Larkstorm (8 page)

I shake my head. No, I can’t think like that. I need to think forward
.
I can’t change what’s already happened.

I twist myself into a ball, broken. My breath is still ragged. My hair has slipped from its ponytail and is knotted about my shoulders. My room, our room, is strangely the same. All I see, everywhere I look, is Beck. I wrap myself tighter with my arms and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them, Beck will be standing in front of me, wiggling his eyebrows or sprawled on his bed reading.

Instead, all of Beck’s things are here, waiting for him to come back. The clothes he wore yesterday still tossed into the corner, his desk littered with school projects. I can see him everywhere, but he’s gone. Not coming back. Accused.

They didn’t even let him take his things.

“Beck,” I whisper. “What did you do?”

My fingers wrap around my bird necklace, stroking it, as if its tarnished surface will give me the answers I want. Bethina’s crazy if she believes I’ll give this to her
—
right now, it’s all I have of Beck.

Numbness stings my legs and I push myself off the ground, in the hope that standing will eliminate the pins and needles sensation. The pricking hurts. As I run my hands over my legs
—
beating on them, trying to get them to wake up
—
my blue wristlet catches my eye. The locating app is broken, but maybe the calling function still works. A spark of hope flickers in me.

I tap my wristlet and say “Beck.”

My breath catches, waiting for his answer.

Two rings
—
“We’re sorry, the person you’ve contacted does not exist.”

 
“Does not exist?” How can Beck not exist? Of course he does.

I tear my wristlet off and hurl it at the window. The impact cracks the glass and the wristlet slams to the ground. The stupid thing is useless, so I leave it lying there. Who am I going to contact anyway? Beck’s gone and Kyra’s probably with him.

 
“Damn it!” I yell louder, not caring if anyone hears me.

I yank open the top drawer of the Beck’s dresser and throw his clothes on the ground. Then I do the same with the next drawer, and the next, until all of his clothes are scattered across the floor.

I grab a fistful of shirts, roll them into a ball and pelt the helpless wristlet. Tears well in my eyes again. I was sure he’d answer.

One lone t-shirt lies at my feet. I swoop to pick it up and press the clean shirt against my face. I inhale, hoping to find some of his spirit but nothing comes. I slide the shirt on over my head and it falls to my knees like a nightgown.

Sleep sounds good. If I can sleep, maybe I can forget about this for a while. I kick off my shoes, pull back the covers on Beck’s bed and lie down.

But I can’t stay still with my heart racing and my stomach churning. I stare at the ceiling. Beck and I used to lie here when I couldn’t sleep and find patterns in the cracks that run through the plaster. He’d cradle my head in the crook of his arm, holding me until I fell asleep.

My eyes search along the ceiling until they rest on my favorite shape
—
a snow pine. Next to it is Beck’s dragonfly.

Summer Hill.
The memory of Beck’s voice says the words over and over again, each time growing stronger, demanding I listen.

I know what I have to do.

With a soft thud, I land on the floor. Flattening out, I crawl under the bed until nearly to the wall, searching until my hand finds what I’m looking for
—
an old tattered backpack. I wiggle myself out and inspect the pack. There’s a hole on the side, but it’s tiny. The bag will do.

I sling the pack over my shoulder and walk to my closet. The jeans Beck tried putting on yesterday are crumpled on the floor. I pick them up and smile at the ridiculous memory of him hopping around with his legs jammed into my pants.

I ignore the changing screen for the first time in years and replace my skirt with my jeans. I take off Beck’s shirt and switch it with a sweater from the closet. From my shoe rack, I select a sturdy pair of knee-high boots. The heel is low, so it should be okay for walking.

Funny how a few wardrobe changes can make you look so different. I squint at my reflection and yank the elastic holder from my hair. It tumbles around my shoulders like a dark curtain. From Beck’s side of the room, I retrieve a knit cap, tug it over my head and wrap a scarf around my neck.

There. My face is more or less hidden. No one should be able to recognize me.

