Revive

by Tracey Martin

  I run my fingers around the edge of the cup. “Maybe it would help if you tell me more. Tell me about the dance and our classes.”

  Tell me about myself. I’m reluctant to say that part though. Although I trust Kyle for no good reason, I’m reluctant to let on how much of myself I’ve lost.

  “Never show weakness. Weaknesses—and never real ones—are only something to be expressed in a calculated decision when trying to reach a goal. Use fake weakness to manipulate other people. Don’t let other people use your real ones to manipulate you.”

  There’s that woman’s voice again. It grates on my ears. Or, well, my brain, since she’s a memory. But there’s value in what she says.

  Vulnerability is dangerous. I should hide what I can. Even if Kyle is okay to trust, the paranoia remains.

  They’re coming.

  I know. I’ve met them. Stuff it already, brain.

  Kyle seems to be considering, drinking his coffee thoughtfully. “There’s a lot I could tell you. It probably makes more sense for you to tell me what you remember. Then I can fill in the gaps.”

  The problem is: it’s mostly gaps. And the parts I remember are not things I think I should share. But right. I won’t let that on. Weakness is bad. Mission was secret. Got it.

  “Okay, starting backward. Um, the dance.” I close my eyes, begging my mind to release more memories.

  One finally comes with the force of a hurricane.

  Nine is stalling me in the bathroom. “I think we should go over this makeup thing again.”

  “Are you kidding? We spent the past half hour painting my face various shades of…” I consult the containers in my hand, “…Desert Peach and Urban Twilight. Who names these things?”

  “Please. Who cares?” She’s practically whining, batting her non-mascaraed eyelashes at me.

  Above, one of the fluorescent tube lights flickers. Maintenance was supposed to have fixed that yesterday, so how come it’s not done? It’s making my eye twitch. Or maybe that’s the makeup.

  “You leave me tomorrow for who knows how long,” Nine continues. “You’re getting to GO.”

  When she says it, the word is clearly in all caps.

  Nine has made no attempts to hide her jealousy. It’s for exactly that reason she’s not the one who was selected. She wants it too bad, and that makes her untrustworthy. I’ve told her this, for all the good it’s done.

  As for me, GO is a mixed blessing. My stomach knots when I think about it. I’m ready for this. I’ve been preparing for weeks. I’m trusted. Yet I’m silently freaking out and don’t want to show it. Showing it is weakness.

  Actually, feeling it is weakness. Showing it would just be embarrassing.

  I wave the containers at her. “I don’t even plan on wearing this stuff. It’s irritating, and if I rub my face, it smears. I don’t like it.”

  Nine rolls her eyes at me. “Think of it like camo paint. Lots of college girls wear it. That’s my point—we need to make sure you blend in. We’re different, Sev. I want to make sure you kick ass on this mission.”

  We’re different. Yup, thanks for the reminder.

  I smile though. Nine and I don’t always agree on everything, but she’s my closest friend. “I know. So do I. But I don’t think my ability to apply a killer makeup job is going to be the deciding factor.”

  “Be prepared. You never know.” She removes her body from the bathroom door she’s been blocking. “But fine. You should get a good night’s sleep.”

  “You think?”

  She flings open the door and saunters down the drab gray hallway, swinging her hips as if she can hear some tune that I can’t. Amused, I’m about to ask what’s up when she throws open the door at the end of the hall.

  I gasp. Our entire unit, all twelve of us, are crammed in the girls’ quarters. Blue and purple crepe paper covers the normally bare walls and windows. Our six beds have been pushed against the sides, creating an open space in the center. For a change, the room feels almost warm and alive.

  “Surprise!” people yell in chorus, tossing excess crepe paper at me.

  I cover my mouth with my hands, laughing. “Crepe paper? Really? Where did you get that? What are you doing?”

  Six playfully hits Nine on the shoulder. “Good question. What are you doing? We didn’t have time to finish decorating.”

  Nine pokes me. “I couldn’t hold her any longer. You know she’s got an iron will.”

