Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

nine

For exactly five days, my life is so normal that I almost forget I might be faking it. On Monday, Matt waves at me at the beginning of English. On Tuesday, he asks how it’s going—from across the room before class—making at least three girls seated between us breathe jealousy. Every day except Wednesday, when she has an appointment at noon, Audrey and I eat lunch together, either in the cafeteria or off-campus. Despite the fact that others say “hello” in the halls, I seem to be Audrey’s only friend. She and I text every night, and she even starts reading my blog.

Thursday night, she texts:

Audrey: I love your post about the anatomy of mall crowds.

Daisy: Thanks!

Audrey: Sure. And your friend Fabulous is hilarious.

Daisy: That’s Megan. You’d love her.

My life starts to feel like a prime-time sitcom.

Then, on Friday, the cracks start to show.

The morning is fine, but things begin to unravel at lunch. Audrey and I go to the taco place down the street from school for the Friday special: two hard-shell tacos, chips and salsa, and a drink. Right after we finish eating, Audrey runs to the bathroom and throws up (I hear it because we’re at a table close to the restrooms). But when she comes out, she lies about it.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” I ask when she sits down. Her brown eyes are watery and her face is so pale she’s practically translucent.

“Totally fine,” she says, taking a sip of her soda. “I thought I was going to pee my pants.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I thought I heard you—”

“Throw up?” she interrupts. Then she leans closer and whispers, “There was another girl in there hurling her brains out. Maybe she’s bulimic or something.”

I glance at the door, wanting to believe my new friend, hoping some super-skinny girl with the telltale round face will walk out looking guilty. Except that I don’t believe Audrey, not at all. The story was fine—good, even—but when she leaned in to whisper, her breath gave her away.

Vomit.

When we get back to school, a tall blond guy halfway across the commons approaches us, eyeing Audrey. The way he looks at her is nothing like one typical teen checking out another: He looks sad. Maybe even more than sad. Wrecked. The guy stops in front of us and opens his mouth to say something to her. The pain in his eyes makes me want to listen, but Audrey grabs my arm and pulls me around him and quickens her pace. Kids all around us watch the silent scene with funny looks on their faces as we work our way through the post-lunch crowd.

“What was that all about?” I ask quietly when we’ve made it to the hallway where our lockers are.

“Just an old boyfriend,” she says.

“Wow, he’s gorgeous.”

Audrey’s quiet for a second. Then she says, “He used to be.”

The bell rings, so I don’t get the chance to ask what she means.

On the way home from school, Audrey asks me to go to a movie tonight, which I take as a return to normal after a confusing afternoon. But then I walk into my house, throw down my bag, and head downstairs to say hi to Mason. And he screws things up again.

“We’re going to Kansas City this weekend,” he says, barely looking up from what he’s working on.

“I know,” I say. “You told me this morning. Are you getting Alzheimer’s?” I smile at my own joke, but Mason ignores it. He seems stressed. He meets my gaze.

“I told you that Cassie and I are leaving tomorrow, not that you’re going with us.”

“Noooooo!” I protest. “You’re going to test Wade!”

Wade Zimmerman, formerly Wade Sergeant, is hands-down the most annoying of the bus kids. He’s only a year older than me, but he tries to act like he’s an adult. He has this condescending way of talking. But what bugs me the most about Wade is that he won’t acknowledge our shared past. In fact, he won’t talk to me about the program at all. It’s totally weird.

“Wade is a nice young man,” Mason says, shaking his head at me and writing something down. Cassie sneezes and I jump because I hadn’t even registered that she was in the room.

“Wade’s obnoxious,” I say, ignoring Cassie’s sniffles. “And you always let me decide whether I want to go with you to do the tests. Why are you making my decision for me this time?”

Mason sighs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Something’s bothering me, and I can’t put my finger on it. Call it instinct or paranoia. I’d like to keep you close this weekend.”

Apparently, Mason is one of God’s favorite Disciples because of Mason’s (borderline eerie) sixth sense about things. Knowing Mason is worried about something makes the hair on my arms stand up.

“Can I at least go to the movie with Audrey tonight?” I ask.

Pause.

“Yes,” Mason says, but the frown on his face tells me that he’d rather I didn’t.

