Alex passes me again, but I’m closer this time and I can feel him tiring. We do another lap almost in tandem.
Then a whistle screeches, shattering my quiet. I look toward the sound.
A large man in track pants and a gray T-shirt jabs his beefy finger at me, the whistle dangling around his neck.
“You! What’s your name?”
“Caitlyn, sir,” I say, treading water.
“Caitlyn? Caitlyn, why the heck didn’t you try out for the team at the beginning of the year, when we could have used you? What are you trying to do, make me cry?”
“I—”
Alex quickly swims up beside me. “She’s new, coach.
Just transferred in.”
I look at him gratefully.
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The coach puts his hands on his hips. “Fine. Look, Caitlyn—I can’t have you in my pool with the team, not when they’re training. But you can come by for the free swim afterward.”
I nod, then swim to the side and haul myself out, Alex close behind me.
The coach walks over, his flip-flops slapping against the wet tile. “You better try out for the team next year, young lady. Your school needs you.”
“Yes, sir.” Water drips off me onto the tiles and I shiver.
“Get yourself to the showers!” he says, and then turns to the others. “The rest of you—let’s see some laps!” He walks down the side of the pool, watching the swimmers, yelling instructions.
“He’s a great coach,” Alex says. “He really cares.”
“I can tell.”
“You want to stay? We could go somewhere afterward.”
“I can’t.” I grab my clothes and bag and head for the girls’ locker room.
His hurt and bewilderment punch into me but I keep going. It
has
to be this way.
e
The motel owner is at the window again when I get back. She needs to get a life. Before I even put my hand on the door handle, she’s swinging the door open.
“Terrorists! I just knew they’d turn on us one day.” Fear emanates from her, making it hard for me to breathe.
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Cheryl Rainfield
“I don’t think anyone’s going to come after you,” I say, trying to calm her down.
The motel owner crosses her arms over her chest, scowling. “What—you don’t think I’m important enough for some Para-trash to notice me?”
“No, no—I just meant—the media blows things up bigger than they are all the time. Maybe they’re not really terrorists.”
There’s a silence. The woman looks at me sideways out of narrowed eyes. “You takin’ their side? You one of them, girl?”
Sweat pricks my back. “Would I take their side if I were one of them? That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?”
“It sure would!” The woman laughs a hard, short laugh. Then she narrows her eyes again. “Unless you’re one clever Para. I’m gonna be keeping my eye on you.” She reaches for the cigarette pack in her pocket, then puts it back. “You want a beer?” she asks and I feel her loneliness like a pit in my abdomen.
“A beer? My mom would freak.”
“Or a soda? You can have one for free.” I just can’t deal with anything more. Not today. All I want to do is to crash—not watch every word I say. “Can I take you up on that another day? I’ve got so much homework I’m not sure I’ll even finish before bed.”
“Sure,” the woman says abruptly. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. “I’m gonna find out what you’re up to.”
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I hope I didn’t make her more of an enemy than she already was.
e
Mom’s pacing back and forth, waiting for me, when I reach our motel room. “Did you see the news? That Teen Para—I can’t believe one of us would be that stupid! Attacking Normals, bringing the sky down on us all.”
“Exactly!” I say. “Mom—no Para would do that.”
“Not willingly, anyway,” she mutters.
“You think a Government Para beat up those Normals?” I ask.
“They must go a little crazy, being forced to turn on their own kind. Or it could be a government setup—you know they try to discredit us any way they can.” Mom’s face is tight, lines stemming from her lips. “I’d feel better if we left right now. But I’m not sure that that’s the smart thing to do. Leaving so soon after such news might make someone suspect us. They might even be watching for people on the move after that news report.”
“So we’re not going to leave?”
“No,” Mom says. “Not yet. Not unless things get a lot worse.”
Happiness fills me like helium, making me light enough to float.
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CHAPTER 9
In the morning, Alex and Rachel are both waiting at my locker, glaring at each other.
I slow down, not sure what to do.
“Caitlyn!” Alex looks pointedly at Rachel. “I want to talk to you. Alone.”
“So do I,” Rachel says. “What makes you think that what you have to say to her is more important?” Alex pats the air. “Be easy.” He turns to me. “There’s a swim meet at the rec center tonight. You wanna go with me?” His face is hopeful, vulnerable.
I’d love to!
“I can’t.”
His cheeks flush.
“My mom’s really strict about stuff like that,” I say quickly—which is true. “But we’re still on for lunch, right?”
“Right,” Alex says, smiling crookedly. “See you then.”
