Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

I put a hand to my hip and lean to the side, trying to stretch my IT bands as inconspicuously as possible with Franco’s gaze still on me. “Whenever we’re slow at work, Gus lets me surf the Archives Files. I found a lot of info in there when I first started running.”

  “I haven’t been down in Mortuary Sciences in years.” Franco runs a hand through his hair. Part of me wishes I could do the same.

  Wait a minute.

  My eyes widen. “You mean you’ve been there?”

  “Sure. Sometimes, I’d ride back into town with Ben after work. When he first got sick, Gus secretly asked me not to let him bike back to the monorail alone. Gus was worried Ben might take ill. Of course, I never let on that I was babysitting him because he would’ve gotten grumpy about it.”

  “What was Ben like? I’m kind of sad I never got to meet him.”

  Franco smiles. “Quiet. Soft-spoken. A complete genius.”

  Liam scoffs. “Idol worship. Don’t get him started. When Franco first got that internship, Ben was all he talked about.”

  I chuckle. “Mom complains I talk about Gus too much, too.”

  “Maybe you just like your job,” says Franco.

  “She also thinks I should make more friends my own age. She says Gus is too old for me.” I cringe. Why on earth did I say that? No need to remind Franco of our age difference.

  “Hey, I’m your age, and I’m your friend,” says Liam. “You should introduce me to your mother. That should get her off your back. I tend to make a good impression on people.”

  Franco laughs. “Or so you think, Romeo.”

  “It’s true, and you know it. Everybody’s mom loves me.” Liam stands as we near our stop then cries out grabbing at his right calf. “Holy crap! I can barely walk.”

  “Silvia warned you to stretch out your gastrocs,” Franco mocks him. “This is your own fault, buddy.” He winks at me.

  My stomach does a back flip. How adorable. He just called the gastrocnemius muscle the “gastrocs.”

  “Seriously, Silvia,” Liam pleads. “Tell me what stretch to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Too late.” Franco heads for the door. “This is where we get off. Let’s go.”

  I help Liam limp off the monorail. Once we get outside, he stops and leans against a railing, breathing hard, his face pale.

  Franco waits with his bike.

  I step next to him to whisper in his ear. As I lean in, the smell of plants and earth added to something musky and male almost overwhelms me. I take a shaky breath. “I think Liam’s really hurting. I don’t know how much farther he can walk.”

  Franco sighs. “Fine. Let’s take him up to my place, then. I only live a few blocks away.”

  “You lead the way. I’ll help him.” I scurry over to Liam’s side before Franco can change his mind. Good timing for Liam to cramp up. Now, I get to see where Franco lives.

  Liam limps the five blocks from the train station it takes to get to the apartment, leaning heavily on my shoulders the whole way.

  Franco strolls alongside, rolling his bike down the walkway. “Liam, you big wuss. The only way you’ll ever win that race is if Silvia carries your sorry ass across the finish line.”

  “Oh, shut up and leave me alone.” Liam groans as he gimps up the three steps into the lobby. “Thank goodness we’re here. Please tell me the elevator is working today. I can’t climb any more stairs right now.”

  Franco chuckles as he locks his bike onto the first floor bike rack. “Sure thing, wimpazoid.”

  He pushes the “up” button by the single building elevator.

  The doors slide open and we squeeze inside.

  Liam groans. “Careful. Careful.”

  “You’re pathetic.” Franco shakes his head. “Silvia, could you hit floor eight, please?”

  “Sure.” I press the button. Eight just became my new favorite number.

  Franco digs out his keys as the elevator slowly slides upwards.

  “Floor eight. Doors open,” a robotic female voice instructs from overhead.

  “Hang a right,” Franco says.

  Liam and I lumber after him, down the hallway. The floors are dark laminate, the walls whitewashed, and the trim as dark as the floors. Very sterile-looking. The smells of spicy food and old handkerchiefs linger in the air. Franco’s already at the far end of the hallway, unlocking his door. I’ve never been so excited to see where someone lives. The wooden door swings open, and I peek inside.

