Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) (21 page)

And of course I have to go and ruin it by crying. I’m not loud about it, but by the time the first tear trickle reaches my ear, he knows. A shadow passes over the sun, and I shiver.

He hugs me tightly, pressing me against his body in a way that makes me want to wrap my legs around him. I redden at the thought. I break away from him and sit up, hugging my arms to my chest.

“You’re cold,” Neil says, concerned. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make you coffee.”

“Do you have tea?” I blurt. Having this chance to be with Neil feels like a fresh start, and coffee is a vice I’d rather leave in my past.

“More than what lies at the bottom of Boston Harbor.” As we walk to his house, Neil gives me a rundown of all the different types of tea that inhabit his parents’ well-stocked cupboards.

“Chamomile is good,” I tell him as he unlocks the door and ushers me inside.

Neil’s living room is light and airy, and impeccably neat. A sofa and armchairs are arranged in front of a fireplace, and the walls are lined with bookshelves.

“Have a seat,” Neil says. “I’ll get our tea.”

I sit on the sofa—right in the middle—and pull a throw pillow from the nook of the armrest to stow behind my back. My eyes flicker around the room, taking in the various family photos on the wall, always of the same three people—Neil and his parents. But then I see one smack in the middle of the
mantel that makes me pause because there are four people in it. I cock my ear, listening for the telltale signs of tea-making in the kitchen, and approach the photo, skimming around the coffee table carefully.

In it Neil looks about thirteen, and there’s another boy standing next to Neil’s father, blond but with the same wild curls, who must be a couple years older. Does Neil have a long-lost brother? There has never been mention of him, so I have to assume it’s a sensitive subject. What happened to him? Did he die?

My heart pounding in my throat, I sit back down. Just in time too, because Neil comes in with two steaming mugs. “We’ll let these steep a couple minutes, and in the meantime I can play you a song.” He ducks his head and shrugs as he places our tea on doilies on the coffee table in front of me. “If you want.”

“A private concert? Of course I want!” I smile at him brightly and swallow my questions about the mystery boy.

He returns to the entryway and pulls his guitar out of the closet, and then sits on the footstool in front of me. He strums a few chords, then scratches the side of his neck with the bright orange guitar pick. “I haven’t played this song for anyone before. But I play a lot when I’m home alone.”

Leaning forward, I press my palms together and squeeze them between my knees. As he starts to sing, I’m struck again, as I am every time, by the emotion he’s able to convey. He sings of loss, of forgiveness, of learning to live—and love again. It’s an arrow through my heart, because it’s everything
I both feel and long for. It’s like he’s reading my mind.

When it ends, I’m paralyzed.

He places his guitar on the chair and scoots the footrest closer to me. He takes my hands in his, looks deep into my eyes. “I . . . I thought it might help you to see I understand what you’re going through. I mean, not exactly, of course, since you haven’t told me what happened, but . . . Remember when you asked me if I’d drink from that river, the Lethe? At one time I would’ve—without question. I’d have thrown myself into that river. Anything to take the pain away. But you can get through it. I did. And I want you to know that whatever it is, I’m here for you. Whenever you’re ready to talk.” He’s so earnest, if he told me he’d jump in front of a lion for me, I think I’d believe him. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me to bare my dark secrets to him.

I lower my eyes to escape his gaze, which has grown so intense, I fear it can see straight into my soul. “I better get home,” I say, getting up and heading toward the door. “Grammy’s going to wonder where I am.”

“Wait—I’ll drive you.” He jumps up and brushes by me, opening the door.

“It’s only a half mile,” I say, ready to refuse him, until I see his eager expression. “Will you walk with me instead? I feel like walking.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, sure.” And when we step out the door, hand in hand, I glance back, realizing we never touched our tea.

We walk past the playground, past cul-de-sacs, past an array of pastel-colored houses. Neil and I talk about our friends
at church and our classes at school. It feels so normal and nice.

At my door I pull out my key, insert it into the lock.

“Wait,” says Neil. “Before you go . . .” He leans in and cups my face with his hands. He kisses me softly, his warm touch melting away all my remaining uncertainty. It’s a feeling I could get lost in. I pull him closer, kiss him back harder.

The door opens, creaking on its hinges, and Neil and I break apart, startled.

