Uninvited
Page 5
SWITZER: What you’re suggesting is impossible.
WAINWRIGHT: It’s not a suggestion. I’m telling you. If you want to keep the country from going under . . . then give the carriers to me.
SWITZER: . . . I’ll talk to the president. . . .
FOUR
ZAC COMES OVER STRAIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. HE must have skipped rugby practice. I hear the familiar purr of his car drive up and rush to the window to confirm that it’s him. Peering out, I curse under my breath and jerk back as if the blinds sting my fingers. I look around my room as if I can hide somewhere. Ridiculous, I know. It’s my fault I put this off so long.
Shaking my head, I bound over my bed to my dresser mirror and pull loose my ponytail. I run a quick brush through my long hair and then flip my head, hoping to get some body back into the dark-blonde mass. Slapping my brush on the dresser, I hurry downstairs and answer the door before he can push the bell. I don’t want Mom to answer it. Don’t want him to see her face and think someone died.
She took the rest of the week off. I guess she thought she needed to be here for me. Which is kind of funny since I’ve been in my room all afternoon and she’s been in hers. Ever since we saw that boy, she’s been even more distant. Like he’s the manifestation of everything she fears I will become. But that will never happen.
I close the door behind me, clutching the knob at my back like a lifeline. Zac’s steps slow as he advances, his gaze locking on me. A breeze ruffles his brown hair. The sides are cut close, but he’s always had a good inch or two on top. Enough for me to thread my fingers through.
I smile, a lump rising in my throat.
He steps up on the porch and stops before me, frowning, and I know he’s mad that I’ve been ignoring him. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Exhaling, I lean in, press my cheek against his chest and wrap my arms around him. His arms envelop me, holding me. I need this. So much. His arms. His love. Right now when everything is falling away, he’s here. Holding me together.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls? Were you really sick?”
The sensation of his hands on my back is like a drug. It feels good . . . tempts me to forget. And I want to forget. Only I can’t.
“Davy? What’s wrong?” he presses, his voice a soft croon in my ear.
A hundred different excuses burn on my tongue. Lies all. But what would be the point? He has to know. We’ll get through this. We love each other.
I peel my face away from his chest, from the pleasant thump of his heart against my ear. His bright green eyes dazzle me. I moisten my lips. “Do you remember when they tested the students for HTS earlier this year?”
He’s caught off guard. Like he doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. With me. His eyes swing to the right, searching his memory. “Uh, yeah. Think so. Why?”
“The results came back. I have it. I tested positive.” I say it quickly, let the words tumble free as though it won’t sound so bad because I’m talking so fast.
He pauses and then laughs. “Yeah. Right.”
“Zac.” I gaze into his face, waiting for him to see that I’m serious.
Everything in him tenses. Except his face. His features go lax with shock. His arms loosen around me.
Several moments pass and he doesn’t move. I watch him intently, desperately, waiting for him to speak, to say the words I need him to say.
My voice shivers from my lips. “Zac?”
“The kill gene?” he whispers.
I wince, hating that. HTS sounds more vague . . . clinical but harmless.
I nod and his arms drop from around me. He takes a step back, staring at me with wide eyes. Eyes that don’t blink—just like Mom’s.
I follow him, holding out a hand, trying to reach him, touch him. He drags a hand through his hair, out of reach from my seeking fingers. Bowing over, he tugs on the strands as though he might rip them free. His face twists and he looks as though he’s in physical pain. He stares down at the porch, as if he can find something there in the stamped concrete. A truth, something to explain away what’s happening.
I say his name again. Louder.
He looks at me then, and my heart seizes inside my chest. Because it’s not him. Not Zac. Not like I know him. The warmth is gone. The craving, the need for me. His green eyes are brighter than ever but filled with bewilderment . . . horror. Grief.
He lifts his arm like he’s going to swing. Hit something. He holds it in the air for a long moment. A growl erupts from him as he curls his hand into a tight, bloodless fist. I flinch.
“I’m still the same person,” I say desperately. “I’m still the same girl you loved yesterday. That hasn’t changed.”