. . .
better anyway . . . shouldn’t have asked . . . what am I
doing wrong?. . .
He walks away, his tan backpack slung over his broad shoulder.
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I want to tell him I’m not interested. But I don’t know if I could say the words and mean them, even though I know I’m putting myself in danger just letting myself think like that.
“Why’d you turn him down?” Rachel asks.
“My mom is strict—no joke.”
“But she wouldn’t have to know. You could always tell her you were at a friend’s house. At my house.” A friend. I haven’t had a friend—a real friend—since before the riots. Before Dad died. Before Daniel disappeared. I smile at her. “Rachel—you have a devious mind,” I say, trying to keep it light.
Rachel strikes a pose. “I do, and I’m proud of it.” I open my locker, shove my math and history books in, and take out
Othello
.
Rachel leans against the lockers. “Listen—I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. I know Becca’s had it in for you since you got here.”
I shrug. “She’s no worse than any of the other bullies I’ve had to face. Being the new kid tends to draw them out.”
“That blows.” Rachel rubs the back of her neck. “I was hoping you weren’t going to give Becca too strong a payback.”
I look at her, surprised.
Rachel grimaces. “I know, you’d think I’d be the last person to stick up for her, after the way she treats me. But Becca—well, she’s been through a lot.”
“And that makes it okay to treat people like shit?” I say.
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Cheryl Rainfield
Rachel chews on her lip. “Everybody else here knows, so you might as well, too. Becca’s mother is one of the three who set off the riots. She’s the one who teleported all the kids out of that bus before it crashed.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “And—people gave Becca a hard time because of it?”
“Oh, yeah. She and her dad are on the government watch list. I think that’s why Becca accuses so many people—she’s trying to take the heat off herself and put it on someone else. You know, suck up to the ParaWatch. She was a bit of a pariah around here for a few years.” I feel sorry for Becca. She must have felt so alone.
Hated, even. But that doesn’t excuse
her
from becoming a Para-hater. I shut my locker and click the lock closed.
“Thanks for telling me. That helps me understand.” I rub my eyes beneath my glasses. Becca’s not just a regular Para-hater. Her hate is so loaded. I almost wish I hadn’t stopped her from bullying Rachel the other day—
but no, I can’t wish that. Rachel is worth a hundred Beccas.
“English class?” I say.
“English it is.”
e
Mr. Arnold frowns at us when we come in. “Hurry it up, girls. Less talk, more walk.”
He’s the one who should talk less. I don’t think he realizes how boring he is. Why’d he ever become a teacher, anyway? It’s not like he cares about teaching . . .
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. . . though once he did. But that was before his daughter died of cancer—a long, slow death over six agonizing years, when he read to her every night and kept praying for a miracle.
I pull out of his head, fast. I didn’t mean to do that. I wish I hadn’t. Now I feel sympathy for him—and I don’t want to.
I think longingly about the school pool. It’s so close, it’s hard to just sit here when I know water would give me an instant buffer from people’s thoughts. I wish I could go dive into it right now. And Alex . . . No. I can swim at the motel.
Mr. Arnold drones on, his voice a monotone, but I keep getting glimpses of his daughter’s pale, wan face, the bruises beneath her eyes, the way she cried when he’d leave her, but god he had to, though it tore him up inside, he had to work to pay the medical bills—
I stare at my book, forcing the words to come back into focus.
What’s happening to me? People’s secrets don’t usually bombard me like this, not unless they’re really upset. It feels like someone’s stripped away my defenses. I reach out but no one’s focused on me except for Alex, who’s admiring the curve of my neck, the way my hair falls. He’s thinking about the way I swam last night, and about how I stood up to Becca, gutsy and strong—
I shiver, goose pimples rising on my skin.
I slam the feeling away. Could the government have found a way to make Paras intensely attracted to Normals?
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Cheryl Rainfield
Maybe to get us to reveal ourselves? But no—if they had, I’d know. And this thing with Alex doesn’t feel orchestrated. It just feels . . . natural. But it can’t be.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about him—about how I want to kiss him and wrap my arms around him. How I want to feel his arms around me. How I want to unlock his sadness, help it flow away. I bite my lip. I want to tell him about me and have him see me for who I am. I don’t want to hide the truth from him anymore. And I don’t want him to keep things from me.
Sentences blur in front of my eyes. I definitely can’t meet Alex for lunch, not even with Rachel there.
When the lunch bell rings, I head straight to the library, not looking at anyone, not making eye contact. I’m being a coward and I know I’m hurting them both. But this is the way it has to be. Paras can’t be friends with Normals. And a Para can’t love a Normal. I’ll tell them I felt sick, got my period. Tell them I forgot. And then I have to create distance between us.