  I stick my tongue out at her, still laughing to cover my surprise and to hide the tears forming behind my eyes. I can’t believe they did this. We’re going to be in huge trouble if Fitzpatrick finds out, but I don’t care.

  “Our Seven, stubborn?” One drapes an arm around me, giving me one of his rare grins. “Never.”

  “Shut up.” I flick him in the chest.

  Despite his grin, I’m certain he had no hand in planning this. In fact, I’m certain he doesn’t approve. There’s a tightness around his eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide, and for good reason. As our team leader, One is supposed to set the example. But he’ll go along with this for me.

  I try not to think about that.

  “You’re all crazy,” I say. “You know that?”

  “Crazy jealous,” Six says, tossing her hair. “And we’re going to miss you.”

  I lob a piece of crepe paper at her. “I’m not leaving forever. If I have any luck, I’ll get this done quickly and be back before you can out pull-up me.”

  As the three smallest people in our unit, Six, Eight and I are perpetually competing to see which of us can do the most pull-ups.

  One clears his throat. “It won’t be luck if you’re fast. It’ll be skill. That’s why—”

  “Oh, enough with it,” Nine says, dragging me deeper into the room. “She doesn’t need a pep talk. We’ve got more celebrating to do.”

  I follow her, pretending I don’t see the scowl on One’s face. He’s the only other of us who’s gotten to go on a real mission, but his wasn’t a solo one. And it was fast. He was gone three days, flying to Turkey with one of the CYs to obtain…something. Something the rest of us weren’t cleared to know about.

  We congratulated One then, but no one threw him a party. Him being chosen was expected. He’s our team leader, the best and most responsible of us all. I hope he doesn’t resent the attention I’m getting.

  With that thought running through my head, I smile awkwardly at everyone who starts talking to me. This party’s suddenly gone from sweet to cringe-worthy.

  “Incoming!” The group parts, and Three barges through carrying a cake. He sets it on my desk with a flourish, shoving my laptop and packing list out of the way with his elbows. “Exalted Seven, I bring you sustenance.”

  “Oh, please.” Nine grabs the knife from him.

  I cross my arms, awkward surprise turning to awkward awe. “Where did you get a cake?”

  Three winks at me. “I have a way with people.”

  Yeah, I bet. Three, with his blond waves and blue eyes, has proven remarkably adept at convincing the older women around here to give him anything he asks for.

  “Let’s get this party going,” Six says.

  A moment later she and Ten have filled the quarters with dance music. I’m not sure how they managed that either. Apparently, all the extra time I’ve spent prepping for tomorrow’s mission, my unit has spent prepping for tonight.

  Well, we’ve been trained to be resourceful. I suspect, come tomorrow, some people around here are going to worry we were trained to be too resourceful. Thank goodness I’m leaving for Boston in the morning and won’t be around to experience the inevitable punishments.

  I can’t decide whether to gorge on cake—a treat I’ve rarely gotten to eat in my nineteen years—or dance. Somehow, I manage to do a bit of both. We all know this party can’t last long because Fitzpatrick
will come around soon. She’s due in here by ten. If she hears the music or someone alerts her, she’ll be here earlier. Until then, everyone—even One, Five and Twelve—seem determined to enjoy the madness.

  Finally, One pulls me aside, whipping me away from where Nine and Six are dancing, and into the empty corridor. He shuts the door, and I tense.

  “You’re nervous.”

  Why is it never a question with him? “Well, yeah. It’s my first real mission. Who wouldn’t be? Besides you, fearless leader.”

  His smile lasts only a fraction of a second. I can’t even be sure it was genuine. “I’d be anxious too. Hell, I was on my trip.”

  “But you say it like it’s an accusation. Poor Seven, she’s so weak.”

  He’s always doing that. Since he’s leader, he feels he has to watch out for all of us, but it’s the worst with me. Always with me. Like I’m the runt of the litter or something. Which I’m not. We all have different strengths, but there are no runts here.

  One runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not an accusation, and I don’t think you’re weak. You got picked for this mission—that’s because you deserve it. But I can tell you’re hiding your anxiety, and I want you to know you don’t have to. No one’s going to judge you for being nervous.”

