Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

four

I take a break from decorating my new room when a text alert chimes on my phone. It’s Megan, one of the kids who died with me in Iowa eleven years ago; another of fourteen living “bus kids” that make up the Revive program test group. Megan lives in Seattle, but we keep in touch. Initially, we bonded over the program. Then we grew closer, like sisters who realize they’re actually friends, too.

I tap my finger on the screen to read her message.

Megan: You didn’t post…. Everything okay?

Under the pseudonyms Flower Girl and Fabulous, Megan and I coauthor a blog called Anything Autopsy, where we dissect music, books, fashion, food, and whatever else we feel like. The format is she said/she said style—or she said/he-she said, since Megan is transgender—and if one of us doesn’t post, it’s not as cool.

I type back:

Daisy: Sorry, we had to move.

There’s a pause, and I imagine Megan’s black-lined eyes bugging out of her head. The thought makes me laugh out loud.

Megan: Again???!!!???

“Unfortunately,” I say aloud, even though she can’t hear me. Then I type:

Daisy: Again. Bees.

Megan: I’m going to start calling you Honey.

Daisy: Please don’t.

Megan: I guess daisies attract bees, too, don’t they?

Daisy: I promise to post twice this week. Setting up my new room. Chat later?

Megan: Love you madly

Daisy: Love you more

I set aside the phone and pick up the paint roller.

People might say it’s stupid to spend time decorating a space you’ll likely soon abandon, but to me, putting my stamp on each new bedroom is a crucial part of any move. I mean, seriously: I live with science-obsessed secret agents; my bedroom is my retreat. And more than that, it’s part of the cover. Assuming someday someone wants to see my room, it has to be in line with my personality. It has to look permanent.

For the first three days in Omaha, when Mason and Cassie are setting up the lab in the basement, I pretend I’m the designer on a home makeover show and create my perfect space. Since my sixteenth birthday’s not for another month, I have to get Mason to drive me to Target, a crazy place called Nebraska Furniture Mart, and the paint store, but after that, it’s all me and my vision.

In this house, I’m going for tranquil. I paint the walls a nice, mellow gray and cover as much of the wood floors, which are badly in need of refinishing, with a super-plush rug. On one full wall I install a new white open storage unit, then arrange my white nightstand and bed frame from Frozen Hills in the little nook part of the L-shaped room. I put the brown desk that I’ve had since I was ten under the largest window; when I find that it doesn’t look right, I paint it lavender.

Then I add the little details that make all the difference. I sort my books by the color of their spines and stack them horizontally in the little storage-unit cubbies: a librarian’s worst nightmare. I frame and hang only black-and-white prints and posters; I reroll all the others and store them under the bed. I thrift-shop on Etsy and craigslist to find an oversized D wall decal, a mirror to hang over my new black dresser from Target, sheer white window coverings, and a gray-and-white-striped beanbag chair.

“Where’s the electric staple gun?” I ask Mason on the morning of the day before I’ll start school at Omaha Victory High School. Mason’s in the office waving motion commands at a massive computer screen tethered to one of the three tiny computers in the house.

“What do you need it for?” he asks.

“I’m re-covering my desk chair,” I explain. I don’t mention that I’m covering the seat with the fabric from my old comforter. Although, to be fair, I’m upcycling, so he should be proud.

“Garage,” Mason says, rubbing his eye sockets. “Third drawer on the left. And be careful.”

“I can’t kill myself with a staple gun.”

“Probably not, but how do you feel about blindness?”

“I’ll wear goggles,” I say.

Mason shakes his head at me and goes back to his work.

I head downstairs in search of power tools.

When my room is finished, I sit and enjoy it for about five minutes; then I get antsy. I head down two flights of stairs to the lab in the basement to see how it’s coming along.

“Holy, bright!” I say, squinting under the megawatt fluorescent bulbs covering every square inch of the ceiling.