I go anyway, so the detour from Normalville continues.

Mason claims he was already planning to go out for groceries, so he insists on dropping me off at Audrey’s instead of letting her pick me up at home. In the car on the way over, he warns me, again, about getting too close to my new friend.

“Daisy, I don’t want you to think that I’m against you having friends,” he says slowly. “But I do want to remind you what’s at stake here.”

“And I want to remind you that I’ve been in the program almost as long as you have,” I retort. “I get it.”

“I know,” Mason says. “It’s just that you haven’t actually been around that many people who aren’t bus kids or agents. I want you to keep your head on straight.”

“It’s on as straight as it can be,” I say.

“I guess that’s all I can ask of you.”

The way Mason checks the rearview mirror when we stop makes me afraid for a moment, but I brush it off and hop out of the car. I wave goodbye to him, but instead of leaving, he just sits there in the idling car as I ring the bell and wait for someone to answer. I hear footsteps running to the door on the other side. Audrey flings it open with a big smile on her face. Finally, Mason drives away.

“Hi!” Audrey says. “You’re late!”

“It’s Mas—my dad’s fault,” I lie. Honestly, I was having a clothing dilemma: broken-in sweatshirt, old jeans, and sneakers for maximum relaxation, or cuter—and less comfortable—straight-leg jeans, embellished T-shirt, and flats, just in case…

“Matt’s coming,” Audrey blurts out. “I thought I’d let you know so you don’t have to blush like…” She pauses to examine my face. “Well, like that in front of him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say self-consciously.

“Shut it,” Audrey teases. “I know you like him.”

“Do not.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing.”

“Um, yes you are. But no worries. Matt won’t notice.”

Audrey yells upstairs for Matt to meet us in the car, then pushes past me. I follow her to the driveway. Once we’re inside the car but before Matt joins us, I ask Audrey in a whisper: “Why won’t Matt notice me?”

Confused, Audrey stares blankly at me.

“You just said that,” I say. “That Matt won’t notice me blushing.”

“Oh my god, Daisy, don’t be so sensitive!” Audrey says. “I didn’t mean that he won’t notice you. I meant that he hardly notices anything these days. The other day he asked me where his hat was. He was wearing it.”

“Maybe he has something on his mind,” I offer, hoping Audrey will elaborate.

Audrey rolls her eyes. “Don’t we all,” she says. I want to ask what’s on her mind, and about a zillion other questions, but Matt opens the door and climbs in the backseat.

“Hey,” he says when I turn around to look at him. He looks like a model for Levi’s in his perfectly faded jeans and maroon-and-gray-striped hoodie.

“Hi, Matt,” I say back. “I like your sweatshirt.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling a little. “Cool shirt.”

Audrey stifles a laugh and puts the car in reverse.

“Yes, we all look awesome,” she says. “Now let’s go. We’re going to miss the previews.”

I face front in the passenger seat, take a deep breath, and smile to myself. Glancing down at my shirt, I can’t help but give myself props for choosing to wear the cuter outfit. Even if the top button on my jeans is digging into my stomach.

The movie is a comedy, but I don’t laugh much. Instead, I listen to Matt. He only reacts to the smart jokes, not the stupid ones that everyone else seems to find hilarious. But when something strikes him as funny, it’s really hard for me not to smile. His laughter starts low and gets higher the longer it lasts. It’s easy and warm, like his mom’s chocolate-chip cookies, and it makes me want to snuggle up to him. It’s the perfect sound.

In contrast, Audrey’s breath sounds strangely labored. I wonder whether she’s got the flu or something, with the barfing at lunch and everything.

“Do you feel okay?” I whisper in Audrey’s ear.

“Shh,” she says. “I’m watching the movie.”

I look over at Matt and he’s looking at me, and I’m zapped by a jolt of electricity. I conjure up my flirtiest smile, then sit back and resume my popcorn-tub war with Audrey.

After the show we head to the food court because somehow half of the world’s largest container of popcorn simply wasn’t enough for Audrey. Matt and I find a place to sit while Audrey buys pretzel bites. We awkwardly look anywhere but at each other until I can’t take it anymore.

“Do you like Mr. Jefferson?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” he says. “You?”

“He seems pretty cool.”