  That might or might not be true. I’m not risking it.

  One slides a finger across my jaw, and I suddenly realize how close he’s standing. Inches away. His hazel eyes search my face, and something like the chills come over me.

  One has the most mesmerizing eyes. They have the power to make me feel younger than him, and weaker. That I need to turn to him—our leader and big brother—for protection. Or they can make me feel like I’m the strongest, most bad-ass girl on the planet.

  The way he looks at me now, I feel a bit of both. Confused doesn’t even being to cover it.

  “I’m nervous for you too, you know.” His face is so close that his breath tickles my nose when he speaks. It reminds me that, though he is our unit leader, he’s not actually my brother.

  I try to laugh, but my mouth’s dry and my lips don’t work properly. “I thought you said you were sure I’d succeed.”

  “I am, but it could be dangerous. We don’t know how much the others know. If you got hurt…”

  I start to say “I won’t”—one of those ridiculous promises no one can keep—but I can’t get the words out. My heart’s beating like I just finished our morning run.

  One reaches up and runs his thumb down my cheek. The brush of his skin, so light yet so meaningful, is too much. I hold my breath.

  Forget my mission. This moment is so much more dangerous. We shouldn’t be out here alone. He shouldn’t be standing so close. I shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like if he were even closer, thinking about all those times I’ve seen him without his shirt on, wondering what it would be like to slide my hands under it now. Would his skin be silky or sweaty? Would the hard ridges of his muscles guide my hands up or down?

  Heat spreads throughout my body, and my heart beats faster.

  Why is One doing this? Is it a test? Not only is he failing to set the example, he’s pushing me to break one of the biggest rules we have.

  Unless I’m misreading him. But no. I’m good at reading faces. I’ve been trained to do it, and I really don’t think I’m wrong.

  Then the main door opens, and we jump apart. I can’t see the entrance from here, but that must be Fitzpatrick heading our way. A guilty expression sweeps over One’s face, just like I’m sure it does on mine. I was definitely not misreading him.

  Oh, shit.

  Kyle waves a hand in front of my face, and I shudder as I return to the present. “Soph?”

  Kyle. Kyle. Kyle.

  Focus on Kyle with the perfect cheekbones and shaggy bleached hair. Kyle, who I went to some dance with last night. Kyle, whose closeness to me now makes my skin tingle.

  But I can’t focus on the present, and I rest my forehead in my hands. Who is One? And what kind of name is that? Why did he call me Seven? I thought I was Sophia.

  Three. Six. Nine.

  What. The. Hell.

  Cole. Gabe. Summer. Jordan. That’s it. I almost scream with surprise. Those were the faces in that photo Audrey was looking at in our room. So why am I remembering them as numbers?

  I file the memory away, but instead of easing my confusion, it worsens it. My headache is back.

  “Sophia?”

  Right. That’s supposed to be my name. I’ll worry about the rest later.

  Blinking, I force myself out of my stupor. “Here, sorry.”

  Kyle’s face is amused as he drains his coffee cup. “Get lost down memory lane?”

  “Um, yeah. Was thinking about the time Fitzpatrick came and broke up a dorm party at my old school.” Half my coffee plus most of my muffin remains, and I stall by drinking more. The coffee’s gotten cool, but I don’t mind. I’m plenty warm at last.

  Kyle points to the muffin with his coffee stirrer, as if reminding me to eat. “You’ve mentioned this Fitzpatrick before. She was your RA or something?”

  “Yeah.” No. I don’t think that’s entirely correct, but I don’t know what is correct, so I don’t want to explain. Maybe that’s what I told Kyle, though. Maybe it was part of my cover story. Whichever, the fact that I lied to Kyle is a good reminder of why I shouldn’t be talking too much.

  I twirl my cup around on the table and check out the window. The street is busy. Pedestrians scurry by, bundled in their jackets, avoiding eye contact. Traffic backs up in the intersection, and horns wail. But no faces alarm me. No cars look familiar. How long do I have here?