“We need to see what we’re doing,” Cassie replies.

“Mission accomplished, and then some,” I say.

Mason chuckles at me quietly.

I scan the large room, taking it all in. It’s nothing compared to the main lab in Virginia, but it’s impressive anyway. There are two workstations, both with the same mini computers and massive monitors as the one in the office upstairs. There’s the PCR machine, used to amplify DNA, which looks like a fax machine crossed with a mini-fridge. There are spinners and shakers and rotators and the Homogenizer, aka the tissue blender. There’s a hot plate, and dry ice; a water bath and a scale. And, of course, there are dozens of squeaking rats.

All of the Disciples have assignments, but not many of them need labs like ours in their homes. Duties range from monitoring other countries for breakthroughs similar to Revive to controlling the program’s technology to managing relocation and surveillance. Agents in the big lab focus on advancing Revive—testing new iterations—while agents like Mason and Cassie make sure those who got the original version are functioning normally. Inside the program, my guardians’ job is to conduct ongoing testing and analysis on the bus kids; to the rest of the world, Mason is a psychologist and Cassie is a stay-at-home mom.

As always, I’m impressed by the pop-up, state-of-the-art lab in an otherwise pedestrian basement.

“You guys are making good progress,” I say.

“Thanks,” Mason says, smiling. “The space is larger than the one in Michigan, so that’s helpful.”

“Yeah,” I say, giving it another look. Then my eyes fall back on Mason. “Well, my room’s done,” I say. “I feel like going out.”

Mason raises his eyebrows, surprised. “What do you need?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “I want to get a library card. See if Omaha has any good shoe stores. Maybe catch a movie. I need to do something to get acclimated. I start school tomorrow, and I know nothing about this town.”

Mason tilts his head slightly, considering it. “Okay,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll take you.”

Cassie shoots him a look: Mason leaving means she’ll have to finish setting up the lab alone.

“Let’s all go,” Mason says to her. “Daisy’s right. It’ll be good for us to get to know Omaha, too.”

Cassie stares for a few seconds, then relents. Mason is, after all, her boss.

“At least let me change first,” she says.

An hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the desert wondering how it would feel to be stranded without water.

“Think Revive would work if I died of dehydration?” I ask Cassie quietly, staring up at the shell of the Desert Dome at the Omaha Zoo.

“I think so, yes,” Cassie says without taking her eyes off of a cactus. “We’ve done dehydration testing on the rats. Seventy-two percent success.”

“That’s better than asphyxiation,” I say.

“And drowning,” Mason adds.

Thinking of water reminds me of an exhibit I want to see.

“I’m going to the aquarium,” I say.

“Meet us at the front gate at three,” Mason says before turning and heading toward the bat exhibit. Cassie seems stuck to the cactus, so I walk toward the underwater experience alone.

“They’re older than dinosaurs, you know.”

I move my eyes from the sharks to the man, smile politely, and then look back at the tank. I can see in my peripheral vision that the man’s eyes are back on the water, too.

“Amazing creatures,” he adds with a hint of a disarming lisp. I feel free to answer back.

“I like the sea turtles better,” I say, dreamlike, as I watch one swim by. My face is lit up by the shimmering sea.

“Hmm,” the man murmurs. “You’re right…. They’re quite spectacular, too.”

The man and I are two of maybe five people in a tunnel cutting through the aquarium itself. We are under the ocean, or at least a man-made version of it. It is sedative and beautiful: a claustrophobic’s hell on earth. For a blink, I wonder what would happen if the glass overhead sprung a leak. I imagine drowning. Again.

“Is school out today?” the man asks evenly.

“No,” I say. “We just moved here. I start school tomorrow.”

“Moves can be difficult,” says the man in a quiet, soothing voice.

“Mm-hmm,” I say.

“What grade are you in?”

“Tenth.”

“Ah, high school,” the man says softly as another shark passes. “Well, good luck settling in.”