From my dresser, I grab another pair of pants, a shirt, some socks and underwear, and roll them up tightly before tossing them into my backpack. Then I cross the room to Beck’s dresser, pull open the bottom drawer and dig to the back. I find an old-fashioned photo album and flip through it, page after page of the two of us playing, eating, and sleeping. Mundane everyday stuff until I’m near the end.

I slip the picture out of its cover and place it in the front pocket of my backpack. Lastly, I open my desk drawer and take out an envelope full of old money. Beck and I have saved every bill given to us since we were nine, and it’s more than enough for several train tickets plus food and lodging if necessary. We hoped to one day travel to places we’ve only read about in our history texts. In fact, I’d been secretly planning such a trip for just after the binding. I had mapped out an itinerary that would take us to the Eastern Society, as well as on a tour of our State’s remaining cities
—
it was going to be my surprise for Beck.

I stuff the cash into my pocket and walk to the window.

Afraid any squeak will give me away, I lift the window and stick my head out. The wind is calm now and the snow’s falling softly. I’m on the second story, but there’s a large drift right under the window. As long as the snow isn’t frozen, jumping shouldn’t hurt. To test the drop, I pick up my useless wristlet and hurl it into the snow drift. It sinks. Not frozen, then.

Without any sentimentality, I give our room one last glance and leap out the window. The snow breaks my fall nicely. I climb out of the pile and dust myself off, determined to not let any snow stick to me. The last thing I need is to be running around in wet clothes.

Without looking back, I take off down the street.

9

Once I turn the corner of my block, I slow to a jog, knowing Bethina can no longer see me. On each side of the deserted path, towering piles of snow give the impression of a half-finished tunnel and adds to my sense of being hidden. I’m all alone
—
no one willingly comes out in weather like this.

I race along the walkway, constantly checking over my shoulder and peering into the long shadows cast by the hazy sun. Right now I don’t now which I fear more: Bethina finding me, or Sensitives.

At the edge of campus, where the barricade separates the school from the City, rolling white hills give way to grand mansions set closely to one another. Some of the highest ranking State officials
—
like my mother
—
occupy these homes.

Curiously, there’s only one guard and he’s walking along the barricade with his back to me.

I stare at the quiet City. I have to get out there and to the train station. But if I walk through the gate, will the security system sound?

With just my fingertips, I touch the barricade. Its firm, unyielding surface doesn’t give the answers I seek. The side of the gate stretches up, over two lanes of road, and down the other side. Even though private vehicles are no longer in use, the State still uses roads and transports to move goods around the Society.

My eyes flit back to where the guard stood. He’s gone. I swing my head wildly, searching for him, but see nothing but the barricade, snow covered hills and houses on the City side.

Make a decision, Lark. Either do it or don’t.

Do it. The hairs on my neck prick up as I walk through the gate. No alarm sounds and the guard doesn’t reappear. Good to know he’s on top of things.

I hurry down the sidewalk and pass Mother’s grand house. As usual, there’s a whirl of activity taking place just beyond the thick glass windows. When we were kids, Beck and I would sneak out and peer through the clear barricade at the parade of people moving from one event to another. Evenings were an endless party with my mother as acting hostess, always laughing and the center of attention. She always looked glamorous, powerful, beautiful
—
all the things I hoped to be.

Somewhere in the Bay a foghorn bellows its warning, reminding me it’s time to go. Too much lingering and I may be noticed.

For the first time in my life, there’s nothing protecting me. I’ve always lived behind the barricade, only leaving when escorted. Out here, alone, I’m completely exposed. And completely out
of
place.

Nerves force me to jog the next twelve blocks. The cityscape changes dramatically when I enter the commerce zone. The stately homes of dignitaries end abruptly and multistory buildings soar toward the sky, now a barely visible sliver. My luck’s been good
—
the few people I’ve seen have either been in too much of a hurry to notice me, or too distracted by their wristlets.

