Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  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.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  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.

  “Ah, Mr. Tucci. Good morning. Is this the new one?” He nods in my direction, tugging on his waistband as though his wind pants need adjustment.

  “Yes, Mr. Brockman, this is Ms. Hamilton. I’m sure you’ll show her the ropes.”

  Mr. Brockman looks me over, his gaze crawling, and I suddenly feel exposed before him. “Not a problem, not a problem,” he says.

  I cross my arms. As if that might help to shield me from his measuring look.

  “Very good.” With another smile for me, Mr. Tucci departs. I wince as the heavy steel door clangs after him.

  And I’m left with Mr. Brockman and the others, HTS carriers whose stares I feel boring into me.

  Mr. Brockman motions behind him. “Welcome to the Cage.”

  “The Cage?” I echo.

  He chuckles. “Yep. That’s what the kids call it. The name kind of stuck. Even the staff calls it that now.” He nods to the wall of chain link behind his desk.

  It makes terrifying sense. What better way to remove us from the general population than to stick us down here with only ourselves for company? And beyond isolation . . . we’re confined.

  “The Cage” consists of chain link stretching from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the chain link there are about ten desks. Only four students occupy the desks, all staring at me with varying expressions. Maybe Mr. Tucci was wrong about the number. Or maybe number five has done something bad and is in jail.

  Immediately, I see that the gate-like door is the only way in or out. Mr. Brockman moves to open it. “It’ll take them a while to round up your assignments. You’ll just have to amuse yourself for today.”

  The door squeaks as he pulls it open.

  I pause at the entrance, reluctant to move inside, to take the first step that will officially make me one of them. I look back at him, unnerved at how close he’s standing beside me, still looking me over in a way that makes me feel like a piece of meat.

  “So you don’t actually teach us?” I ask for clarification, scanning his attire. He looks more like someone on his way to the gym than a real teacher.

  He chuckles. “No. Call me a glorified babysitter. I started as a part-time sub, but they hired me full-time last year. I just turn your work in to your teachers on the outside.”

  On the outside. Teachers I’ll never even meet. I realize this now.

  I peer inside the Cage, eyeing the others. Three boys and one girl. She’s no longer looking at me, concentrating instead on carving something into the desk with her pen.

  “That’s Coco.” He takes one more step, bringing his body closer. The soft bulge of his stomach presses against my arm. “Bet she’ll be glad for some female company. Just been her in here with the boys since last year.”

  There’s something in his voice that makes the tiny hairs on my nape prickle, and suddenly I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: the Cage and the supposed killers inside—or Mr. Brockman on the outside.

  “Course you don’t have to go in just yet.” His voice falls close to my ear. “If you want you can stay out here a bit with me.”

  Then I know what frightens me more. At least right now, in this moment, the answer is clear.

  In the Cage, I notice Coco’s pen holds still. Her attention remains fixed on her desk, but I know she’s attuned to me. To Brockman. Her alertness reaches me, folds into my own veil of awareness.

  Squaring my shoulders, I step inside the Cage.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  Office of the Attorney General

  Department of Justice Order No: 3109-09

  _____________________________________________

  ________________________________________________

  _____

  By virtue of the authority assigned to me as attorney general, I, Samantha Jinks, hereby direct that all United States citizens be tested for Homicidal Tendency Syndrome, otherwise known as HTS, within thirty days of the issuance of this command. Persons who fail to comply will be taken into custody where they will submit to HTS testing standards accorded within their own locality. . . .

  SIX

  I SIT NEAR THE FRONT NEXT TO THE GIRL, COCO. IT’S the obvious choice. I’m not ashamed of my predictability. Two of the boys huddle together, their desks close. It looks like they’re playing some kind of card game. One boy sits by himself, his slight shoulders hunched over his desk. He’s small, hardly big enough to pass for a freshman. Face buried in a book, his long, spindly legs stretch out far beneath his desk and he reminds me of a puppy that hasn’t quite grown into his limbs and paws. Hard to imagine he’s a carrier. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe they made a mistake.