I wait a beat, enjoying the patterns of the water reflecting across my face, then answer: “Thanks. Do you have any tips about the area?”

“Who are you talking to?” Cassie asks from my left side. Startled, I peel my eyes from the underwater world and glance at her. Then I look right, to where the man had been standing. There’s no sign of him. Confused, I look back at Cassie.

“I was talking to some dude, and then he disappeared,” I say.

“What did he look like?” Cassie asks automatically. It’s a question I’m used to hearing. Mason and Cassie are always trying to teach me life lessons, like how to be a keen observer. Normally, I’m excellent at this game, but when I think of the man, only the word average comes to my mind. I try to remember his hair color or what his clothes looked like. I try to picture whether he wore a hat or distinctive shoes. Anything.

“I don’t remember,” I say honestly.

Cassie looks deep into my eyes for a moment, probably expecting the usual list of colors and textures and mannerisms. Finally, when she realizes that I’m not going to say more, she tugs at my arm.

“Mason’s waiting. Let’s go.”

On the way to the car, I remember something about the man: his barely distinguishable lisp when saying certain things, like the word creatures. Excitedly, I look over at Cassie, wanting to tell her about it.

But like usual, she’s on the phone.

five

Omaha Victory High School is brand-new and modern, sharp angles and manicured grounds, high-tech and functional. School starts at 7:45, but Mason, Cassie, and I arrive at 7:00 to check in and pick up my class schedule and locker assignment. We follow signs through the new-smelling and nearly empty corridors. A surprisingly young-looking, dark-haired woman in jeans and a blazer is waiting for us at the reception area.

“I’m Vice Principal Erin Waverly,” the woman says, hand outstretched.

“Mason West,” Mason says with a smile, shaking Ms. Waverly’s hand.

“I’m Cassie West,” Cassie says. “So nice to meet you.” Her voice is sugary sweet like a doughnut this morning.

“And this must be Daisy,” Ms. Waverly says, looking at me with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Victory.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We follow Ms. Waverly back to her office. Mason, Cassie, and I sit on a small couch across from Ms. Waverly’s desk while she reviews my real but slightly altered birth certificate, government-manufactured school transcripts, forged yet accurate immunization records, and totally falsified proof of residence.

“You were in honors classes at your last school,” Ms. Waverly observes before setting aside the transcript.

“Yes,” I say.

“She’s a little smarty-pants,” Cassie teases as she smoothes back my hair.

“Mom!” I protest quietly, rolling my eyes at her and feigning embarrassment.

“I can see that Daisy’s a good student,” Ms. Waverly says to Cassie. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a larger than usual sophomore class this year due to some renovations at one of the magnet schools, and our honors classes are full.”

Mason shifts in his seat. “But can’t you make room for one more?” he asks.

Ms. Waverly holds up a hand. “Before you get too concerned, I think I have a solution.”

“Oh?” Mason asks.

“Yes. I think based on Daisy’s test scores, she’ll keep up fine in junior math, science, and English.”

I get a funny feeling in my stomach: a tinge of nervousness. Victory is grades nine through twelve, so I’m already starting high school a year after everyone else my age; now I’m about to be thrust into junior classes, too? But at the same time, it’s better than the regular sophomore curriculum.

That’s the equivalent of being held back.

Everyone agrees to the compromise, and soon enough, we leave the office, all smiles and optimism. I part ways with Mason and Cassie at the main doors. When they’re gone, I set off for my assigned locker in the math wing, navigating multiplying students as I go. A professional new girl, I check out what kids are wearing and note that my hip-length red T-shirt and faded skinny jeans were the right choice this morning.

Like a chameleon, I blend in.

“Sweet TOMS,” a voice says, presumably to me. I step back from my locker to investigate. A pretty girl a few doors down is pointing at my silver glitter slip-ons.

