Larkstorm

by Dawn Rae Miller

  I cross the long hall to my station and toss my bag under the worktable. I grab my apron, tie it on and start collecting supplies from the storage closet. Humidity clings to me. Even though I hate the heat of summer, I love being in the greenhouse. Probably because when I’ve had enough, I can leave.

  I’ve spent some of my favorite days here, working side by side with my teacher, Mr. Trevern. Advanced food production—developing new strains of commonly grown foods to meet vegetarian diet requirements—is my dream job. There’s something relaxing about digging in freshly prepared soil and watching small, green shoots break the surface. Mr. Trevern promised to put in a good word for me, after the binding, with the Ag branch of State.

  I reach for a fennel and dill seed hybrid and pour the tiny specks onto my collection tray. With tweezers, I place a seed under the magnifying lens and dissect.

  Another teacher enters the room, speaks quietly to Mr. Trevern, and leaves. That’s strange. Normally, teachers communicate by wristlet, so as not to disrupt the class.

  Over my lens, I can see Mr. Trevern move to the front of the class. I turn my attention back to my work.

  A tiny bell calls us to attention. Engrossed in my work, I glance up, more out of respect than anything.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Trevern says as he looks us over and waits for the group to quiet down.

  I blink my eyes and rub them hard. Mr. Trevern’s face is out of focus—blurry, except at the edges. Around him, everything is in crisp, sharp focus. The contrast is unnerving. Must be eyestrain from staring too long into the microscope. I press my palms into my eyes and blink again. He looks normal now.

  “Attention.” He pauses again and looks toward me, his face trying to mask something. “There’s been an unfortunate incident involving some of our students.”

  Whispers. I try to hear what they say, but Mr. Trevern starts again, his voice shaky.

  “I have been instructed to ask you to return to your homes immediately. Further information will be distributed as needed.”

  The whispers break into a roar. A blur of noise. An incident? Something so bad we’re being sent home? It can’t be another security breach. If it were, we’d be on our way to the safe rooms, right? It has to be something else, something worse—if that’s possible.

  I strain to pull information from the conversations of others, but no one knows anything. The lights flicker, adding to the overall sense of confusion.

  Not wanting to add to the panic, I organize my supplies on a tray and carry it back to the pantry. I begin placing each bottle in its proper spot. I will not let myself become hysterical. I will remain calm. I need to set a good example.

  “Lark?” Mr. Trevern is next to me.

  “Yes?” I continue handling the tiny bottles.

  “Let me finish that for you.” He takes the tray from my hands. “I think you should get back to your house as quickly as possible.” His uneven voice shakes.

  Throughout the steamy room, the confusion turns to chaos. “Mr. Trevern? What happened?”

  “I think you should go home, Lark,” he repeats. He focuses his attention on putting away the bottles. “Bethina will have more information for you. Go.”

  A dread fills my body and slams into Mr. Trevern’s words: an unfortunate incident.

  Beck. Where is he? My wristlet runs through his schedule until it locates him. Calculus. He’s over in the main building—far from here.

  My stomach churns. That’s not right—he had Calculus last period. I’m sure of it. Is his wristlet malfunctioning? He should be in English. I’m positive he comes from there when we meet for lunch, which is next.

  Mr. Trevern rings his bell again and shouts over the din. “Please pair up with your housemates who are in this class, and walk as a group. There is nothing to worry about, but we ask that you go directly home. Do not wait for the rest of your housemates.”

  I stare at my favorite teacher hard, challenging him to look me in the eye. But he doesn’t. Mr. Trevern sees me and turns away.

  He’s not telling me something.

  My stomach lurches. I can’t draw a breath and my vision spins. Before me, the room shakes and turns vibrant shades of red.

  Somebody screams. A shrill, heart-wrenching scream, over and over again. I slam my hands over my ears trying to block the noise but it won’t go away. Instead, it grows louder. Surprised, I lower my hands.