Pause.

“I didn’t tell Audrey that you took her phone,” I say, instantly feeling silly for bringing it up. I doubt he even remembers.

Except that he does.

“I know.”

Matt smiles, mostly with his eyes. Someone at the next table over squeals and, curiously, he turns to see what’s happening. I take the opportunity to examine his profile. His skin is still tanned from summer and is perfectly even except for a tiny scar on his chin and a pen-dot mole near his jawbone. Matt’s neutral expression is borderline dark, but when he looks back at me and smiles again, this time showing off his straight, white teeth, it’s impossible not to feel it. I force myself to look away so I don’t say something stupid, like, You’re gorgeous.

“Thanks for not telling her, though,” Matt says, about the iPhone.

“Of course,” I say. I notice that I’m bouncing my knee under the table, which is something I do only when I’m extremely nervous. “I wonder what’s taking Audrey so long,” I say. Matt shrugs and taps his fingers lightly on the table.

The longer I’m alone with him, the more excitable I get. I pick up a napkin that someone left on the table and start twisting it for something to do with my hands. Then, thankfully, before I origami a crane out of a recycled napkin, Audrey returns.

For one second, at least.

“Crap!” she says as she sits down. “I forgot to fill my soda.” She picks up and waves an empty cup. I notice a little sweat on her forehead even though it’s cool in the mall.

“I’ll do it,” I say, standing quickly. I feel like Matt’s the sun and I need sunglasses: I’m overwhelmed by him and need a moment to calm down. “You eat,” I say to Audrey. “What flavor do you want?”

“Clear,” she says before popping a pretzel bite into her mouth.

“Got it,” I say. I turn and walk back to the fountain-beverage station by the pretzel place and fill Audrey’s paper cup with whatever brand of clear soda they have. I take a deep breath and shake my head at my girlishness as I grab a lid and snap it on, then shove a straw through it. I walk back to the table feeling surprisingly more centered.

“Do I get a tip for that?” I ask Audrey when I’m about five steps away from her.

“You wish!” she says, laughing loudly.

“Fine, then I’ll take it back,” I say, pretending to turn around.

“Give me my drink!” Audrey shouts playfully. Her voice echoes off the walls, up to the skylight. People all over the food court look up from their greasy snacks. An older lady tsks at the scene we’re making; two young girls giggle to themselves.

And that’s when I see her.

Across the food court, Nora Fitzgerald from Frozen Hills is turning in her chair to see what’s going on.

Like a deer who spies a hunter, I bolt. Only when I round the corner of the main part of the mall and duck into one of those side hallways that lead to the creepy walkway behind the stores do I realize that I’m still holding Audrey’s drink. When I’m sure that no one’s followed me, I set it down on the floor and text Audrey.

Daisy: SORRY! But I can explain. Meet me around the corner by Foot Find.

I hit send and wait. Audrey and Matt arrive in minutes.

“You could have just asked for some of my soda, Dais,” Audrey jokes. She picks it up and starts drinking it. “What’s the deal?”

Matt’s standing between me and the main walkway. Instinctively, I stay directly behind him, like he’s my shield. He looks at me funny.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says.

More like Nora did, I think to myself.

“I saw a girl from my old school who… uh… hates me,” I say. “Can we just go?”

Matt shrugs and Audrey nods. We make our way toward the movie theater’s parking lot, Audrey chattering about mean girls, me looking over my shoulder for Nora, and Matt eyeing me like he knows I’m lying and wants to ask about the truth.

Thankfully, I catch a break: Matt doesn’t ask.

ten

“It’s only a long weekend,” Mason says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as we barrel down Interstate 29 in the dark.

“I know,” I say glumly. “But we weren’t supposed to leave until tomorrow. And wait—what do you mean by long weekend?”

“I thought I told you that we’re staying until Monday night,” Mason says. “To ensure enough time for Wade’s test. We called the school and got you excused from Monday’s classes.”

“No, you didn’t tell me that,” I mutter, turning backward in my seat and watching the lights of Omaha fade into the distance. I already regret telling Cassie and Mason about Nora because it gave them a reason to leave town tonight. Now I’m even more annoyed because I won’t get to see Audrey or Matt on Monday. “I’m not supposed to be on this trip.”