“Thanks,” I say, wiggling my toes inside the canvas shoes. Thoughts of birthday party invitations fly into my brain, and I decide to try to keep the conversation going. “I like your hair.”

The girl runs a hand through her two-toned tresses—golden blond on top and jet black underneath—and smiles with her whole face, from her Hollywood chin to her dark brown eyes. She’s wearing a turquoise sundress and low cowboy boots, and I’m positive she has to be the most popular girl in school. Everything about her is cool.

“Thanks,” she said. “My mom hates it.”

“My mom hates these shoes,” I say, shrugging, which is mostly true. Cassie doesn’t like anything remotely flashy or attention-getting.

The girl laughs.

“I’m Audrey McKean,” she says.

“Daisy West.” I smile.

“You must be new; I know everyone.”

Yep, she’s popular.

“Today’s my first day,” I say. “We just moved here from Michigan.” Another student approaches one of the lockers between mine and Audrey’s, blocking our view of each other. Audrey peeks around him and makes a silly face at me, then slams her locker door and moves around the guy.

“So, what’s your first class?” she asks.

“English,” I say. “With Mr. Jefferson?”

“You’re a junior?” she asks.

“Sophomore,” I say.

“No way.”

I raise my eyebrows in question.

“You look older,” she explains. “You must be a huge nerd.”

I look at her, surprised.

“I’m joking!” she says, hitting me lightly on the arm like we’ve known each other for ages. “I’ll walk you to your class. I’ve got Spanish in the next wing over.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s no big deal,” Audrey says. “Come on: It’s this way.”

Audrey and I talk about our mutual love of casual footwear the entire way to first period. She raves about a new pair of laceless runners and I babble about pointed versus round-toed flats. It reminds me a little of the effortless way I chat with Megan, and honestly, I’m bummed when we arrive at my classroom.

“Hey, do you want to go off-campus for lunch?” Audrey asks.

“I…” I begin, confused by the attention from someone who has to have friends lining up to hang out with her. I channel a little of Cassie’s paranoia and eye Audrey suspiciously. “Um…”

“Oh,” Audrey says, her face falling so slightly I barely notice it. “That’s okay if you have other plans. I just thought since you’re new and all…”

“No,” I say quickly, snapping out of it. “I don’t have other plans. I’d love to go. Should we meet at the lockers?”

Audrey smiles brightly. “Perfect. See you then!”

Mr. Jefferson welcomes me to Victory, hands me a textbook that smells like soup and a syllabus printed on yellow paper, and directs me to an open desk on the side of the room farthest from the door. I smile at a girl who’s watching me; it makes her look away. Happy that I get to sit by the window, I slide into my chair, which has been warmed by the morning sun. I grab a notebook and pen from my bag and start reading over the syllabus while the classroom fills up.

I can tell when the bell’s about to ring because Mr. Jefferson stands up and walks to the podium, then clears his throat a couple times. I set aside the syllabus and scan the room, finding, happily, that no one looks too intimidating.

When the bell starts to ring, I jump a little: It’s different from the ones in Frozen Hills. Here, the tone is like a longer version of the lowest beep in a hearing test. When it stops, I sit up in my seat a little straighter and pick up my pen, ready to take notes. Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more, making me wonder if he has a cold or something, then opens his mouth to speak.

Just then, a guy darts into the room and slides into the open desk near the door. Curiously, I watch him until Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more. Maybe it’s a tic. I look at the teacher’s podium and Mr. Jefferson is giving the late arrival a look, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he introduces me.

“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” he says, gesturing my way. Like dominoes, each triggered by the one before, heads start to turn in my direction. Mr. Jefferson continues. “This is Daisy West, and she comes to us from Michigan. Let’s all give her a warm Victory welcome.”

A few people mutter “hi”; a handful smile or wave. I smile politely and wait for the spotlight to move off of me. After a few seconds, Mr. Jefferson clears his throat for what feels like the hundredth time and begins class. The dominoes reverse themselves and I quietly exhale.