“Good evening, Neil,” says Grammy. Her smile is polite, her eyebrows slightly raised.

“Hello, Mrs. Ward,” he says, backing away. “So, see you tomorrow, Felicia?” He looks like he’s trying to keep a straight, serious face, but a smile—and those dimples—breaks through.

“Yes, tomorrow,” I promise as Grammy guides me into the house, even though I don’t know how I’ll survive the hours until I can see him again. Grammy retrieves my key and shuts the door, but I rush to the front window and pull back the curtains to watch him. And I stay there until he rounds the corner, out of sight.

CHAPTER 16

SUDDENLY I FEEL LIKE
I’m being ripped apart. It is pitch black, and dust and small stones are raining down on me, bouncing and pinging against the sides of the chamber like hail. I’m disoriented by the lack of hologram screen glow, and have to squint to keep the dust out of my eyes. With rising panic I try to turn the screen back on, but the system is completely fried.

I shift my body toward the open side of the chamber and bang my arm on something hard. It’s blocked. After closing my eyes to find my calm center, I shuffle toward the stair exit, bumping my head in the process. I kick with my feet. Air. A burst of relief. I shuffle farther and kick again. Rocks? A sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Help me dig!” I hear Julian’s voice, but it’s muffled, like I have earplugs in. I’m trapped in my chamber.

Frantically I pat at the ceiling above me, feeling for cracks. There are a few thin ones, like hairline fractures. And a larger one, over my right ear, that continues to spill an alarming amount of sandlike sediment. At this rate I’ll soon be completely buried, like a cursed princess trapped in the bottom of an hourglass.

There’s just enough room for me to twist myself around so my head is nearest the stair. I crawl on my belly and claw at the large chunks of stone that block my exit from the chamber. The jagged edges slice my fingertips and scrape my knuckles. I catch a fingernail, and as I pull my hand away, the nail peels off. I yowl in pain and jab my finger into my mouth, biting my injured finger between my lips, cursing the fact that the stronger my mind gets, the more I seem to inhabit my body and the more I feel pain. Shouldn’t I be able to will the pain away?

Whimpering, I try to calm myself. Physically there’s no chance of me getting out of here. But mentally? Am I powerful enough to move these heavy boulders that block my exit?

I tense and stretch my entire body, and then relax. I open my mind to let the energy flow around me, and I feel a tickle at the edge of my consciousness. It doesn’t seem threatening so I let it in. It’s Julian. He’s telling me to push with all my might against the barrier while they pull with theirs. “I’ll try,” I mutter.

Tentatively touching the barrier, my arms stretched out
like Superman, I imagine all my energy focusing on that one spot. I harness this power and let it loose. There’s a loud boom, and then light streams into the chamber. We’ve managed to punch a hole—small, but wide enough for me to crawl through. Fortunately for my banged-up hands, the inside surface of the hole is as smooth as polished marble.

Julian helps me out, and once my feet hit the floor, I brush away the dust on my clothes.

Mira and Eli stand with Virginia by the open doorway. I’m relieved to see that Virginia is unharmed, and a little disappointed to see that Eli is fine too. Mira’s eyes dart back and forth, scanning for outside threats, while Eli gives me a once-over, as if confirming to himself that I am all in one piece. “Based on your little display, I would say phase three is all systems go.” He climbs over some rubble, motioning for us to follow. Eli’s mention of phase three makes me squirm.

As Julian and I move toward the exit, I place my hand on his shoulder. The buzz between us is entirely gone, and I’m glad. “Thanks for telling me to push back there while you were pulling. It really helped me to focus.” I grimace. “Though I’m sure our success had more to do with your effort than mine.”

“Our effort?” Julian scrunches his eyebrows together. “No, Felicia. That was all you.”

“You mean . . . you had nothing to do with getting me out?” I shake my head in disbelief.

“No.” He puts his index finger to his lips, indicating we should be quiet, and then whispers, “And frankly I’m surprised
you aren’t a quivering mass of jelly after a stunt like that.”

He’s right. I should be out cold. But aside from some minor aches and pains, I feel fine. Good, even. I keep my voice low. “Where are we going? Another hideout?” I catch sight of my nine remaining nails. The polish is scraped off, uneven. I imagine a full set of smooth, perfectly oval nails, and they’re mine. I could get used to this.