  It’s coming from me. From inside me.

  But no one else seems to hear it. The other students pass me, talking amongst themselves, lost in their own little words of worry or excitement.

  The noise disappears and my mind clears. But my heart feels like something is missing. Like a piece has been stolen.

  I race to the coat room, frantic to get home. The other students mill about, exchanging speculations. They prevent me from moving quickly. I shove and elbow my way to my belongings, not caring if I hurt someone.

  As I tug on my coat, Kyra grabs my arm. She’s smiling.

  “Kyra, what’s happening? What do you know?”

  She moves her head from side to side, her finger on her lips. “Shhh! Not here,” she whispers. “It’s starting.”

  She stops short, her eyes wide. Mr. Trevern stands beside me.

  “Kyra, will you please join me? The Headmaster would like to see you.”

  Kyra? For a brief second, I imagine this is all about Kyra and Maz being inappropriate with each other. But that’s ridiculous. No one sent students home when Ryker and Lina were caught. But then I notice Mr. Trevern’s eyes. They are full of pity as he tries to avoid my questioning gaze.

  His face confirms my suspicions and the emptiness in my heart grows. Something happened to Beck.

  As if paralyzed, I stand and stare. At my friend. At my teacher.

  “Lark, you may return home with your group.” I can hear Mr. Trevern’s gentle voice, but his face blurs again. Is this a side-effect of yesterday’s headache? As I rub my eyes and try to bring his features into focus, a cool breeze blows through the room and I shiver.

  Mr. Trevern places one hand across Kyra’s back and takes her wristlet with the other. Whatever she did, she’s in trouble.

  I press the locator button for Beck again. This time, it shows him in the Headmaster’s office. My stomach drops.

  What did they do? What the hell did they do?

  Mr. Trevern guides Kyra through the door. She looks completely unfazed. A sharp gust of wind howls through the opening and I pull my coat tighter. The blast of cold air brings Mr. Trevern back into focus.

  Before the door swings shut, I catch one last glimpse of Kyra. She reaches up and rips the hair elastic from her ponytail, letting her curls beat against her face. Maybe it’s the confusion of the room, but I swear she almost looks excited.

  My legs shake and I force the suffocating air in and out of my constricting lungs. I need to be outside. I need fresh air.

  I shove my way out the door, my mind racing to catch up to my actions. It wouldn’t be the first time Beck or Kyra got into a bit of trouble, but they’ve been at each other non-stop. Arguing. Snide comments. They wouldn’t do anything together. Maybe they had a fight? But when? And where was I?

  I pause, waiting for the rest of my housemates to catch up. In the silence of the outdoors, Kyra’s strange parting smile bothers me. She also knows something. Something she’s happy about. I’m sure of it. What did she say—“It’s starting?” What’s starting?

  Someone calling my name interrupts my thoughts. My housemates gather around me as we walk toward the path.

  Our progress is slow as we plod near the barricade and the armed guards. The snow is about a foot deep now, much deeper than the dusting we had earlier. The wind whips around me and lashes at my small group. My housemates’ conversations range from excitement at being sent home early to confusion. I don’t say anything, just silently battle my way down the path.

  As we trudge along, I can’t remember the walk home ever taking so long. Each p
assing minute is excruciating. I want to run, to find Bethina, to find out what’s happened, but the snow and wind keep pushing me back. They don’t want me to go home.

  Finally, our house comes into view. The last on a block with just three others. I slip and slide over the icy sidewalk. The wind knocks snow from the trees down onto us. With no concern of falling, I sprint up the walkway to our blue two-story home.

  I heave open the wood door, the cold clinging to me, and stomp inside. Other than the muffled noises of the others with me, the house holds no sound. The familiar scent of cinnamon wafts around us, but Bethina’s not at her normal post, waiting to greet us with a boisterous, “Welcome home!”

