Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(33)

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.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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



* * *





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.”