  “It smells like the greenhouse in here,” I exclaim.

  I wander in, shove the whimpering Liam in a chair, and marvel. The room is crowded with plants. African violets perch on every available surface. Flowers of pink, purple, and white peek out between lush, green leaves. Long chains of Pothos plants trail along bookshelves, over picture frames, and around the arch of a second window on the same side.

  “This looks like my old apartment from when I was a little girl. It’s not shaped the same or anything, but you have such wonderful light.” I’d love to live here.

  “Yes, I love the light in here. In a few hours, you can watch the sunset out that window.” Franco points past the micro-kitchen cramped into a corner on the left.

  Brushing up against the cupboards is a huge Ficus tree which filters bright sunlight from a large, square window through its green, diamond-shaped leaves. It shades a round table covered with piles of papers.

  Liam moans as he massages out the knots in his calves. “This running business is hard work. My legs are killing me, and now I’m starving. You got anything to eat around here?”

  “I’ll see what I have left.” Franco heads to the kitchen cupboards.

  “I’ll clear a space for you to eat,” I say.

  Using any excuse to snoop, I stack the papers that are strewn across the table into a pile to make space. There are dozens of elaborate botanical illustrations done in pencil.

  I hold up a gorgeous drawing of bee balm. “Franco, the detail here is amazing. How did you learn to draw like this?”

  “Wait a minute!” Franco hurries over and grabs the sketches.

  At the last second, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the image of a girl, but it’s gone before I can tell who she is. All I see is her ponytail before he whisks the drawings away to another room.

  he brief glimpse of the girl’s ponytail haunts me. Who is she? An old girlfriend? Or, even worse, a current one Liam doesn’t know about? I need to find out more about this mystery girl. I scope out the apartment, starting with the long row of hooks near the entrance. A sweatshirt and Franco’s trademark jean jacket hang from the wall. No sign of a female presence there. A walkway between the round table and a couch leads to a curtained-off area where Franco stashed the pictures. Presumably, his bathroom and bedroom are back there.

  Not wanting to be obvious, I wait to ask permission to use the bathroom. Plus, Liam is miserable and needs babying.

  Franco gestures toward his whimpering cousin. “Silvia, he’s driving me nuts. Can you fix him?”

  “He needs yoga and salt.” I frown. “But I don’t know how long it will take for the cramping to go away. Liam, come here. You need to stretch your legs out and move around a bit.”

  I spot a large, heavy book on the floor. “Franco, can I use this?”

  “Use whatever you need,” he says, digging in a cupboard. “Just get him to stop whining.”

  “Take off your shoes, Liam,” I instruct. “And put your toes on this book. Here. I’ll show you.” Standing tip-toe on the huge text, I lower my heels to the floor, leaning with one hand on the table for support. “That will help stretch out your calves. Now you try it. But go slow, ‘cause it might hurt.”

  Liam moans as he does the same thing, his legs shaking. “Man, this sucks.”

  Franco sets out soy peanut butter, a few crackers, and orange juice. “I can’t believe you’re sweating all over my best Plants of the World book.”

  Liam shrugs. “It was either that or use it as a doorstop.”

  Franco scoffs.
“You certainly would never read it. And after you’re done dripping on it, it will smell too bad for anyone else to, either.”

  Liam stops stretching and sits down to eat.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “You should stand.”

  “Seriously?” Liam asks. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Don’t you think you should listen to her?” Franco sniffs his book then tucks it away on a tall bookshelf near the curtain on the far end of the room. “You both did the same workout. You’re dying of pain, and Silvia’s fine. She obviously knows what she’s doing.”

  “Fine. You win.” Liam stands and leans on the table, stretching from side to side in between bites.

  Franco slides the crackers toward me. “Silvia, are you hungry? Help yourself.”

  “Yes.” Liam chuckles. “These stale crackers are awesome. You wouldn’t want to miss out on this delicacy.”

  Franco fake-punches Liam’s shoulder. “Whiny-baby beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, all my good rations are at your house now.”