Julian nods. “The plan is to meet up with the others at the main rebel base. Assess our strength.”

“Did the Morati cause the hive to collapse?” I ask.

“The Morati receive no benefit from destroying hives.”

“Then who did it?” I assume it wasn’t the rebels, since the cave-in could’ve hurt me or them.

Julian shrugs his shoulders. “That’s a good question.” It is. Perhaps a higher power is finally interfering? If so, it’s about time.

In front of us Mira and Virginia tiptoe along the corridor while Eli trudges beside them like a tank. As we follow, I survey the damage around us. The great majority of the hives are intact—pristine, even. Maybe only one in twenty has been affected, some worse than others. I peek back at our former hideout. Though the walls still stand, most of the roof has collapsed. It’s no wonder I was buried.

We walk for a long time, pausing only for brief periods to give Virginia short bursts of chamber time. Sometimes Eli carries her to avoid having to stop. The silence Julian and I share is companionable for once. We touch each other casually to point out cracks and crumbling hives we come across,
and Julian laughs when I imitate Eli’s heavy gait. These welcome distractions help me to stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t want to think about what phase three might cost me. And I fear if I dwell on the Morati threat, on which people they might be infecting at this moment with the Phlegethon and turning into attack zombies, I might wish for a swift end and throw myself under the next cave-in.

At first I think the diminishing amount of light as we continue our trek through the hives is a trick of my tiring mind, but when I turn and look behind me, I notice a stark difference between the way we’ve come and the gloomy horizon ahead. The shadows grow fuller, the atmosphere more oppressive.

My pace slows, almost as if my body dreads going any closer. Julian leans toward me, his elbow knocking against mine. “Fog rolling in,” he whispers. “We should take shelter.” I stay close on his heels, and we duck into a hive, one that now resembles an abandoned hovel. The others are already inside, and Mira and Eli put their materialization skills to good use to make the place more comfortable. In fact, Mira re-creates the entire furniture set from our ruined hideout, right down to the throw pillows.

“Is this where we’ll meet the rest of the rebels?” I ask.

“Oh, no.” Mira laughs. “It’s a rest stop on our journey. Luckily for you and Virginia, a couple of the chambers here still function.”

“Actually, I don’t think I need to go in anymore,” I say as I set Virginia’s profile for her. She gets in gratefully. “I’m totally cured.”

“Yes, you are over your addiction,” Mira says, glancing quickly at Julian as if to gauge his reaction to her words. He keeps his face blank. “The point of going in the chamber now is to build up your mental toughness by reliving some of your less pleasant memories. But then, I think you already know that.”

Mira’s right. Reliving my betrayal of Autumn hurt, but it also made me stronger. One of these times I might even be ready to face the memory of my death—though, it would certainly undermine the rebels’ plan for me if I were able to move on. “Yeah, okay. But where are we? Why all the fog?”

“We’re on the edge of the isolation plains. We must cross it to meet up with the others at our headquarters,” explains Eli.

At his mention of the isolation plains, my ears perk up. That’s where Beckah might be. I can look for her. Save her. “Great.” I fake a yawn. “I guess I’ll go ahead and plug in, then. Build up some mental toughness.”

I inspect a couple of the chambers until I find one that works, and I scoot in. It takes less than a minute to pull up my profile and decide what unpleasant memory I should access.

Ward, Felicia. Memory #31551

Tags: Germany, Mother, Nervous breakdown

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I slam my cell phone twice against my desk. “Dammit! Why won’t you pick up?” It’s been a week since Autumn’s meltdown and Julian’s mysterious disappearance. I’ve seen Autumn at school, and the looks she’s been giving me, when she acknowledges my presence at all, are as sharp as icicles. I don’t need to call her to know she won’t answer. But Julian? Did he flat-out bail on me because the drama got too hot?

I heave my book bag onto my bed and then upend it to pour out its contents. Balled-up papers bounce off my bedspread and roll onto the carpet, joining the sea of candy wrappers, empty cola cans, and discarded dirty clothes. I have a makeup exam in physics tomorrow and need to study if I am going to improve upon my D+, the lowest grade I’ve ever gotten in my life. I owe my second chance to my excellent track record, and Mr. Hall’s squeamishness about “women’s issues.”