He drops his hand from his hair and shakes his head. “I—I know. I just don’t . . .”
Not an outright rejection but it feels like it. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. The air feels thin, but I nod like I understand.
“Yeah. Okay.” The words stumble from my lips.
He turns. His graceful loping strides are gone. He’s almost running to his car. I watch, shaking, trembling so badly that I can’t stand. At the door to the car, he hesitates and looks at me. He’s conflicted. I can tell from his body. Part of him leans forward like he wants to come back to me. And God, I want him to. I need him to. I need this—us—to still be all right.
Then he’s inside the car, slamming the door shut after him.
I fall back against the front door and slide to the porch as he peels out of the driveway.
I squeeze myself, hugging my knees to my chest so tightly I can hardly breathe. Tears run hotly down my cheeks, and my mouth opens with a silent, breathless sob even as I know his reaction is . . . normal. Expected even. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. . . .
Understandable. Neither do I.
Zac
Can u come over?
Tori
Sure. What’s wrong?
Zac
Everything
Tori
Is Davy w/u?
Zac
No
Need 2 talk. Can’t b alone right now
Tori
On way
FIVE
I REPORT TO KELLER HIGH SCHOOL AT EIGHT SHARP. Amid the packet of information from Pollock were the bolded instructions to arrive at eight and depart at three in order to avoid fraternizing with the general population. My first clue that even at Keller things were going to get worse.
Although it’s hard to imagine that. After Zac left yesterday, it took me a long time to pick myself up and go back inside. Even longer for the tears to stop. The tight, aching twist in my chest still hasn’t stopped.
My phone sat quietly on my nightstand all night. I had hoped Zac would call after he had time to process. No call. Not even a ring from Tori. I could only guess that Zac told her. Or he told someone who then told her. It only takes one person to get gossip rolling. Davy Hamilton is a killer. That kind of gossip would be too juicy to keep quiet.
I shake loose the crippling thoughts and focus on getting through this first day.
The building is gray—from the outside brick to the flat carpet and chipping paint inside. Idly, I wonder if gray is the school color. It’s doubtful I’ll be attending any pep rallies to find out.
We enter the office and get behind a student waiting for a tardy slip to class. The secretary’s smile slips from her face when Mom tells her who we are. Humming lightly under my breath, I scan the office as they talk. A student aide gawks at me as she staples papers together behind a desk.
I arch an eyebrow at her and she quickly looks away.
Mom signs her name to a few papers, not even pausing to read anything. It’s like she can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Here’s your ID. Wear it at all times.” The receptionist slides a neon-orange tag across the counter that already bears the picture Pollock took of me yesterday. I take it and loop it around my neck.
“The orange identifies your carrier status,” she announces, loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. A woman on the phone in the corner stops talking and stares.
The secretary nods with approval at the ID dangling in front of my chest, letting me know I have no chance of staying under the radar. I glance at the student aide. Her badge is white. Yeah. No chance.
My eyes burn. I blink back tears, refusing to cry, refusing to let this small thing break me. I’ve been through worse than this in the last forty-eight hours.
She continues, “The counselor, Mr. Tucci, will take you to the”—the secretary pauses, catching herself and correcting whatever it was she was going to say—“your classroom.”
Mom faces me.
I stare at her, hollow inside, nothing there except the lyrics of an old Beatles song: Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better. It doesn’t help much because I want to grab her and hold her and beg her not to leave me here, but it won’t do any good. She’s shut herself off. Her eyes are dull—like she’s beyond feeling anything.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Have a good day, Davy.”
Like that’s possible. I nod and watch her walk away. Leave me in this strange, horrible place.
“Sit there.” The secretary directs me to a chair against the wall. “Mr. Tucci will be with you soon.”
Hugging my sack lunch, I drop into the seat, not bothering to slide off my backpack. A sack lunch is another requirement. Carriers aren’t allowed to eat anything from the cafeteria. Too much chance of mingling with the general population. I sit at the edge of the seat, my body taut, waiting, watching as people come and go through the office.