  “B?” I call. A deafening silence answers. My heart races and fear courses through my veins. The sick feeling intensifies and I grab at my stomach. Please, please Bethina, please be here. Hunched forward, I run ahead of my housemates, toward the kitchen.

  The fully lit kitchen is abandoned. A pot of water boils on the burner. A cookie sheet of biscuits has been flung haphazardly on the counter.

  Terrified, I march through the throng of students in front of me. Their scared whispers fill the air. Once past them, I sprint from room to room searching. “Bethina!” I yell. “Bethina! Where are you?”

  Room after room, empty. I begin to believe the unbelievable—that Bethina is gone—when I see her sitting in the oversized striped chair in the living room, not moving. So still she looks almost asleep, except her eyes are open. Open but not really seeing. She’s just staring.

  “B?” I ask softly, but she doesn’t answer. I grab her shoulders and shake her.

  “Bethina! Are you okay?”

  All the others have joined us. The confused group looks to me, as if I should know what’s going on.

  The melting snow from our shoes and hats puddles onto the wood floor. I force myself to calm down and take a deep breath. I step back from Bethina into the semi-circle my housemates have formed in front of the chair and survey the scene. Not knowing what to do, I raise my hand and slap Bethina sharply across the face.

  Someone gasps.

  “Bethina!” I scream, becoming more frightened. “Wake up! Do you know what’s happened?”

  The outline of my hand on her cheek turns into an ugly red print.

  She moves her head from side to side as if making a mental checklist. I’ve seen her do this many times on our outings—making sure she’s left no one behind, counting and identifying each of us.

  “Kyra?” she whispers.

  I kneel in front of her and take her hand. “Mr. Trevern took her to see the Headmaster.”

  Bethina groans and balls her hand under mine. “But no one else?”

  “Not from our group.” I swivel around to scan the group of boys who just entered. My eyes dart over each face, searching.

  “Where’s Beck?” I ask.

  Bethina makes a weird choking sound. Her tear-stained face contorts. A small movement of her head to the side. The world spins. I know before she says it.

  “Beck’s not coming back.”

  I hear nothing else because the world goes black.

  8

  Swimming. The warm water engulfs me and tempts me out further and further, but my legs shake and I can’t go on. Beck stands on the float about twenty yards from shore. Water drips from his hair and rolls down his torso. If I had never noticed how beautiful he is, I would now.

  “Lark, c’mon,” he calls out to me. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  He leaps off the platform, a perfect dive into the calm water. But I’m too scared to move now that I can’t see him. Despite the perfect sunny sky, white caps form on the water.

  Beck surfaces, struggling against the waves. “Lark, help me!”

  But I can’t. I’m too afraid.

  #

  “She’ll wake up soon, Bethina.” A man’s voice. Dr. Hanson, maybe? “You don’t have to worry. Lark’s going to be okay.”

  “What am I going to tell her? She’ll never get over it.” Bethina’s voice is strained. She’s been crying.

  “Are you worried that she won’t get over it or that she’ll do something rash?”

  “Both,” Bethina says. “You don’t know Lark like I do.”

  I try to move my lips, but they’re dry. My eyelids are heavy. Was I crying too?

  No. I was swimming with Beck and then…

  The images blur in my mind—we were swimming. The water was so warm. Bethina sitting in the chair. Beck in the water, struggling.

  I sit up, startling Dr. Hanson and Bethina. I force my parched throat to spit out some words.

  “Where is he? Where’s Beck?” My voice is hoarse. Maybe we were swimming and I swallowed too much water?

  Dr. Hanson reaches for me carefully. “Shhh…darling, just relax, lie down.”

  I can’t be still. An uncomfortable tingling sensation fills every inch of my body. I have to get up and move.

  Something is wrong, but I can’t remember what. My memory is full of empty spaces and the more I pick at them, the larger the holes become. But Dr. Hanson is here and he only comes for the worst cases.