I pause at the corner and consider the best route. I’m not familiar with the City, but I do know how to get to the train station
,
having traveled to Beck’s family home and Mother’s estate at least once every year. The station sits across town, and if I walk the whole distance, it may take two or more hours with this snow and ice. But if I take the public transport, I risk running into someone who knows me
—
like a teacher.

Since the wind has died down and the snow no longer falls, I decide to walk as long as it seems like I’m making decent progress. The last train leaves at 5:45 p.m. I have time, but none to waste.

I’ve walked this way occasionally when I’ve run errands with Bethina. The most direct route (I think), and the one we often avoided, is through a residential neighborhood. Bethina
—
saddled with bags of groceries and what not
—
hates climbing hills, so we normally skirt around the perimeter where the land is a bit more forgiving.

But even with the ice, walking over the hill is most likely the shortest route by a good forty-five minutes.

The frozen landscape doesn’t produce much sound, just the soft, rhythmic crunching of my step. There’s not a bird in the sky or a person around now. The heaviness of being alone crushes down on me like an unwanted weight.

As much as I welcome the silence and the ability to think without distraction, I need noise or I’m going to start crying again. And I absolutely don’t need to be crying right now.

I reach for my wristlet to turn on some music, but my fingers only brush the cold skin of my exposed wrist. Fantastic
—
I left it home, lying in the snow.

Maybe that means the gate won’t be able to report my exit to Bethina? But can the State still track me without my wristlet?

I trudge along, losing myself in thought. Everything depends on Bethina believing I’ve barricaded myself in my room, too overcome with grief to come out. If she does, I’ll have a good three-hour lead before anyone begins looking for me.

The unwanted intrudes on my thoughts: Beck is Sensitive. Bethina said there’s evidence and she believes it. I…I’m not sure what to believe. He was acting so oddly. But how can he possibly be Sensitive? It’s genetic
—
the State tests us for it. And he’s a Channing
—
a founder’s descendant.

Doubt creeps into my resolve. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this
.
If Beck really is Sensitive than I
am
better off without him. Any small child could tell me that. Because who knows what he’s capable of?

I bite back my tears. “Stop it, Lark. Just stop.”

I know Beck isn’t bad and he’s definitely not evil. I know he’s never caused anyone harm. He’s nothing but happiness and optimism. He confronted them.

This has to be a mistake.

But the State doesn’t make mistakes. I’ve been told that over and over again. And yet, now they’ve either let five Sensitives slip through their system or they’ve unjustly accused five innocent people. Because there’s no way Beck and Kyra are Sensitive.

 
My determination hardens. I’m going to find him. Leaving him, alone, cast out without anyone, is not an option. Beck needs me. I need to help him.

I come to a large intersection, empty of people and wait for the light. If I’m caught making any sort of infraction by the overhead cameras, security will be here within minutes. I rub my hands together nervously and pray I just look cold to whoever’s watching me
—
the last thing I need is State security looking for me.

The light blinks green three times and I turn right, uphill, toward the train station.

It’s not until my teeth chatter that I realize I’m actually cold. I zip my winter jacket up, over the scarf, until just my eyes peek out, and pull my hat even lower on my head.

I run, not to save time, but to stay warm.

Running has always cleared my mind and allowed me to focus. Today is no exception. The events of the past two days roll through my thoughts. Beck and I walking to school, his hand in mine. Me chastising him for forgetting his gloves again. Beck on top of the hill. His lips on mine.

Annalise.

I stop running but my momentum sends me sliding forward a few more feet. Although I wobble, I manage to stay upright. My mind fixes on Callum and Annalise.

Beck knew what they were doing at school when they interrogated us, and he didn’t say anything. They came for him
—
that’s why he was afraid.

But why would they accuse him? Because Callum and Beck didn’t get along as children? This retaliation seems too harsh.

After scaling the rest of the icy hill, I pause at the top, squinting to see the train station in the distance. I jog down the hill, but after two slips, decide to take it slowly. I still have to cross the expanse of Union Square and can make up time on the flat land.