Or maybe if I don’t say anything at all, that’ll be enough. Maybe they’ll be so hurt, they’ll never talk to me again. That’s what I should be hoping for. Instead, sadness sits like a tight, hard fist inside my chest. I breathe out, trying to soften it.
The calm of the library enfolds me like soothing water.
There’s hardly anyone here, and the mind-voices are more subdued with people lost in books. Green plants grow on every bookshelf, and thin carpet covers the floors, muffling sound.
A large woman with graying hair and a peace-symbol 86
HUNTED
necklace looks up from the front desk as I enter, her face welcoming. “I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Mrs.
Vespa.”
“Caitlyn.”
“Looking for anything in particular, Caitlyn?” I think about the last book that gripped me so much I didn’t want to put it down, the book that I had to leave behind when we ran.
“
The Hunger Games,
by Suzanne—”
“Collins.” The librarian smiles warmly, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “I knew you were a reader. I could just tell.”
She takes off her glasses, letting them hang from the chain around her neck. As she moves, they bump against her large chest. “I like her work. Strong characters. Fast pace. Lots of richness.”
“Yeah. I can’t wait to get my hands on it,” I tell her.
Mrs. Vespa stands, her chair groaning. “I’ll show you where it is.”
The windows that line the hall-side of the library don’t make for good cover. I try not to look over my shoulder. I’ll know if Alex or Rachel spot me—I’ll feel it. But I’d rather not deal with the anger and pain. I need to get to the shelves where no one can see me.
I follow the librarian, feeling safer once we’re behind a row of shelves. The air smells different here—like yellowing paper and ink, musty and full of promise. I breathe it in.
The librarian pulls the thick book down and hands it to me. “Have you read her work before?” 87
Cheryl Rainfield
“I was halfway through this one before . . . we had to move.”
The library door swings open and I jerk around, leaning past the edge of the bookshelf to look. Just a pimply boy with bad hair, no one I know.
When I turn back the librarian is watching me, her smile slipping into concern. “You need anything else, dear, please let me know.”
Great. Now she thinks I’m being bullied. So much for not drawing attention to myself.
I sit in a corner with my book and find the place where I left off. As good as the book is, I keep reading the same paragraph over and over, not taking in the words. Alex and Rachel keep pushing into my mind. They’ll probably end up hating me. I shouldn’t care—they’re just Normals—but it hurts already. Still, a little hurt is nothing compared to becoming a Para-slave.
I sigh and turn the page.
Mrs. Vespa appears in front of me, holding out a plate with half a sandwich—looks like cheese, tomato, and let-tuce, and half an apple beside it. “Noticed you didn’t have any lunch. Want to share?”
“I—” Tears prick the inside of my nose. I’m not used to Normals being nice to me. Not used to anyone outside the Underground being so kind. We move too often to develop real relationships. First I start to bond with Alex and Rachel when I shouldn’t, and now I’m falling apart when a librarian is nice to me? I’m going soft.
“Go on. It’s just a bit of food,” Mrs. Vespa says gruffly.
“Thank you.” I reach up and take the plate from her, careful not to let our fingers touch.
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I eat slowly, letting the book pull me back in.
My scalp prickles like someone’s watching me with their talent. I look around casually. No one seems to be looking at me, but the feeling gets stronger.
“Look behind you, Caitlyn,”
John sends.
I almost whirl around, but I’m too careful to do that.
“John? What are you doing here?”
I feel him all around me now. I drop my pen on the floor.
“You wouldn’t tell me where you were, so I found you.”
I lean down to pick up my pen, looking over my shoulder as I do. The boy’s sandy-blond hair is swept back from his forehead, his face gaunt and vulnerable, his blue-gray eyes laughing with some secret joke.
My breath lodges in my chest like a brick. He’s older, thinner, more hardened, with deep pain and sadness crouch-ing behind the laughter in his eyes—but it’s Daniel. I’m sure of it, even as fear blooms through me like blood in water. So many near misses—so many trails that ran cold—
and now Daniel is here? I almost can’t believe it, and I don’t know if I can trust it.
“Daniel?” I cry, half standing. After all these years of searching, of looking for him—but how can it be? And what’s Daniel doing here, instead of John?
But his mind-voice—Daniel
is
John?
I feel dizzy and sick with hope.
The boy stands, too, and takes two big steps toward me.
“It’s me.”
I reach out and hug him.
He flinches, his arms stiff around me.
89