It’s nine thirty before Mr. Tucci appears. The secretary murmurs something to him and motions in my direction. He advances on me, sizing me up with a mild expression. I stare back. He’s dressed well in a pressed polo and slacks. Something my dad would never wear to work, but still.
“Welcome to Keller, Ms. Hamilton.” He extends his hand for me to shake. I stare at it for a moment, thinking he’s joking. He can’t want to touch me.
His expression softens. “I know this is hard, but if you stay out of trouble, you can finish out your senior year here with no fuss.” Leaning down, he whispers for my ears alone. “Prove them wrong.”
A ragged sigh escapes me. His words remind me of Mitchell and for a flash of a second I don’t feel so alone. Prove them wrong. A lump forms in my throat at the unexpected kindness of this man. Maybe it won’t be so terrible here after all.
A moment passes before I nod, fighting the lump down in my throat. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He smiles broadly. “Follow me.”
He leads me from the office and down a deserted hall. We pass lockers. Teachers’ voices drift from inside the classrooms. His shoes clack over the linoleum floor. We descend a set of stairs and walk until it feels like we’re in the very bowels of the school. We are long past any classrooms. We pass the gym. The stink of the weight room greets me well before we pass its open doors. A quick glance reveals a few sweaty guys working out inside.
There are no windows. No sunlight. Just the buzz of a fluorescent bulb every few feet. I see that the wide corridor dead-ends ahead.
My pulse skitters nervously. “Where are we going?”
He shoots me a disarming smile. Instead of answering, he says, “There are five others. Like you. You won’t be alone.”
I swallow. He means five other HTS carriers. And me. Until graduation. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer to be alone.
“You’ll get to know them well, I’m sure.”
Before the end of the corridor, he turns left and stops before a set of steel double doors and pulls out his keys. Unlocking the right side door, he steps inside. I follow, but don’t go much farther. The space is too small, occupied by a single desk. A teacher sits there, reading a magazine. He’s young, looks barely out of college. He quickly stands when he sees us, dropping his magazine.
WAINWRIGHT: It’s not a suggestion. I’m telling you. If you want to keep the country from going under . . . then give the carriers to me.
SWITZER: . . . I’ll talk to the president. . . .
FOUR
ZAC COMES OVER STRAIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. HE must have skipped rugby practice. I hear the familiar purr of his car drive up and rush to the window to confirm that it’s him. Peering out, I curse under my breath and jerk back as if the blinds sting my fingers. I look around my room as if I can hide somewhere. Ridiculous, I know. It’s my fault I put this off so long.
Shaking my head, I bound over my bed to my dresser mirror and pull loose my ponytail. I run a quick brush through my long hair and then flip my head, hoping to get some body back into the dark-blonde mass. Slapping my brush on the dresser, I hurry downstairs and answer the door before he can push the bell. I don’t want Mom to answer it. Don’t want him to see her face and think someone died.
She took the rest of the week off. I guess she thought she needed to be here for me. Which is kind of funny since I’ve been in my room all afternoon and she’s been in hers. Ever since we saw that boy, she’s been even more distant. Like he’s the manifestation of everything she fears I will become. But that will never happen.
I close the door behind me, clutching the knob at my back like a lifeline. Zac’s steps slow as he advances, his gaze locking on me. A breeze ruffles his brown hair. The sides are cut close, but he’s always had a good inch or two on top. Enough for me to thread my fingers through.
I smile, a lump rising in my throat.
He steps up on the porch and stops before me, frowning, and I know he’s mad that I’ve been ignoring him. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Exhaling, I lean in, press my cheek against his chest and wrap my arms around him. His arms envelop me, holding me. I need this. So much. His arms. His love. Right now when everything is falling away, he’s here. Holding me together.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls? Were you really sick?”
The sensation of his hands on my back is like a drug. It feels good . . . tempts me to forget. And I want to forget. Only I can’t.
“Davy? What’s wrong?” he presses, his voice a soft croon in my ear.
