He continues, “You shouldn’t have called me. And I shouldn’t have come.”
“But you did,” I say, hoping that he’s wrong. That there’s something good in others. In him. That I’m not alone. I can’t be. I don’t want to be.
“Next time I won’t.” He pulls the truck out onto the street again.
His words inexplicably wound me. It’s not as though I count him as a friend, but he’s the only one tonight that came when I called. If I can’t have a friend among my own kind—and I have to accept that I’m one of them now—then what’s left for me?
An oncoming car lights up his face for a brief moment, and I don’t miss the unyielding set to his jaw.
“So you’re telling me to trust no one.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Remember that and you might survive.” Nodding, he slides me a measuring glance. “You’re soft. You need to toughen up.”
I can’t help thinking that telling an HTS carrier that she needs to toughen up is ironic. Presumably, carriers are already tough. Sociopaths waiting to snap.
He slows in front of my house. Like most homes in this area, it sits far back from the road. He pulls up to the gate but doesn’t drive all the way down the driveway to the porch. Probably a good idea.
I open the noisy door and stick one leg out. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Be more careful.”
Because he won’t bail me out again. He doesn’t say those words, but he doesn’t need to. He already did. He made his point clear.
As I walk down my drive and beneath the covered portico, I fish out my keys, resisting the temptation to peek behind me. I haven’t heard him drive away yet. The glow of headlights bathes me in white as I unlock the door.
Is he still watching me? Making sure I get safely inside? That seems a little too courteous for a carrier who just vowed to never help me again.
As I punch in the alarm and step inside, he reverses and drives away. I lock the door behind me. The house is dark and silent. My eyes adjust to the gloom. I inhale, smelling the aroma of fresh-cut flowers on the foyer table.
I move into the living room, not bothering with the light. I know my way well. Especially toward the piano, the first instrument I ever played. I push back the lid and sink onto the bench. I don’t need sheet music. I lightly poise my fingers, curling them softly. They’re elegant and slim from long hours of practice. My fingertips sink down on the smooth, well-loved keys. A soft swell of music rises from the belly of the piano as I play something I wrote a year ago. I still remember it even though I haven’t composed lately, too busy with school and voice lessons and Zac. Now all those things are gone. Lost to me. My body sways slightly with the harmony. At least I still have this.
I finish playing half an hour later. The last note hangs, reverberating in the silent room, fading into space until the only sound is the faint whir of fan blades from above.
With one last caress for the keys, I rise and head upstairs. Usually, Mom or Dad wait up, but they must have gone to bed. Light spills into the hallway from my parents’ bedroom, a bright puddle of yellow on the bloodred runner. I have to pass the open door on the way to my room.
I pause and peer inside. Mom’s asleep in bed, a book forgotten next to her. A relieved breath shudders past my lips. At least I don’t have to lie to her and tell her I had a great time with Zac. I’ll have to tell her the truth soon enough and dash her dreams that Zac is sticking by me through all this.
Even across the room, I can detect the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her lamp is still on and I’m contemplating turning it off when the empty space beside her registers.
I frown. It’s not like Dad to work this late on a Friday. Usually, he and Mom share a bottle of wine and watch a movie together.
I can’t help wondering where he is and if it has anything to do with me. It has to be because of me. Mom’s been the calm one, practical and accepting. Dad’s been angry, storming around the house. Slamming doors. At first, it made me feel better. Proof that he cares. He may not have been able to stop all this from happening to me but at least it made him furious. And that gave me hope that maybe he could do something. Figure something out to save me. Typical daddy’s-girl thinking.
At night, I hear him fighting with Mom through the walls. They never used to fight. I don’t feel good about that. That I’m the reason.
I move from the doorway, wondering where he is . . . why he isn’t fighting with her now. Have they moved on to avoidance? In some ways I wish he was in there, his voice raised in anger. That’s better than this silence.
Walking into my bedroom, I can’t help thinking that this is my life now. I drop on my bed and pull one of my pillows close to my chest, hugging it tightly.
No one to trust. No friends. A life of silence broken only with music.
Inscription on page 21 of Davy’s eleventh-grade yearbook:
To my best friend! The sweetest, most brilliant girl ever!!!
Looking forward to our senior year together! We’ll be unstoppable!
Love you to the moon and back, your BFF, Tori!
TWELVE
“DAVINA, COME UP HERE.”
At the sound of my name, I stand and head to the front of the Cage. I pass Sean. He arrived an hour ago. I don’t look at him. At least I don’t turn my face in his direction. From the corner of my eye, I observe him writing something in his notebook. He doesn’t glance at me.
Since Friday, I’ve taken his advice. I haven’t talked to him. I’ve tried not to look at him at all. Other than a few words exchanged with Gil, I haven’t said anything to anyone at school. Brockman is the only one I talk to and just because I have to.
Every afternoon, Brockman has either Gil or me take our class’s completed assignments to the office and collect any new work. By Wednesday, I know the drill. I guess today it’s my turn.