Too late, I realize I threw away my clock when I tossed my wristlet. Brilliant. I have no idea what time it is when I reach the desolate open expanse of Union Square. From my textbooks, I know this area was once a bustling center of commerce. But no one comes here anymore except for a few history buffs and the mandatory field trip during year ten.

Not wanting to miss the train, I sprint the best I can over the icy ground. After a dozen blocks, the eerie ghost
-
town
feeling of Union Square melts into the chaos of the Transportation District.

The closer I get, the busier the surrounding streets become. It’s as if hundreds of transporters descended here at the exact same moment, let out all their passengers and are now trying to be the first to speed away. The result is a gridlock of people and vehicles crushing their way to the station’s front entrance.

Conscious of how well known my face is, I avoid eye contact as I shove my way through the crowd and into the massive station. The contrast between the near empty parts of The City and here is stark. Even though I know it’s the main form of transportation to and from just about anywhere, it looks like everyone in San Francisco has decided to take a trip today. Which could either allow me to hide easily, or mean someone will recognize me quicker.

Ahead of me, two large trains are parked and making preparations for their next departure. A wave of relief hits me. I’m not late.

I still need to purchase a ticket, so I press through the throng of people clogging the platform. Their hugs and tears tell me some of these people are saying their good-byes. I swallow a lump in my throat. Would it have been easier if I could have said good-bye to Beck?

No, it wouldn’t have mattered.

The signs for the ticket desk point me around the corner, and I follow them until I spot my destination and walk to the first open agent. A small, mousey man. His orange Singleton wristlet stands out against his dark workman shirt.

Nervous he’ll question me, I hesitate. What if Bethina alerted the authorities? For half a second, I consider sneaking onto the train. But no, she’s probably giving me time alone and won’t worry about me until well after dinner.

I stand back and pretend to study the schedules over the agent’s head. The right column lists the State trains that travel up to 700 miles per hour. The left column shows the times of the slower moving regional trains. My eyes rest on the Southern regional train schedule
—
it’s the only service to where I’m going.

I keep my scarf pulled up and my voice steady. “I’d like the next available ticket to Summer Hill, please.”

The agent studies me, and my stomach seizes.
Calm, Lark. He can’t see you through the scarf
. “You’re a bit young to be off on your own, aren’t you?”

I glance at him through lowered lashes. His lips are tight and his beady eyes suspicious. Perhaps he’s heard something.

My muscles contract and sweat beads along the back of my neck. I raise my head and stare right at him, in what I hope is an authoritative manner. Maybe the best approach is to look like I belong here.

“Not at all.” My voice is clipped and brisk like a State Woman. Too late, I realize my coat sleeves don’t hide my gloved but wristlet-bare arm. I yank at the damn regulation three-quarter length sleeve before giving up and pulling my arm up into my coat. Wonderful. That’s not obvious or anything. “I’m on official business. A follow-up, if you will.”

Nutter. Not only have I run off, but now I’m impersonating a State Woman, a capital offense. I’m taking myself from bad to worse.

“One way, then?”

“Yes, if you please.”

He types a few things into his system. “543.”

I reach into my pocket and tighten my fingers around the stack of bills. I slowly count the money and lay it on the desk.

The agent lets out a low whistle. “What’s this?”

“Money.” Mistake number two. Almost no one uses bills anymore. Stupid, Lark, very stupid.

He stares at it. “No State money card? I thought that was standard issue?”

I pause, and purposefully eye his orange wristlet before giving him a disdainful glare. “That’s really none of your business, is it?” I shove the money across the desk.

“Suppose not.” He takes the bills and leafs through them, counting. “Having problems over at the school?”

“No.” My voice falters a bit. He’s searching for information. “Nothing of the sort.”

“Really? I heard that there was a big to-do up there today and a breach yesterday.” The agent prints my ticket but doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he holds it in his hand just out of my reach on the other side of the cashier cage.

“Well, then you heard wrong. Surely you don’t believe a silly, impossible rumor like that?”

The agent frowns but seems convinced. “Guess not.”

I slide my hand under the cage and grab my ticket. “Thank you.”

I turn to go.

“Take care, Lark.”