  “Quit punching me,” Liam grumbles. “You’re such a loser.”

  “I’m not the one crying like a baby.”

  The two of them begin to swing and duck, mock fighting like idiots. Sometimes, I don’t understand the male species. At all.

  I back away from them, glancing at the curtain. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need any crackers. But I might need to… um… use the facilities before I head home.”

  “Go ahead.” Franco points toward the curtain. “It’s through there. Down the hall on the left side. You can’t get lost. I guarantee it.”

  Like a detective in an old movie, I narrow my eyes as I pass through the curtain. Back here, the air smells of soap and old paper. Stacks of books line the dimly-lit hallway. A closed door is on the right. Probably his bedroom. The bathroom door is cracked open.

  I go inside and pull on the overhead light. A quick sweep of the room reveals that the pictures aren’t in here which is to be expected, I guess. It’s a Spartan bathroom, just a white pedestal sink and toilet on the right with a shower tub at the far end. A small window, high up on the left wall, lets in light. A medicine cabinet hangs over the sink. I turn on the water to cover the noise of my snooping and open the cabinet.

  Toothpaste. A hairbrush. Floss. A comb. I examine every shelf. No tampons or other sanitary products. That’s a good sign. I remember Chrissy Chang, one of mom’s work friends, who gave me dating advice back when I was probably fourteen or so. Chrissy had broken up with her long time boyfriend and showed up at our apartment, seeking a sympathetic ear.

  While Mom gathered blankets and a pillow, I perched next to Chrissy on the couch, handing her tissues.

  “Silvia, listen to me,” she advised between sniffles. “If you’re ever interested in a guy, make sure to keep your eyes open. Check the shelves in their cabinets. Check their drawers. They’re probably hiding something. Don’t assume that things are as they appear on the surface.”

  Then she burst into tears, wailing something about the bedroom. At that point, Mom sent me to my room with strict orders not to come out until she gave me permission. So, it’s Chrissy’s fault that I’m snooping. I’ll blame her.

  I shut the medicine cabinet, and that’s when I see them: four toothbrushes hanging from the rack on the wall. One of them is pink. Another one is purple. The other two are different shades of blue.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  The door shakes, and I jump back a foot, about all the space I have without hitting the wall.

  “Are you done in there?” Liam calls from the hallway.

  “Almost!” I turn off the sink and open the door, making a big show of wiping my hands on a towel.

  “Okay. You might want to leave now.” Liam pushes me out and slams the door shut. “And don’t come back.”

  I grimace. Yep, I really don’t get boys. They don’t even try to hide how gross they are.

  Back in the hallway, I notice that the door to Franco’s room is now open. I step further into the hallway, trying to peer into the bedroom. Just as I get a good look into the room, Franco appears in the doorway. I stop short. Busted! Oh, crap.

  “Hey, Silvia, come here.” He waves me into the room. “I want to show you something.”

  “You do?” Seriously? He’s inviting me into his bedroom?

  He digs in the top drawer of an old dresser. “Yeah, but I gotta find it first.” He yanks out a clean T-shirt and changes right in front of me.

  Pectorals. Biceps. External obliques. Muscles flexing and stretching all over the place. My eyes widen at the beautiful anatomy lesson. As his shirt drops down to cover his perfection, Franco turns away to shuffle through various stacks of papers and books on yet another bookshelf across the room. I try to slow my breathing and calm my over-stimulated heart.

  After a few minutes, Franco hands me a glossy piece of paper. “Here it is. I was beginning to think I threw it away.”

  My hand shakes slightly as I take the flier.

  “It’s all about the Citizen Race for Glory,” Franco explains. “For some reason, the New Order makes a huge fuss over this stupid thing. There’s a big awards festival after with a dinner and dancing. And, over at the library, some kids built a huge model of the race out of recycled materials.”

  My heart chills. “The library?”

  “Yeah. Wanna go see it? It’s supposed to be pretty neat. Plus, it might help you strategize for the race—you know, picture it in your head.”

