The Retribution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer, #3)(100)

I lean down and withdraw a book from my own bag as Noah plays with my hair. It’s the SAT book. Wrong one. I drop it back in and finally find the one I’m looking for—a novel, freshly bought, about superpowered teens. Call it research.

“What book?”

I show Noah the cover, then flip to the last page.

“Wait—are you—Mara Dyer, are you reading the ending first?”

“I am.”

“You are fascinating.”

“I’m weird,” I say, without looking up. “There’s a difference.”

“Really though, how did I not know this about you? This changes everything.”

I glare at him and snap the book shut.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.”

“I am. I am stopping on your account.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Besides, we should probably be reading . . .” My neck crunches as Noah leans over to rummage in my bag. He pulls out the SAT book. “This. A Daniel purchase?”

“How’d you ever guess?”

“Here, I’ll quiz you.”

“Noah—”

“No, no, I insist.” He flips through it. “All right, first word: quintessence.”

“I do not want to play this game.”

He ignores me. “Nom de plume.”

“That’s not obscure.”

“And it’s not really a word, is it? More like a phrase. Who wrote this book anyway?”

“Who cares?” I pluck the book from his hands, drop it into my bag, and slip out a notebook instead. And earphones.

“What are you doing?”

I take a deep breath. “I am running away to join the circus. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“The circus would never have you. You’re not flexible enough. We’re going to have to work on that.”

I hit him. Hard.

“Are you going to draw?”

“Nope.”

“Shame. I was going to ask you to do me like one of your French girls.”

“You’re quoting it wrong.”

“Am I?” He pretends to look thoughtful. “Freudian slip, I suppose. So what are you doing?”

“I decided I need a new hobby.”

“Writing?”

“Trying to,” I say, annoyed.

“Your memoir?”

Earlier this week, I’d signed a retainer agreement with Rochelle. She is a criminal defense attorney, I’m a criminal—it’s a perfect match. We thought Jamie would be able to damage-control most of what had happened to us, in terms of exposure, but I actually want to go public. Rochelle warned me against it, as any good lawyer would, citing the lack of evidence, the possibility of countersuits—all solid arguments. But I couldn’t pretend that this last year hadn’t happened. People needed to know about it. I needed to share it.

It was Daniel’s idea to publish our story as fiction that wasn’t really fiction. I swore to Rochelle that I’d change names and redact dates and adopt a pseudonym. She was skeptical, but she knew she couldn’t stop me, so she agreed to help instead.

Daniel thought the whole thing was hilarious. Like a metanarrative! Oh my God that’s priceless. Jamie wasn’t impressed. Noah, as usual, was entertained by the prospect, and even said he’d help.

“Sort of like hiding in plain sight,” he’d said when I’d told him my idea. “I like it.”

“I’ll need your help,” I’d said. “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”

“I’ll fill it in for you.”

“You have to tell the truth, though.”

“When have you ever known me to lie?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question?”

“You’re hurting my feelings. I’ve never been anything less than excruciatingly honest. Painfully reliable. Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes,” I’d said honestly. “I do.”

Now I just have to write the thing. How hard could it be?

Noah winds a strand of my hair around his finger and tugs on it, just as I’m about to put one of my earbuds in.

“No one’s going to believe it, you know.”

I do know, but I don’t care. If we had learned anything concrete by now, we had learned this: we weren’t alone. There are others like us out there. People that think they’re just strange or different or troubled or depressed or sick. They might just be. But they might also be something more. They could become one of us. And they should know it before it’s too late.

“The truth should be told, even if no one believes it,” I say. I tilt my head to look up at Noah. “The people who don’t can love it or hate it or not care and forget they’ve ever read it. But maybe someone like us will read it and they’ll know they’re not alone. Or maybe someone not like us will read it but they’ll believe and be warned about people who are.”

Noah indulges me, as always. “So what kind of story will it be?”

A good question. It isn’t horror, even though parts of it are horrifying. It isn’t science fiction because the science and the story are real.