Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(5)

Mr. Pollock stops before Dad and looks down at him. My father rises, still clutching his checkbook in his hand, crushing it.

Pollock jerks his head in my direction. “You can’t buy her way out of this.”

I stare, at a total loss. What did I do? Fear crawls up my throat in hot prickles, and I fight to swallow.

“Dad?” My voice is a dry croak.

He turns to me, the whites of his eyes suddenly pink, shot with emotion.

Mr. Grayson moves to leave. He gives me a small, sympathetic smile as he passes, lifting a hand as though to pat my shoulder and then drops it, changing his mind.

Then it’s Mr. Pollock before me, so close I can smell his sour coffee breath. He flips out a small card. “I’ll be your caseworker. I won’t come here again. From now on, we meet at my office. Be there tomorrow at ten sharp.”

The unspoken words or else hang in the air.

My thoughts jumble together. I glance down at the card but can’t focus on the words.

Then the men are gone. It’s just me and my parents.

I spin to face Mom. “Why do I have to see him tomorrow? I have school—”

“No,” Dad announces, slowly sinking down into a chair. “You don’t.”

Mom moves inside the living room, her hand gliding along the back of the couch as though she needs the support of something solid under her fingers.

Dad drags a hand over his face, muffling his words, but I still hear them: “Oh, my God.”

Those barely there words shudder through me.

I wet my dry lips. “Someone please tell me what’s going on? What did that man mean when he said he’s my caseworker?”

Mom doesn’t look at me. She fixes her stare on Dad. He drops his hand from his face and exhales deeply, shaking his head. “They can’t do this.”

“Oh, Patrick.” She shakes her head as if he just uttered something absurd. “They’ve been doing it all over the country. What can we do?”

“Something,” he snaps. “This isn’t happening. Not to my daughter!” He slams his fist down on the desk and I flinch.

My eyes start to burn as apprehension curls through me sickly. Part of me feels the irrational urge to run. To flee from whatever horrible truth has my parents acting this way. Find Zac and hold him, bury my face in his chest and listen to him tell me he loves me again.

Mom looks at me finally. Her lips compress and flatten like it’s hard for her to even look at me. “You can’t go back to school.”

“What? I don’t—”

“Let me finish.” She takes a breath like she’s preparing to dive into deep waters. “You’ve been uninvited.” Her lip curls at this last bit. Everton Academy never expels students. They “uninvite.” As though the gentle euphemism could mask the reality of what being uninvited means.

I slide a step back. My hip bumps into a table holding an assortment of framed family photos. One hits the floor with a loud crack. I don’t even move to pick it up. Shaking my head, I whisper, “Why?”

It’s Dad who responds, his voice biting deep with the words that will change everything forever. “You have the kill gene.”





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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



* * *





U.S. Department of Justice * The Federal Bureau of Investigation * Criminal Justice Information Reporting Division





*HTS testing yet to become protocol in many state-level jurisdictions

**HTS testing fully realized at every state-level jurisdiction





TWO




I CAN BARELY RECALL WHEN THEY TESTED US FOR HTS at school. It was at the start of the year. Before the leaves started to fall and calculus made my head hurt. Before Homecoming. Before Zac asked me out.

The Everton Board of Trustees decreed that all students needed testing. Not such a surprise. Everyone in the country is being tested these days. Dad even started requiring it of all employees at the bank. That’s some bitter irony now.

All advisory periods were sent to the nurse’s clinic. For me that meant leaving the orchestra hall and missing practice time. I think I remember that the most. Being mad about that.

One quick cotton swab in the mouth and it was done. My DNA stuck in a tube.

I think someone joked about Albert Adolfson obviously being a carrier. The Swedish kid is the star of our wrestling team and has serious anger issues. I always suspected steroids, but then the joke became HTS.

Now the joke is me.

Once everyone finds out. That bit of realization makes it hard to breathe. I don’t stay long in the living room with Mom and Dad. I can’t. Dad’s anger. The weird way Mom looks at me. It makes terrible sense now.

And Mr. Pollock with those small, mean eyes . . .

He makes sense, too. He’s part of my life now.

Images fire across my mind. One after another. An endless flash of killers in their prison jumpsuits. And the victims, the grieving people left behind. The media loves to zoom in on them. I never turn on the television anymore.

I flee to the sanctuary of my room and stare at the pictures of Zac and my friends all over my dresser mirror, wondering how they’ll react. Of course, I’ll have Zac and Tori, but what about the others? Will they still be my friends? I pace, humming an aimless tune, searching for my peace, my solace. Ever since I was a child, I’ve heard music inside my head. It lulls me to sleep at nights and calms me whenever I feel anxious. Lyrics and notes trip through my head as I wait for the terrible tightness in my chest to go away. For the calm to come. For the panic to fade.