Elusion(32)

I launch toward him and snatch the device back without Patrick putting up much of a fight. “This was a present from my dad. It was one of the last things he ever gave me, and it’s not going anywhere.”

I’m not proud that I played the dead-daddy card, but Patrick’s odd behavior has me concerned that I can’t trust him with all the personal information contained within my tab’s data banks.

Like all the Net searches I did on Josh Heywood.

He puts his hands in his pockets, his brows knitting together in a fit of worry. “Just don’t use your tab anymore, okay? I’ll get you a new one. And don’t tell anyone what happened until I figure things out—not even your mom. You have to promise me.”

“Patrick, I don’t understand. Tell me what’s—”

“I should head out,” he interjects, grabbing his tablet off the floor and stopping the recording. Then he brushes back a strand of blond hair, his eyes reddening at the corners. “Try and get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

As soon as he leaves the house, the ethanol fire automatically shuts off, and I’m alone in the dark.


I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor . . .

As another stinkball hits the wall inches away from my head and bursts open like a bubble, I run my hand over the worn, yellow page and think how lucky Thoreau was. He never had to serve detention in a crowded, stuffy lecture hall filled with about two hundred code-of-conduct offenders.

My eyes flick up once the rancid smell infects the air, and three greasy-haired boys a few rows below me burst into laughter. I had purposely taken a seat away from the fray, in one of the rows near the top of the auditorium, but my attempt at privacy has backfired. I’m up so high that Mr. Von Ziegelstein, the moderator, doesn’t notice the unruliness unfolding around me. He is sitting center stage, perched on a stool with his gaze fixed solely on his tablet. Every so often he runs his fingers through his hair plugs, but other than that he’s like a statue. It’s almost like he’s impervious to the chaos—the loud talking, music blaring, and stinkballs being launched from pellet guns by the kids in the back seats. Or perhaps he’s just given up on trying to keep order in a place where nobody listens to him.

But the noise is doing much more than distracting me from reading my father’s copy of Walden—it’s pushing the anxiety I’ve been pinning down inside me right to the surface. I even put one of my hands on my stomach to settle the acidic feeling that hasn’t left me since last night.

When I saw my father inside Elusion.

When Patrick tried to take my tablet away from me.

I shake my head, hoping to dislodge those thoughts from my mind and focus on the book again. Three girls behind me jack up the volume, the music on their tabs so loud I’m having a hard time concentrating. I wind up skimming through the small printed text and when I reach the end, I flip back through the first few chapters, my finger trailing down the side of the page. I’m just about to put the book away when my finger stops on a line that gives me a sudden case of tunnel vision. I can no longer see any other words on the page. It’s like a spotlight has formed around this one sentence, so I read it over and over again.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

That’s how they seemed yesterday. Both my father and Patrick.

Desperate.

You’re not safe. No one is safe. You need to find me. . . .

Just don’t use the app on your tab anymore, okay? And don’t tell anyone what happened . . .

Their voices are a constant loop in my head, triggering an avalanche of questions that threatens to bury me alive. Why did Patrick seem so suspicious and strange yesterday? How could those visions of my father have felt so real? What really happened at the beach in Elusion?

I’m distracted from my thoughts by a collective murmur that sweeps through the crowd, followed by a dozen or so catcalls and whistles.

I glance down toward the front of the auditorium and see Zoe Morgan, talking to Mr. Von Ziegelstein and gesticulating like crazy. Her jet-black hair flows loose around her shoulders, and she has on a pair of patent-leather stacked heels that make her at least four inches taller than she really is. At first I wonder why she could possibly be in here. Zoe’s an honors student and senior class president, and she has most of the teachers wrapped around her finger. Then I notice the length of her cargo skirt—midthigh is definitely not acceptable—and how she’s cut a sexy slit up the side of it. That’s at least seventy-five demerits. Pretty puny when compared to the even thousand I received for my little altercation with Avery, but still enough to earn her a brief stint in this zoo.

I shut my book and stick it back into my bag, catching a glimpse of Zoe as she makes her way into the crowded room, totally out of her element. She clutches her tab in her hands and scans the hall for an empty seat. Since there’s one next to me, I stand up a little bit and wave my arms above my head, hoping that she’ll see me. Our eyes lock and a smile lights up her face. As she climbs the lecture hall’s steps, I can see how naturally pretty she is. Unlike at Patrick’s party, there isn’t a drop of makeup on her mocha-colored skin, and even so, her cheeks are a delicate shade of dark rose. When she finally reaches row GG, Zoe is huffing and puffing, like she’s just finished a race.

“I am. So out. Of shape,” she says through halting breaths.