“Old ideas are often based in fact,” Mrs. Hargrove responds stiffly. “Besides, we simply don’t know all the factors, do we? Certainly an early exposure—”
“Of course, of course,” my mother says quickly. I can tell that she’s eager to mollify Mrs. Hargrove. “It’s all very complicated, I admit. Harold and I just always tried to allow things to progress naturally. We felt that at some point the girls would simply drift apart. They’re too different—not well matched at all. I’m actually surprised their friendship lasted as long as it did.” My mother pauses. I can feel my lungs working painfully in my chest, as though I’ve been plunged into icy water.
“But after all, it seems we were right,” my mother continues. “The girls have barely spoken at all this summer. So you see, in the end, it all worked out.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
Before I can move or react, the kitchen door is opening, and I am caught frozen, standing directly in front of the door. My mother lets out a small cry, but Mrs. Hargrove doesn’t look either surprised or embarrassed.
“Hana!” she chirps, smiling at me. “What perfect timing. We were just about to have dessert.”
Back at home, locked in my room, I can breathe normally for the first time all night.
I draw a chair up to my window. If I press my face nearly to the glass, I can just make out Angelica Marston’s house. Her window is dark. I feel a pulse of disappointment. I need to do something tonight. There’s an itch under my skin, an electric, jumpy feeling. I need to get out, need to move.
I stand up, pace the room, pick up my phone from the bed. It’s late—after eleven—but for a moment I consider calling Lena’s house. We haven’t spoken in exactly eight days, since the night she came to the party at Roaring Brook Farms. She must have been horrified by the music and the people: boys and girls, uncureds, together. She looked horrified. She looked at me like I was already diseased.
I open the phone, type in the first three digits of her number. Then I snap the phone shut again. I’ve left messages with her already—two or three, probably, and she has returned exactly none of my calls.
Besides, she’s probably sleeping, and I’ll no doubt wake up her aunt Carol, who will think something is wrong. And I can’t tell Lena about Steve Hilt—I don’t want to frighten her, and for all I know she would report me. I can’t tell her about what I’m feeling now, either: that my life is slowly squeezing closed around me, as though I’m walking through a series of rooms that keep getting smaller. She’ll tell me how lucky I should feel, how grateful I should be for my scores at evaluations.
I throw my phone on the bed. Almost immediately, it buzzes: A new text message has come in. My heart leaps. Only a few people have my number—only a few people even have cell phones. I grab the phone again, fumble it open. The itch in my blood makes my fingers shake.
I knew it. The message is from Angelica.
Can’t sleep. Weird nightmares—was on the corner of Washington and Oak, and fifteen rabbits were trying to get me to join a tea party. I can’t wait to get cured!
All our messages about the underground must be carefully coded, but this one is easy enough to decipher. We’re meeting on the corner of Washington and Oak in fifteen minutes.
We’re going to a party.
Chapter Two
To get to the Highlands I have to go off peninsula. I avoid taking St. John, even though it will lead me directly to Congress. There was an outbreak of the deliria there five years ago—four families affected, four early cures imposed. Since then, the whole street has been tainted and is always targeted by regulators and patrols.
The itch under my skin has swollen to a steady, thrumming force, a need in my legs and arms and fingers. I can barely pedal fast enough. I have to force myself not to push it. I need to stay alert and pay attention, just in case there are regulators nearby. If I’m caught out after curfew, I’ll have a lot of questions to answer, and this—my last summer as me, my last summer of freedom—will come abruptly to a halt. I’ll be thrown into the labs by the end of the week.
Luckily, I reach the Highlands without incident. I slow down, squinting at the street signs as I pass, trying to decipher letters in the dark. The Highlands is a mess of different roads and cul-de-sacs, and I never remember all of them. I pass Brooks and Stevens; Tanglewild and Crestview Avenue, and then, confusingly, Crestview Circle. At least the moon is full and floats almost directly above me, leering. Tonight the man in the moon looks as though he’s winking, or smirking: a moon with secrets.