  “I didn’t like her—Fitzpatrick,” I tell Kyle. “I called her Bitchpatrick.”

  He smirks. “Yeah, I know. You said your old school wasn’t much fun.”

  “What else did I say about it?”

  I spin the cup so fast it almost goes flying off the table. Kyle catches it then rests a hand on my hand. I’m trembling, but that might be in part from his touch. Or the caffeine jitters.

  I like his touch. The weight is comforting, and it makes me smile. At least until I remember One, er, Cole. Whatever his real name is. Then I wonder if I should be feeling guilty for liking the way Kyle touches me. This is so confusing.

  Kyle taps each of my fingers with one of his. “You didn’t say much about it. Just that you didn’t like it and are happier at RTC. Although you missed your friends. Oh, and the work was a lot more difficult at your old school. But I find that hard to believe, and if it’s true, that’s scary given my workload this semester.”

  I ponder that, waiting—hoping—for something to knock loose another memory.

  Kyle stops his tapping and wraps his fingers around my hand. The rough edges of the bandage near his thumb slide against my skin. I’m not the only one who’s wounded.

  “What did you do to your hand?”

  He tucks the thumb under his palm as if ashamed of the injury. “Nothing. Just a cut. Last night, the window—you don’t remember that either? How much do you remember? Really. Be honest.”

  I stare at the floor. Slush has melted off our sneakers and forms a grayish-brown puddle at our feet. I feel as dirty as the tiles because anything I say is going to be an obvious lie. Don’t show weakness is great advice, but I’m in no state to put it to use.

  Kyle gives me a minute, but when I don’t respond, he sighs. “Okay, look. You’re scaring me. I thought maybe… I don’t know, never mind. But whatever it is that happened to you, it’s a lot worse than I thought at first. Mass General is right down the street. I think—”

  “No.”

  “Sophia—”

  I yank my hand from him. “No.”

  Where my fear comes from, I don’t know. But some things, even if I can’t place them, stick with me like scars.

&nb
sp; Bad people are coming. Trust no one. Stay away from doctors.

  Kyle presses his lips thin in disapproval, and we stare each other down. Eventually, he gives up. “Fine. I can’t drag you there, but this is serious. Do you want to head back to campus?”

  “No.” If they are coming, they already know I go to RTC. Going back there would be giving myself up. I take a bite of muffin while Kyle frowns at me. It sticks to my throat, and I have to force it down. “I’m going to be fine. Stuff is coming back.”

  “You hit your head.”

  “I’m a little disoriented.”

  He shakes my arm. “The way you’re acting, you probably have a concussion or something. You need help.”

  I turn from him defiantly, doing what I should have done earlier while I pondered his T-shirt. I take in the coffee shop, assessing the baristas and customers for signs of threats and the doors for easy exits. The guy at the next table pulls an e-sheet from his pocket, unfolds it and begins reading the newspaper.

  Read Harris.

  Great. That’s more specific, but it doesn’t make more sense. Is Harris a book, an author, a website, what?

  Would Kyle know? Is it wise to ask him?

  He’s watching me, or more like he’s studying me while I watch everyone else. Why isn’t he sharing more with me? Why won’t he tell me more about myself? Is he purposely keeping things from me?

  “Really crazy suggestion here,” he says. “But since you’re refusing to see a doctor, maybe you should call your dad.”

  I freeze at the sheer obviousness of it. A dad. Parents. Yeah, I should have one or both of those. Everyone has one or both of those.

  So why am I drawing a complete blank? I mean, yes, my memories are screwed up and missing, but this is parents. This should be fundamental. And yet the whole concept of parents feels foreign. Alien.

  I have no parents.

  I always look up, I can’t trust doctors, and I have no parents—things I’m sure of. Sophia—Seven—I—am a freak.

  Swallowing, I return my attention to Kyle. “Have I ever talked about my parents?”

  “You’ve mentioned your dad before. I think you said he works for the government.” Kyle raises an eyebrow, and I nod along like I know this. “You don’t talk a lot about him, but he calls you once a week.”