“Here you go.” Brockman hands me several manila folders, barely glancing at me. This has been his manner since the bathroom incident with Sean. No inappropriate remarks. He doesn’t so much as brush hands with me when he passes me the folders.
“Come right back.” He says that every time. Like I have a choice. Like I have anywhere else to go.
I nod and start to turn but stop at his, “Oh, wait.” I watch as he digs some spare change out of his pocket. “Why don’t you get me a soda, too. Big Red.”
I hold my hand out for the money. He drops the coins into my palm. I slip the change into my jeans pocket and hurry away.
The athletic hall, ripe with the ever-present aroma of sweat, is familiar by now. Sometimes I pass boys or girls heading into one of the gyms or weight room. They often notice my ID badge and look me over like I’m sort of a freak. Like they’re not accustomed to coming face-to-face with a carrier. I can’t imagine I look very threatening.
Three boys emerge from the locker room. They’re dressed in their gym clothes, black shorts with gray T-shirts. A hawk, the school mascot, is emblazoned across the front, its wings stretched in flight.
Their loud voices compete with each other. One of them nudges the guy next to him when he spots me, and soon all three fall quiet, assessing me with eyes that move rapidly, taking special note of my orange ID badge.
One whispers something to the boy beside him and they laugh. It’s a mean, dirty laugh and it makes my skin crawl.
We’re almost side to side now. I walk as close to the wall as possible, clutching the folders, bending them away from me in my hands.
“I thought they were supposed to keep them in lockdown,” one of them says in a distinctly loud whisper.
Lockdown. Like I’m a prisoner. A captive.
I hurry past them before I can hear more. Before one of them gets the courage to actually address me. At least there’s that. They don’t outright confront me. Too uncertain of the girl with the kill gene.
I find a bathroom on the top floor. I prop the manila folders down on the tiny shelf in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. I hardly recognize the pale girl looking back at me. The fear in my eyes is as unfamiliar as my surroundings. I guess I’m uncertain of the girl with the kill gene, too.
I turn on the faucet, pump soap into my palms, and wash them together, letting the cool water run over my hands. If only everything else wrong in my life could disappear as swiftly.
Brockman grunts a thanks when I return with his soda and set it on his desk. There were no new assignments waiting for us. This actually makes me kind of sad. It’s going to be a boring afternoon with nothing to do.
I hesitate a moment before I open the Cage door. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with longing for my old school. My classrooms. People to talk to, teachers that actually give a damn and want to teach us.
Sinking into my desk, I pull out a notebook and start writing. Composing. I hum under my breath as I jot down notes, toying with varying pitches and combinations in my head. I’m so absorbed I don’t hear him approach.
“What are you doing?”
I jump and slam my notebook shut.
Sean stands over me, holding a spiral notebook. It looks small in his large hands. Even the pencil looks fragile, as if he might accidentally break it in his grip.
“N-nothing.” I want to ask him why he’s talking to me. I thought we were finished with that. With him talking to me . . . helping me. I got his message loud and clear. I was in this alone.
“What were you drawing?”
I shake my head, not about to explain that I was composing a piece of music. “Just doodling.”
He eases into the desk in front of me and turns to face me. Using my desktop, he opens up his notebook and pulls out a work sheet tucked inside there. “Thought we’d finish that assignment.”
“The one from last week?”
He nods.
I angle my head. “You want to write my biography?”
“That’s the assignment,” he replies, his voice even, his gaze unflinching.
I didn’t think he cared. He’d hardly been a willing subject when I posed the questions to him. “Okay,” I say slowly.
“Name?”
“Davy Hamilton.”
“That’s not your full name.” He stares at me steadily, his eyes serious. He’s always so serious. I’ve never heard him laugh. Never seen him smile.
“Davina Evelyn Hamilton.”
And then I see it. The corner of his mouth lifts ever so faintly.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just sounds like the name of someone’s great-great-aunt.”
“They were my grandmothers’ names . . . on both sides.”
His pencil scratches the paper. “Of course,” he murmurs softly beneath his breath.
“Parents?”
“Patrick and Caitlyn Hamilton.”
“Siblings?”
He asks the rest of the questions. All basic stuff. I rattle off answers.
“Hobbies?
I hesitate. He looks up at me. “Come on. You have them.” He sounds almost amused at the idea that I would try to deny this.
“Debutante training?” he suggests. “Tennis at the country club?”
I glare. “Funny. No. Music,” I snap.
“Music? You like listening to music?”
“No. I play. I sing.”
“What do you play?”
I sigh. “Piano. Violin. Flute, guitar. A few others . . .” My voice fades.
He lifts his pencil from the desk and looks at me squarely. “You play all those instruments?”
I nod, waiting for him to make a remark, to poke fun at me.
He returns his attention to his paper. “That’s really cool.” The comment is mild enough, but from him it feels . . . I don’t know. Important somehow. I’ve impressed him. For some weird reason this warms me. I doubt much impresses him.
“Is that why you’re always humming?”