“You weren’t supposed to be seen,” Cassie says without looking up from her computer. I’m surprised by her tone; she’s not usually so snappy. The worst part is that she’s right.

“Why was Nora even in Omaha?” I mutter.

“We checked her email,” Cassie says. “She’s staying with relatives. Something about a family reunion this weekend.”

“Random,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s going to happen with her?”

“Depends on quite a few variables,” Mason says, scratching his head.

“Like?” I look at him expectantly.

“Like whether or not she saw you. And if she did, whether she wrote it off as coincidence or actually believes you’re alive.”

“And?”

“And it depends on what she does with the information.”

“If she goes public—” I begin.

Cassie interrupts. “Then our thirty-year research study is over.”

“But hasn’t this happened before?” I protest.

“To my knowledge, it’s only happened one other time,” Cassie says.

“Twice,” Mason corrects. “There was that one in Missouri.”

“I meant that one. What was the other?”

“Florida.”

“Oh, right,” Cassie says before refocusing on her computer. It bugs me that she’s talking like she was part of the program back then. Recruited straight from college after the program had already started, Cassie’s younger than the other agents. At first she was assigned to the main lab, but her boss thought she’d be better in the field. So when Sydney left, Cassie was reassigned to us. But sometimes Cassie talks like she was with the Revive project from day one.

“I believe that the protocol is watch and wait,” Cassie continues. “A team is monitoring Nora now. If she forgets it and moves on, then we will, too.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” I ask.

“Who knows what he’ll do at this point?” Mason mutters. Cassie shoots him a surprised look, which softens his tone.

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it,” he says in a way that makes me feel like he’s talking to himself more than to me or Cassie.

“If Nora pursues this, will we have to move again?” I ask.

“Probably,” Mason says honestly.

And only right then, when the sick feeling creeps into my stomach, do I realize that I haven’t been faking it. I want to live in Omaha permanently. I genuinely like Audrey; my feelings for Matt are real.

Only when I’m faced with the possibility of another move do I realize how much I want to dig in my heels.

Only then do I realize just how much I want to stay.

It’s after one AM when I begin to boot up my snail of a computer. I can’t very well take sleek spy technology to school, so, unlike the computers that Mason and Cassie get to use, I have a few-years-old laptop that’s as heavy as a boulder and as loud as an airplane on takeoff.

Our small, independent hotel has a weak Internet signal, so between that and my grandma’s microprocessor it takes forever to get online. After it connects, I log in using my password, which Mason makes me change every month. When my IM program pops up, I check for Audrey’s username—QueenMcKean—to see whether she’s online. There’s no little green dot; she’s not.

I sigh and switch over to my email account. I open a new message and begin typing Audrey so her address autofills.

To: [email protected]

Subject: random night

Hey Aud,

How’s this for weird: I’m writing from a hotel room in Kansas City. My parents were planning to come for the weekend and leave me alone in Omaha but, at the last minute, changed their minds. They must have watched a movie about a teenager who throws a party the second her parents leave for vacation and rethought their decision. Not that I’m like that.

Hey, sorry again for that thing with that girl tonight. You seemed sort of out of it on the way home: are you mad at me for something? I mean I know I made us leave early but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. But if I did something, I’m sorry.

Anyway, thanks for the fun night and tell Matt the same. And okay, fine, I guess hiding behind my computer screen I can admit that I do sort of like him. A little. Hope that doesn’t make you want to upchuck. But you said my dad was hot so I guess now we’re even.

Daisy

I hit send and watch the email move from my outbox to the ether. Then I scoot off the bed, retrieve pajamas and toiletries from my bag, and walk to the bathroom to get ready to go to sleep. When I return, despite it being the middle of the night, I’m disappointed to find that there’s no reply. Audrey’s emailed me later than this, and now I can’t help but wonder whether she really is mad at me for some reason.

I crawl under the overbleached sheets, wired on soda and adrenaline, confused.

After only three hours of real sleep—which feels more like three minutes—my wakeup call sounds and I want to throw the phone out the window. Instead I roll over, pick up the receiver, and then slam it down again without answering. Then I go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The interior one, of course.

“Daisy, are you up?” Mason’s muffled voice calls through the wall.

