Elusion(22)

I distract myself by staring at the digital clock that’s displayed on my InstaComm wall. I’m surprised to realize that we were in Elusion for nearly an hour. It seemed like Patrick and I were only there for a few minutes.

Oh God. Patrick.

I touch the spot on my wrist where he brushed his lips only moments earlier.

No one compares to you. . . .

My thoughts begin to topple over one another. What did he mean by that? Was he really leaning in for a kiss, or did I completely misread him? Does he want to be more than just friends?

I hug my knees even more tightly and close my eyes. I try to clear my mind, but when I do, the sound of the dripping faucet becomes louder and louder. Dad promised me yesterday that he’d fix it. Obviously, it slipped his mind, which is no surprise anymore, given how preoccupied he’s been. I sit up on my bed, my legs dangling over the side, and call out to him.

“Dad! The sink is still broken!”

When there’s no response, I get up and cross the room, my gait a little wobbly. I think about asking Dad about Patrick, and if he’s noticed any strange behavior lately too. But I stop in my tracks when I see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors.

I’m wearing an evening gown.

I was at a party at the Simmons estate.

I was mad at Patrick for taking credit for Elusion.

My father is dead.

I cover my mouth with my hand so I can’t hear my own sob. I place another hand on my stomach, because it is clenching so hard that I can’t even stand up straight.

This happened to me before, and I know I shouldn’t be surprised. But the shock is so intense I have to kneel down on the floor. The bottom of my dress spills out around me, creating a wavy circle of shimmering moss. My shoulders hunch forward as I rock myself back and forth in a vain attempt to dispel this devastating feeling I’ve been trying to avoid for months.

A long series of beeps comes from my InstaComm. I glance up with glistening eyes and see the screen morph from the digital clock to a caller ID notice.



Patrick Simmons awaiting connection. Accept or deny?



My trip to Elusion must have sucked all the life out of my tab, because Patrick doesn’t use my IC number very often. My body feels just as drained, my throat so raw it’s hard to speak. And yet I’m surprised by how quickly I’m able to say the word.

“Deny.”





FIVE


EVERYTHING ABOUT REALITY SEEMS SO much dimmer and flatter the morning after. It’s like someone hammered a spigot into the sky and drained the last remaining specks of tint out of it. I think I slept a total of three hours, so I have this intense anesthetized feeling that I can’t seem to shake—not even with two caffè macchiatos ravaging my bloodstream.

And being at school on a Sunday (thanks to the Department of Education’s newly adopted semi-Standard 7 schedule) is only making it worse. I forgot to do my math homework and was late to tech ed, which allowed Mr. Herbert the opportunity to give me another twenty demerits. Now I’m only one away from detention.

After adjusting my O2 shield, I pull up the hood of my sweater to ward off the chill, tucking my hands into the pockets of my skirt. I walk through the long stretch of campus connecting the fifteen-story hexagon-shaped building—where my classmates and I spend most of our days toiling away for eight and a half hours straight—toward the dark, round building that houses the cafeteria.

Along the way, I’m doing all I can to compartmentalize everything that happened yesterday into the tiniest little quadrant in my brain, far away from all the receptors that process memories and pain. I try to concentrate on hopeful stuff, like how I woke up to a fresh-faced Mom making breakfast in the kitchen; how we chatted about Cathryn’s party over a stack of hot pancakes covered in agave syrup; how she tossed in a load of laundry consisting of only her canary-colored scrubs, because she is going back to work at the hospital tonight.

It wasn’t easy skipping the unsettling details: my odd night out with Josh and how awful I felt after coming back from Elusion with Patrick. I just didn’t want to spoil the upbeat mood she was in. If she is getting her life back on track this time, I don’t want anything to get in her way, especially me.

As I reach the cafeteria doors, I quickly take off my O2 shield and shove it in my bag, then swipe my passcard in front of the code reader. Once I’m inside, I’m hit with a remarkably gross stench. My eyes flick over to today’s menu, which is scrolling on a digital blue screen above the chow line.

Miso meatballs with hemp hearts.

Ugh.

I cringe as I peruse the rest of the menu while an ocean of kids rushes into the cafeteria to meet up with friends, unapologetically bumping into me and bouncing me around like an anchorless raft adrift in the Florapetro-polluted waters of Lake Saint Clair. I really don’t feel like dealing with the raucousness of the lunchroom today and would spend the entire period in the library if I could, but our passcards are all GPS encoded, and a monitor would hunt me down in less than five minutes.

I squint in the bright halogen lights, looking for a familiar face. The cafeteria is about half the size of a football field. In fact, it’s so big that when the air quality is in the negatives, the track team uses this room for practice.

In the past, each grade used to eat together, but the school has gotten too big to do that, so there are now eight lunch periods, each lasting for exactly a half hour, the first beginning at ten thirty a.m. As a result, most of us go through the day eating really early or really late and almost all of us are always hungry. At lunchtime, we usually don’t fool around with chitchat—we just eat.