  Coco doesn’t look up from her desk as I lower into a desk near her. She carves intently, her expression focused. A quick peek at her work reveals an elaborate geometric design.

  No one gives my presence much reaction. Several minutes pass and I begin to think this won’t be so bad. Boring, yeah. But not bad. Certainly not dangerous. And then I hear a chair scrape the linoleum floor. My skin tightens, the back of my neck prickling, but I don’t turn to look. I stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t sense someone approaching. As though pretending he doesn’t exist and is coming my way will make him not real.

  Coco moves from geometric angles to swirls now. Her pen works faster on her desk, whirring on the air, the pitch reminding me of an aria I sang last year at the bank’s Christmas party.

  “Hey.” The word hits the back of my neck in a hot gust of breath.

  I jump a little. Masking my fear, I look over my shoulder. It’s only one boy. He occupies the seat behind me, his body dwarfing the desk. He’s wearing a vintage-looking gray shirt with green sleeves that fits him tightly. He smiles. It’s totally insincere though.

  His companion watches with interest from his desk. Suddenly, I feel like a lot weighs on this moment, on how I react. I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans. Like a new inmate arrived in prison, I’m being evaluated on all sides.

  “Hey,” I return.

  “Where you from?”

  “Does it matter?” For some reason I hesitate to tell him where I live. I don’t want to come across as the spoiled little rich girl that’s fallen low. Even if I am.

  “I suppose not.” He smiles widely. “Nothing matters anymore. Our life is this Cage.”

  “Maybe yours,” I return.

  His smile vanishes. “Oh. You think so? You think you’re special?”

  “This is only temporary. Few more weeks and I’ll graduate—

  He laughs and I stop talking. “Stupid bitch. You think I just mean this room? We’ll be in a cage for the rest of our lives. Whether it’s this one or another one. Graduation?” He shakes his head. “You think that’s going to save you? You think you’re going to get a great job or something? Go to college? Right now, the only thing that’s going to help you is how many friends you can make in here.” He looks me over, his cold eyes assessing. “You any good at making friends?”

  Friends? As in becoming his friend? Something twists sickly inside me. I don’t answer, but he keeps talking anyway.

  “You’re dead
to your old friends. You’re swimming in a different pond now. You’ll need new friends. Carriers. Like you.” He leans back in the seat and crosses his thick arms over his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but his words hang there. Like me.

  I open my mouth, but can’t think of a proper response, too disgusted with the idea that I am somehow the same as him. That carriers everywhere are all the same. Even if that’s how we’re treated. Even if that’s how everyone views us. I’m different. The exception. It’s arrogant thinking, but all I can cling to.

  He smiles, clearly satisfied that he’s put me at a loss for words. Leaning forward, he runs his hand along my arm, his fingers soft as moths’ wings. I slap it away. A mistake. His smile fades and he grabs my offending hand, giving my fingers a hard, cruel squeeze. My heart gallops in my chest, stunned that he’s even touching me like this . . . hurting me.

  I glance quickly at Brockman. He’s reading his magazine. I try to wiggle my fingers free, but he holds tightly, twisting my fingers until they’re bloodless. Until I have to clench my teeth from crying out. I debate calling for help, but he clicks his tongue at me, drawing my attention. “Hey, don’t look at him. I’m talking to you. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. There are a lot of things that can happen to you. When Brockman leaves to use the bathroom. When he falls asleep at his desk. Hell, even right now. So let’s get off on the right foot.”

  I swallow back my whimper and hold his gaze, searching for some scrap of emotion in eyes as glassy and dead as a mannequin’s.

  “Leave her alone, Nathan,” the little guy interjects. “She doesn’t need any tips from you.”

  I’d forgotten about him.

  “Shut up, Gil,” Nathan snarls at him, his face instantly contorting into something mean and ugly. “Keep your nose in your book and I might forget you exist for the rest of the day.”