.

To be honest, I can’t put my finger on it. But I’m not one to ignore my gut. “This afternoon,” I lie.

Muttering to himself, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t make any sense?”

“This whole thing . . .” he answers too quickly. “You think that a cut healing in twenty-four hours—less than that—makes sense?” He seems almost angry now, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

“No,” I answer, and look away. Of course it doesn’t. And part of me, a nagging in the back of my brain, wants to dig deeper. To understand how any of this is possible. But I’m also afraid of looking too closely. Some things, especially good things, disappear once you start picking them apart, trying to understand them. I don’t want to explain miracles.

Then they stop being miracles, and can be undone.

“Look,” I tell him, still avoiding his gaze. “Alls I care about is that she stays here. Alive. Healthy. Happy. Look at her, Derek. I’ve haven’t seen her like this since Nale’s. I’m not going to question it. What I am going to do, however, is make sure she stays healthy. She’s probably thirsty. Hungry, too. I won’t have her passing out because I forgot to feed her.”

“Right,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes. The questioning, the irritation, it all leaves his face. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Of course I’m happy she’s better. I’m just concerned, that’s all. Let me get her something from the bar.”

His voice is so earnest that I want to put my arms around him, to hold him. I don’t know why it occurs to me in this moment, but I realize that whenever we have any kind of spat, it’s always because he cares about me. It’s always because he worries. But with Aven healthy and my head wound healed, what could he be worried about?

“I’ll get it,” I tell him. “Will you watch her for me?”

Derek nods, glancing back at the two of them. Then, before I turn to step out of the antinoise beam, someone else steps in.

It’s her. . . . Kitaneh.

She cozies up to Derek’s side, drink in hand, and ignores me completely. I can’t ignore her though. Now that I’m closer, I see . . . it’s not that she’s just beautiful, it’s like she’s made of different stuff. Magnetic. Naked-faced, too, unlike most of the girls around who’ll primp themselves unrecognizable.

In a singsong voice: “And what’s going on over here?” Kitaneh asks Derek, her cheeks dimpling with the sly half smile she gives him. Makes me want to puke.

Derek rubs his jawline and the nape of his neck. His nerves are all over the place. “We were just—talking,” he stammers.

He may have said Kitaneh isn’t his girlfriend, but he’s sure acting like she is—it’s as though he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wait . . . does that make me the cookie?

“Won’t you introduce me to your friend?” Kitaneh asks, still not a glance to spare for me.

Derek’s silent for a moment too long, and so I introduce myself instead. “Ren,” I say, waiting for her to look at me. In the eye, preferably.

Smirking, she actually gives me the up-down. “And how old are you, Ren?”

Oh, she’s good. Her voice is whipped cream, nothing but sugar—I can see her laughing on the inside. It’s right there, in the corners of her eyes.

I won’t let it get to me, though I understand the gibe—Derek’s a few years older than I am. Twenty, maybe. I just shake my head, show her who the immature one is for asking such an obviously dumb question, and turn to Derek.

“You’ll watch Aven?”

“Of course,” he tells me, and as I step out of the antinoise beam, I hope for his sake he and Kitaneh aren’t together.

She may be magnetic, but you’ve got to be crazy to actually want to be around her.


Away from the others, people pin me more easily. I hear the whispers. I’m the one that nearly died. I fold myself into the crowds, hoping I don’t see the Derbies, and try to disappear below heads much higher than my own. Except that makes my next task somewhat difficult.

I wasn’t lying about wanting to get Aven some food and drink from the bar, but I have another reason for leaving her alone: Officer Justin Cory.

He led me to the fresh—he’s got to know something about its unusual “side effects.” And where did he get his tip? If he’s here, I’ve got to find him. Fast, so I can get back to Aven.

“Miss Red, the Undead Rida!” a voice clucks from behind the bar. Never one for subtlety, this lady. “Step right on over and take yer round, darlin’. On the house.”

I guess being the survivor of a recent near-death incident has its perks (aside from, you know, the survival part).

I squeeze through the pushing bodies, ignoring the occasional “wachit” or “uggdh.”

“Heya, Pidge,” I call out, tipping my head up. Way up. Pidge is tall enough to give the Empire Clock a height complex.

She smiles, toothy but kind, and claps a hand over mine. “Let’s celebrate, eh? To not dying. Something bubbly, I think.” Then all I can see is her pigeon-gray hair as she rummages behind the bar.

“Not much in the mood for spirits,” I say. “But you can help me out another way.”

Pidge doesn’t listen, too busy fighting to free a bottle from the evil clutches of its cork. “Our near-dead racers always get a special round o’ the house. Only polite, it is. Drink up.”

She passes me something fizzy and green, and I hear her mutter about the “change in times.” How kids my age couldn’t drink legally before the Wash Out, and we’d do just about anything to get liquored up.

Always thinking about the customer, that’s what I love about Pidge.

I take a sip and she’s satisfied.

“Now. How can I be of service?”

“You seen any out-of-towners?” I ask casually, glancing back to where I left Aven.

“What, who? Out-o’-towners? Naw.” Pidge shakes her head. “Wait, maybe, I have.” At that she pauses, chuckles knowingly.

“Either you have, or you haven’t. Which one is it?”

“I’d say, yes. Yes I have.”

Exasperated, I spin around on the stool.

Standing right in front of me, one hand about to tap my shoulder, I see Justin Cory.