A hundred different excuses burn on my tongue. Lies all. But what would be the point? He has to know. We’ll get through this. We love each other.
I peel my face away from his chest, from the pleasant thump of his heart against my ear. His bright green eyes dazzle me. I moisten my lips. “Do you remember when they tested the students for HTS earlier this year?”
He’s caught off guard. Like he doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. With me. His eyes swing to the right, searching his memory. “Uh, yeah. Think so. Why?”
“The results came back. I have it. I tested positive.” I say it quickly, let the words tumble free as though it won’t sound so bad because I’m talking so fast.
He pauses and then laughs. “Yeah. Right.”
“Zac.” I gaze into his face, waiting for him to see that I’m serious.
Everything in him tenses. Except his face. His features go lax with shock. His arms loosen around me.
Several moments pass and he doesn’t move. I watch him intently, desperately, waiting for him to speak, to say the words I need him to say.
My voice shivers from my lips. “Zac?”
“The kill gene?” he whispers.
I wince, hating that. HTS sounds more vague . . . clinical but harmless.
I nod and his arms drop from around me. He takes a step back, staring at me with wide eyes. Eyes that don’t blink—just like Mom’s.
I follow him, holding out a hand, trying to reach him, touch him. He drags a hand through his hair, out of reach from my seeking fingers. Bowing over, he tugs on the strands as though he might rip them free. His face twists and he looks as though he’s in physical pain. He stares down at the porch, as if he can find something there in the stamped concrete. A truth, something to explain away what’s happening.
I say his name again. Louder.
He looks at me then, and my heart seizes inside my chest. Because it’s not him. Not Zac. Not like I know him. The warmth is gone. The craving, the need for me. His green eyes are brighter than ever but filled with bewilderment . . . horror. Grief.
He lifts his arm like he’s going to swing. Hit something. He holds it in the air for a long moment. A growl erupts from him as he curls his hand into a tight, bloodless fist. I flinch.
“I’m still the same person,” I say desperately. “I’m still the same girl you loved yesterday. That hasn’t changed.”
He drops his hand from his hair and shakes his head. “I—I know. I just don’t . . .”
Not an outright rejection but it feels like it. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. The air feels thin, but I nod like I understand.
“Yeah. Okay.” The words stumble from my lips.
He turns. His graceful loping strides are gone. He’s almost running to his car. I watch, shaking, trembling so badly that I can’t stand. At the door to the car, he hesitates and looks at me. He’s conflicted. I can tell from his body. Part of him leans forward like he wants to come back to me. And God, I want him to. I need him to. I need this—us—to still be all right.
Then he’s inside the car, slamming the door shut after him.
I fall back against the front door and slide to the porch as he peels out of the driveway.
I squeeze myself, hugging my knees to my chest so tightly I can hardly breathe. Tears run hotly down my cheeks, and my mouth opens with a silent, breathless sob even as I know his reaction is . . . normal. Expected even. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. . . .
Understandable. Neither do I.
Zac
Can u come over?
Tori
Sure. What’s wrong?
Zac
Everything
Tori
Is Davy w/u?
Zac
No
Need 2 talk. Can’t b alone right now
Tori
On way
FIVE
I REPORT TO KELLER HIGH SCHOOL AT EIGHT SHARP. Amid the packet of information from Pollock were the bolded instructions to arrive at eight and depart at three in order to avoid fraternizing with the general population. My first clue that even at Keller things were going to get worse.
Although it’s hard to imagine that. After Zac left yesterday, it took me a long time to pick myself up and go back inside. Even longer for the tears to stop. The tight, aching twist in my chest still hasn’t stopped.
My phone sat quietly on my nightstand all night. I had hoped Zac would call after he had time to process. No call. Not even a ring from Tori. I could only guess that Zac told her. Or he told someone who then told her. It only takes one person to get gossip rolling. Davy Hamilton is a killer. That kind of gossip would be too juicy to keep quiet.
I shake loose the crippling thoughts and focus on getting through this first day.
