Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(14)

An ironic statement, though he doesn’t know how ironic. It’s impossible to get the truth from someone who doesn’t know it. Pretending not to notice the rumbling world around us, I tell him point-blank without any fa?ade of regret or empathy, “I don’t know where she is.”

An insect lands on my arm and I experience a brief flare of pain as it stings me. I shake it off, and my gaze shifts from the boy’s face. For the first time I notice the dark cloud surrounding us like millions of grains of pepper. A swarm. Bloodthirsty, incensed. It grows louder and louder, a hungry hum. No way to escape.

“This isn’t real,” I say, turning my focus back to the boy. Before I can ask him questions of my own, attempt to understand the strangeness of all this, the boy’s eyes turn red. Not just pink from tears, but a violent, ruby red. His pupils disappear and his lip curls in a snarl. “Lying,” he hisses. His fingers bite into me. Not him, my instincts whisper.

His body quivers and stretches. Those eyes switch back and forth between brown, red, brown, red. Monster, boy. I look up at him. “Who are you?”

The words echo: Are you … are you … Time stops.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the changes retract, swift as claws. The violent swarm dissipates, the sky brightens to the happy blue, and the powerful creature is a simple boy again. Sitting against the tree once more with the book back in his hands, he turns a page as if it’s the most fascinating text he’s ever encountered. As if none of it happened.

I take a step toward him, prepared to demand everything and anything.

I wake up.





Seven

“Elizabeth?”

It’s Thursday morning. English class. Lost in thought, I lift my head to meet Mrs. Farmer’s gaze. “You’ve been called down to the office. Someone wants to talk to you,” the teacher says. She doesn’t offer specifics, but we both know that the school counselor is the one waiting for me. My bruises need to be addressed, no matter what the stories say the cause of them are.

I nod, gathering my things as quickly as I can. I feel Joshua staring at me. When I pass her, Sophia sticks her foot out in an attempt to trip me. I sidestep her neatly. She scowls. There are more dark smudges beneath her eyes. Morgan keeping her up again?

I push the door open with my back. Kids in the class study my face anew, probably coming up with fresh theories. Avoiding Joshua’s gaze—he’s too perceptive for his own good—I exit the room as fast as I can.

My footsteps echo in the empty hall. This won’t be the first time I’ve been to see Sally Morrison, the school counselor. She doesn’t believe the gossip and she never accepts my explanations, which consist of various accounts of clumsiness. This doesn’t happen often, truthfully, but it occurs often enough that she’s gotten more direct.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” she greets me when I appear in her office doorway. The main office behind me is busy, the secretary talking loudly on the phone, the fax machine spitting out papers in the corner. “You can shut it,” Sally tells me, pointing at the door with her pen. As I move to comply, I notice that she’s added yet another plant to her shelves. That makes eight now.

“So what’s the story this time?” Sally asks without preamble. No more small talk during our meetings, then. I sit down, waiting for that creak that always happens when I rest my full weight on the chair; we’ve developed a routine.

I run through my options before answering. Sally has no power unless I give it to her; she can’t make any calls or get involved in my life unless I give her information she can use. Information I have no intention of giving.

“I was milking our cow. She kicked me in the face. She gets touchy like that sometimes.” I shrug, as if to say, What can you do?

Sally sighs, tapping her pen over and over. Her features are too strong to be considered pretty, with her square chin and thin lips, but she seems to try to make up for this in style. As her pen continues to tap, tap, tap I study her silk blouse, silver necklace, black slacks.

“Okay, Elizabeth,” she says, returning my attention to the conversation. “We both know this game. We’ve been playing it for a couple of years now. And by now you should know that all I want is to help you.”

Games. Her words make me think of the Emotions. And with the thought of them come thoughts of my nothingness, of my paintings, of my dreams. Sally waits for me to respond, and I try to empty my mind; I’m not usually so easily distracted. I force myself to the task at hand and give her a fixed smile that will hopefully confuse her. “I know how this looks, but honestly, I really am just that clumsy and stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” the counselor says automatically, brushing back mousy, chin-length hair. Emotions appear behind her: Frustration and Worry. They don’t linger. “But I do think you’re keeping something from me. Elizabeth, if you’re afraid, I can help. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Are you sure you don’t have anything to tell me?”

From the expression in her eyes, I know she really does mean what she says. In a way, Sally reminds me of Maggie, of Joshua; they all look at me and see more than there is. They all care, no matter what their instincts probably whisper. I smile at her, as if I’m amused by all of this. “Really, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.”

She’s frowning, but she lets me go reluctantly. She has to. No one can be helped if they don’t want it.