  Waves of nausea rip through me and I double over. The hands of the grandfather clock tick. Seconds melt away.

  Nothing makes sense. Bethina said Beck’s gone, but that’s crazy. Where did he go? Where would he go without me?

  Fifteen seconds. Each tick brings my mind out of its groggy state. Strong hands restrain me from behind and crush my arms to my sides.

  Why? What did I do? The tingling grows stronger.

  I have to get away. I struggle and thrash until I see Bethina’s face. She touches my forehead and the desire to flee disappears. My muscles tense and then relax as a comforting warmth spreads across every inch of my body.

  In my tranquil state, I remember. Beck was involved in an incident. He did something. Something so terrible that he’s gone.

  The stillness shatters.

  “Where is he?” I scream.

  “He’s gone,” Bethina answers.

  The tingling gives way to a surge of energy. It builds and pushes out from my center.

  “But where? Where did he go?”

  “The State took him,” Dr. Hansen says.

  “Why?” I cry as I swivel my head between Bethina and Dr. Hansen. A loud splitting sound from the other room is followed by a thunderous crash. The house shakes and screams erupt in the hallway. “Because of Annalise? She’s wrong. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Lark, honey. Just relax. You’re going to upset everyone. You need to settle down.” Bethina takes my left hand—my arms are still pinned by Dr. Hanson—and traces small circles across the back of it.

  “Now, take a deep breath and calm down so I can talk to you properly.”

  A pain stabs my heart and I double forward, pulling Dr. Hanson with me. He releases me just before we tumble forward. I gasp as a strange throbbing stings my arms. Every nerve of my body aches as electric currents race along my skin.

  Fully conscious, I shake my head at Bethina. I don’t want to talk. I want to know where the State took Beck and no one’s telling me. I draw on my rapidly dwindling reserve of strength to right myself. The pain is tolerable now, nothing more than a dull stab. My eyes fix on the door. If no one will give me answers, I’m going to find them.

  I struggle to place one foot in front of the other. It’s as if cement blocks encase my feet. The energy surge I felt moments earlier drains away under the physical strain.

  In my hindered state, Dr. Hanson easily blocks me before I can get to the door. I don’t understand; why can’t I leave? What don’t they want me to know?

  “Please, Dr. Hanson, Bethina. Someone tell me what’s happened.”

  They glance at each other, conferring silently.

  “Lark,” Dr. Hanson begins, using the voice doctors reserve for the worse cases. “The State’s investigation found several students were involved in the security brea
ch. Kyra and Beck among them. They’re not going to be coming back. They’re gone.”

  Gone. That word again. I swivel my head toward him and narrow my eyes. The tingling sensation intensifies and a growl escapes my lips.

  “Where? Where did they go?”

  Dr. Hanson recoils, his eyes wide. He steps further from me until he’s out of my reach.

  A maniacal laugh rushes past my lips. A grown man is afraid of me? The thought thrills me.

  I narrow my eyes again as he cowers and moves closer to the door.

  “Lark, you need to stop this. Get control of yourself.” Bethina forces her way between Dr. Hanson and me. She reaches for me and the darkness tempts me back.

  But I can’t slip away. I need to know Beck’s okay. I grasp on to a table and steady myself as the air in the room grows denser than in the greenhouse. It pulls the oxygen from my lungs and chokes me.

  Dr. Hanson backs away toward the door. Maz stands in the opening, his eyes red and swollen.

  “Maz?” I cry, hoping he’ll tell me something.

  Taking advantage of the open door, Dr. Hanson turns and bolts.

  Maz yells, “They’re accusing them of being Sensitives!”

  The door slams shut.

  Furious and no longer encased in cement, I throw myself at the closed door, pulling on it and beating it with my fists. But it’s welded shut. I can’t open it.

  I search around the room for something to ram it with. But there’s nothing. Nothing except Bethina watching me cautiously. Exhausted and defeated, I slump against the door.