The building is gray—from the outside brick to the flat carpet and chipping paint inside. Idly, I wonder if gray is the school color. It’s doubtful I’ll be attending any pep rallies to find out.
We enter the office and get behind a student waiting for a tardy slip to class. The secretary’s smile slips from her face when Mom tells her who we are. Humming lightly under my breath, I scan the office as they talk. A student aide gawks at me as she staples papers together behind a desk.
I arch an eyebrow at her and she quickly looks away.
Mom signs her name to a few papers, not even pausing to read anything. It’s like she can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Here’s your ID. Wear it at all times.” The receptionist slides a neon-orange tag across the counter that already bears the picture Pollock took of me yesterday. I take it and loop it around my neck.
“The orange identifies your carrier status,” she announces, loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. A woman on the phone in the corner stops talking and stares.
The secretary nods with approval at the ID dangling in front of my chest, letting me know I have no chance of staying under the radar. I glance at the student aide. Her badge is white. Yeah. No chance.
My eyes burn. I blink back tears, refusing to cry, refusing to let this small thing break me. I’ve been through worse than this in the last forty-eight hours.
She continues, “The counselor, Mr. Tucci, will take you to the”—the secretary pauses, catching herself and correcting whatever it was she was going to say—“your classroom.”
Mom faces me.
I stare at her, hollow inside, nothing there except the lyrics of an old Beatles song: Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better. It doesn’t help much because I want to grab her and hold her and beg her not to leave me here, but it won’t do any good. She’s shut herself off. Her eyes are dull—like she’s beyond feeling anything.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Have a good day, Davy.”
Like that’s possible. I nod and watch her walk away. Leave me in this strange, horrible place.
“Sit there.” The secretary directs me to a chair against the wall. “Mr. Tucci will be with you soon.”
Hugging my sack lunch, I drop into the seat, not bothering to slide off my backpack. A sack lunch is another requirement. Carriers aren’t allowed to eat anything from the cafeteria. Too much chance of mingling with the general population. I sit at the edge of the seat, my body taut, waiting, watching as people come and go through the office.
It’s nine thirty before Mr. Tucci appears. The secretary murmurs something to him and motions in my direction. He advances on me, sizing me up with a mild expression. I stare back. He’s dressed well in a pressed polo and slacks. Something my dad would never wear to work, but still.
“Welcome to Keller, Ms. Hamilton.” He extends his hand for me to shake. I stare at it for a moment, thinking he’s joking. He can’t want to touch me.
His expression softens. “I know this is hard, but if you stay out of trouble, you can finish out your senior year here with no fuss.” Leaning down, he whispers for my ears alone. “Prove them wrong.”
A ragged sigh escapes me. His words remind me of Mitchell and for a flash of a second I don’t feel so alone. Prove them wrong. A lump forms in my throat at the unexpected kindness of this man. Maybe it won’t be so terrible here after all.
A moment passes before I nod, fighting the lump down in my throat. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He smiles broadly. “Follow me.”
He leads me from the office and down a deserted hall. We pass lockers. Teachers’ voices drift from inside the classrooms. His shoes clack over the linoleum floor. We descend a set of stairs and walk until it feels like we’re in the very bowels of the school. We are long past any classrooms. We pass the gym. The stink of the weight room greets me well before we pass its open doors. A quick glance reveals a few sweaty guys working out inside.
There are no windows. No sunlight. Just the buzz of a fluorescent bulb every few feet. I see that the wide corridor dead-ends ahead.
My pulse skitters nervously. “Where are we going?”
He shoots me a disarming smile. Instead of answering, he says, “There are five others. Like you. You won’t be alone.”
I swallow. He means five other HTS carriers. And me. Until graduation. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer to be alone.
“You’ll get to know them well, I’m sure.”
Before the end of the corridor, he turns left and stops before a set of steel double doors and pulls out his keys. Unlocking the right side door, he steps inside. I follow, but don’t go much farther. The space is too small, occupied by a single desk. A teacher sits there, reading a magazine. He’s young, looks barely out of college. He quickly stands when he sees us, dropping his magazine.