“Yes,” I groan, exhausted.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Mason calls back.

“I am!” I shout back. Mason doesn’t answer.

Annoyed at the daylight, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed, tripping over the laptop cord on my way to the bathroom. I land with a thud on the hideous carpet and lie there, wondering what else could go wrong. Eventually I manage to shower and get ready, which makes me feel a little better, until I remember where we’re going today.

To Wade’s house.

The Zimmermans have upgraded to an even bigger house—for three people—since the last time I was forced to come to Kansas City, so the neighborhood we’re driving through now is new to me. Compared to the McKeans’ development, this one is a poseur. The massive houses are set back from the street, and there are kids out playing on the sidewalks. The difference is that here, the homes are new, matching, and only pretend to have character. I realize that there aren’t individual mailboxes in front of the homes when I see a postal worker pull up next to a large metal community box with a locked section for each family. Something about not having your own mailbox bothers me.

As if reading my mind, Megan texts.

Megan: Where are you?

Daisy: KC.

Megan: NO!!

Daisy: Yes. Mason made me.

Megan: So sorry, girl. I know how you loathe Wade. Hang tough, okay? I’ll do an extra great post in your honor tonight. I’m thinking a backstage pass to my closet. You like?

Daisy: Sounds FABULOUS.

Megan: xoxo

Daisy: Same to you

Right then, we pull into the driveway of a house I can only describe as a non-pink, walled version of Barbie’s dream house, complete with a Porsche out front. The license plate reads KCHS FP.

KCHS… Kansas City High School?

“Is that Wade’s car?” I ask loudly.

“Must be,” Mason says. “There’s a student parking sticker on the front window.” Of course Mr. Observant noticed that.

I groan.

“Be nice,” Mason says quietly as we walk to the front porch and ring the bell.

“Always.”

Taller than Mason, and with a square head, jaw, and shoulders, Wade Zimmerman is a big block of a guy. He has decent skin, cropped hair, and white teeth that are mostly straight. His nose is a touch crooked, which would add to his appeal if he didn’t love to tell the story of how he broke it getting bucked off a mechanical bull… well after eight seconds, of course. Girls who like chauvinistic pigs—or maybe even grown women who like young guys—might find Wade attractive. I, on the other hand, do not.

My crap radar goes off the second we walk in the door. Wade is wearing—I am totally not kidding—a sweater-vest. Not a sexy J.Crew sweater-vest; an old-man politician sweater-vest.

“Lovely to see you again, Daisy,” Wade says as he offers his hand to me to shake. I fight the urge to roll my eyes or pretend to be British when I answer.

“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.

“How are you enjoying your new school?” he asks. Why does he have to talk like he’s forty-seven?

“It’s fine,” I say. “What’s with the Porsche?”

“Oh, you like it?” Wade asks. “It was a birthday gift from my parents.” Shrugging, he adds, “It gets me to and from practice.”

“Funny,” I say, not thinking so at all. Instead of pointing out that he’s the cockiest guy I know, I ask about his license plate: “What’s FP?”

Wade chuckles loudly—literally, it sounds like “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” because I guess he’s not even himself when he laughs—then explains the hilarity.

“It means Franchise Player,” he says. “It’s the nickname the other players have given me for my skills as a quarterback. It simply means that I’m a valued member of the team. It’s all in jest.”

In jest?

Wade tries to appear embarrassed, but there’s nothing remotely flustered about his expression. All that reads there is pride.

Overconfidence.

“Cool,” I say, not really thinking so, but trying to be nice because Mason asked me to.

After a few more pleasantries, scones, and one too many stories about scouts coming to see Wade play, I’m shown into the Zimmermans’ first-floor office to mess around online while Mason and Cassie go to work. I log on and check my email: no reply from Audrey. Trying not to obsess too much about it, I switch over to Anything Autopsy and blog about sensible versus nonsensical cars for teens, then do a “she said” reply to Megan’s diatribe about the newest YouTube pop sensation. Just as I’m hitting publish, Mason puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.

“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.

“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”

This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.

“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.

“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.

“Great,” I say.

Mason turns to leave.

“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.

“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”

I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.

If God says we move, there’s nothing Mason can do about it.

If God says we move, we move.