  “I…” My hands clench the flier which, all of a sudden, feels like a weapon. “I haven’t been to the library in years.”

  Franco raises his eyebrows. “Really? You seem like the type who likes to read.”

  “I do. In fact, I used to spend a lot of time there. But…” Since it’s summer, I no longer have sleeves to pull down and hide my scars, so I cover my wrists with my hands.

  Somehow, Franco understands. “That’s where it happened?” His hands cover my futile attempt to hide the past. He gives my damaged wrists a gentle squeeze.

  I nod, tears threatening to form. “On my birthday. When I was eleven.”

  He exhales. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t mean to force you, but I’m willing to listen if you want.”

  Again, I feel the need to tell him everything. With everyone else, I always feel the opposite. But he’s different. And so I begin…

  used to love the library.” I envision the endless shelves of books, the colorful paintings of famous fairy tale characters in the children’s corner. “After Dad died, I spent every weekend there. It was safe.”

  Franco tenses. “Safe? From what?”

  “The Suits.” I tremble at the memory.

  Franco eases me onto the corner of the bed. “Just sit down. It will be okay.”

  My legs collapse beneath me. “You know who I mean, right? Solid black suits. Crisp white shirts. Short hair, shaved to the scalp. And glasses, always with black glasses. They can’t all have bad vision and light sensitivity, right? It’s about intimidation.”

  “Yeah, I know who you mean.” His eyes flash, and I detect hatred in their depths. Then he blinks, and it goes away.

  “Then you know about the questions.”

  Franco takes a deep breath. “What did they ask you?”

  “About Dad. Over and over again. They asked about meetings, and names, and papers.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I told them to go to Hell.”

  “You told them… to go to Hell? Weren’t you just a kid?” Franco releases his grip on my wrists. “I mean, I realize you’re still a kid, but—”

  I stand, brushing him away. “I’m not a kid.”

  Franco holds up a hand in supplication. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, but… that’s so bold. Weren’t you scared of them? I mean, how old were you back then?”

  “Ten.” I put my hands on my hips. “Because I’m eighteen now. Got it? I have a full time job, and I’m
not a child.”

  “I said I was sorry.” Franco pats the bed beside him. “It’s just that I don’t understand. You tell the members of the New Order to… well, basically, to go screw themselves—which is amazing. But, if you had such courage, then why did you… ”

  I shudder, my eyes filling with unwelcome tears. “Because they kept coming back.” I sit down, my legs weak again. “I thought they were done with me, that they’d leave us alone after everything that happened. But they came back and ruined the one place I felt safe.”

  Franco hands me a tissue and leans against my arm. He feels warm. “Why don’t you start there?”

  “On my birthday? When I was eleven?”

  “Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Tell me everything.”

  Franco’s room fades away. I see my apartment, the cramped one we’ve been forced into. Plants with limp, yellow leaves languish on the counters, dying for light. It’s my eleventh birthday. I get my own breakfast like I’ve done every day since Dad’s death. Mom only picks at the food I place in front of her as an afterthought. Eats only enough to stay alive. After I finish, I shuffle over to my mother in stocking feet. She’s only bitten off the corner of a single slice of toast. She didn’t even get as far as the jam.

  “Mom?” I shift my feet.

  “Hmm.” She stares out the window like she does every day since Dad died. She’s stopped working. Her violin gathers dust in the corner. She ignores everything—and everyone—including me.

  I do the laundry, the dishes, and make each meal the best I can.

  All she’ll do is sit there.

  “Mom, it’s my birthday.”

  “Hmm.” Her hand floats back to pat my arm, but she never even looks at me. “I know. Happy birthday, dear.”

  Of course, my birthday also means the one-year anniversary of my father’s death, but for days, even weeks now, I’ve been hoping she’s planned something. A cake, a trip, something special. So we can set everything behind us and just be happy, even if only for a day.

  “What are we going to do for my birthday?” I ask.

  She sighs, her face still turned away. “What do you want to do?”