Except that I have that prickly feeling, like someone is staring at me.

Warily, I search the classroom. Everyone in the row next to me and the next one over is paying attention to Mr. Jefferson. But when I get to the row by the door, I see that the late arrival is eyeing me. And that’s when I realize what I hadn’t before:

The guy is flat-out, undeniably, unbelievably hot.

He casually sweeps the front of his shaggy hair to the side with his thumb. The back of his hair flips out from behind his ears in that adorable way that makes it impossible to tell whether he needs a haircut or just got one. He’s got dark eyebrows—the kind that sexy TV villains have—and almond-shaped brown eyes that make him look like he has a secret. He’s slouching ever so slightly in his faded green T-shirt and worn jeans, and he smiles at me in a way that looks almost… familiar. Then he faces front and I feel like I’ve been dropped back to earth from the clouds.

I watch the guy for the rest of the period, but he never looks at me again. When the bell rings at the end of class, I lean down long enough to put away my stuff and pick up my bag, and when I sit back up, he’s gone. I’m disappointed until I realize that I’ll see him again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the year.

And for that, I silently thank Vice Principal Waverly.

At lunchtime, Audrey and I meet up at our lockers as planned.

“Hi!” I say as I approach.

“Hey, Daisy!” Audrey says back, matching my broad smile. “How’s it going so far?”

“Pretty good, actually,” I say. And then I look away, embarrassed.

“What?” she asks, reading me.

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s just a cute guy in my English class.”

“Ooh, really?” she asks. “I want to hear all about him—but save it for the ride. We only have forty-five minutes.”

We shut our lockers and turn to leave as two girls walk by. They look at me quizzically, then offer Audrey a pair of anemic waves, like they’re being forced to say hello but aren’t feeling it. Audrey shakes her head at them and refocuses on me.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Always.”

“Follow me.”

Audrey expertly leads us through the crowded halls and shows me a few shortcuts on the way out to the student parking lot. Soon we’re buckled into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.

“I love your car,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “I love it, too. I spent two summers’ worth of babysitting money on the down payment, but it was worth it.”

“You must have worked a lot,” I say.

“My parents matched what I earned.” Audrey looks a little embarrassed.

“Nice parents,” I say.

“What do you drive?” Audrey asks as she pulls out of the student lot onto the main road.

“Nothing… yet,” I say. “I won’t be sixteen until next month.”

“No way,” Audrey says, shaking her head.

“Way,” I say, and we laugh.

Audrey reaches over and turns on the radio. She pushes a couple of buttons and lands on an alterna-song. She puts her right hand back on the wheel and taps her thumbs in time with the beat.

“This okay?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”

“Geography or art?”

“Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”

“Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.

“Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”

Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.

Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.

“I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.

“The Hawkeye State,” I say.

“Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.

“You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”

“Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.

“Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”

“My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”

“Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”

“Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.

We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.

Like we go way back.

Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.

I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?

My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.

Megan: What’s with the post? I’m the one who lives in Grunge Capitol, USA.

Daisy: Our fans don’t know that.

Megan: All 372 of them

I smile and type:

Daisy: I assume you’ll be refuting my claims in your post.

Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.

Megan: Natch

Pause. Then she asks:

Megan: First day go okay?

Daisy: I think so. Do you ever wonder whether you’re making real friends if you have to lie to them about your life?

Megan: No. You made a FRIEND?

Daisy: Maybe

Megan: Not some geek in a study group, right? A real, living, breathing friend?

Daisy: The geeks were friends

Megan: You know what I mean.

Daisy: I do…. No, she’s cool. Her name is Audrey

Megan: Hey, D?

Daisy: Yeah?

Megan: Don’t question this to death, okay?

Daisy: I’ll try not to.

Megan: Okay good. Gotta go prove you wrong on the blog. Love you madly

Daisy: Love you more. Bye