Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(11)

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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.