This Is Not a Test (8 page)

She looks at me and she’s so student government president. Her posture is diplomatic but her tone is frosty. “But he did … and they did.”

“But—”

“Look, it’s hard enough for Trace right now,” she says. “If it’s how you feel, fine. But I want you to stay away from my brother if you can’t keep it to yourself.”

She walks away. At first I think I’ll cry, but I don’t. I’m too jealous of the way she guards Trace to cry and I hate that she thinks of me as someone she has to protect him from.

Eventually, Cary calls us over to the stage. He shows us the locker haul. They found toothpaste—we take turns passing the tube around and dabbing microscopic globs on our fingers—floss, deodorant … there are some clothes, which makes Grace happy. I spot a pink sweater with a name written on the tag: CORRINE M. Corrine Matthews.

I remember her curly black hair and smile and then I don’t want to touch it.

There’s lots of candy and gum. Some lighters and cigarettes. I look at Rhys, expecting him to be happy about it but he doesn’t look happy about it

We settle in for the night. The room is … the word
home
crosses my mind, but it’s not the right one to use. Lily and I used to play house. I was eight, she was ten, and Mom was dead, but Mom had been dead for a while by then, so I guess that’s not an important part of this memory. I had dolls and an old box. She had paper, pencils, and erasers and she’d ask questions while I leaned Barbie up against a flimsy cardboard wall and tried to figure out what to do with Ken.

How big should the bedrooms be? Should we have a guest bedroom? Okay. Separate bathrooms for sure. No, Dad doesn’t need a room, Sloane. Because he’s not going to live with us. This is
our
house.

FOUR DAYS LATER

“
Grace! GRACE!
Dad’s alive! He’s outside!
He’s ALIVE!
”

Trace bursts into the auditorium screaming these words at the top of his lungs and then we’re awake like we were never asleep.

Mr. Casper. Alive.

Trace is breathless and crying as he leads us to the second floor. The flashlight jerks in his hands as he tries to explain. “I couldn’t sleep—I was wandering around and I heard him, he was calling for help—I went to the window and I saw—”

Mr. Casper. He’s alive, in the parking lot, calling for help.

Rhys is going
are you sure? Are you sure you’re sure? Maybe you were sleepwalking.
Trace is so beside himself he doesn’t even tell Rhys to fuck off.

We sprint down the halls and up the stairs so fast my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. My heart is numb. I don’t believe this. I can’t believe in this.

Mr. Casper is alive.

“I told you, Grace, I told you—they knew we were here—I knew one of them would try to get to us—I fucking
knew it
!”

I’m at the window first. Trace hands the flashlight to Harrison and pushes himself against me, forces me into the glass. We look past the edge of the auditorium roof, trying to see, searching—Mr. Casper,
alive
—but the lot is empty. Dawn edges up the horizon, but it’s not doing it fast enough. It’s not light enough to see anyone or anything.

“Where?” Rhys asks. “I don’t see him—”

“He was…” Trace nudges us away. “He—”

“How could you even see—”

“Shut up—”

“Listen,” Cary hisses. “Just listen.”

I press the side of my head against the glass and listen with everything I have. I hear car alarms in the distance. Grace takes a sharp breath in.

Trace spins around. “What—”

She points and I follow her outstretched finger to the crumpled shape of a man facedown on the pavement. I don’t know how we missed it at first, until I realize we missed it because we were looking for signs of life.

“No—no,” Trace says. “No—that’s not—he was alive—”

I squint. It could be anyone from here. I don’t know how Trace could have made out his father’s face in this lack of light. I’m too afraid to ask him in front of Grace.

“If he’s dead, infected can’t be far off,” Cary says. “Was he shouting?”

“He’s not dead! He was standing—he was up! He’s just hurt or something—he just—
Dad!
We have to go out—we have to bring him back in—we have to help—”

“Trace—”

I tune them out. The parking lot is empty. I look for others—the shambling, broken bodies of people we used to know surrounding the school again—but there’s nothing.

“Dad!
DAD!
”

Cary pulls Trace away from the window but Trace is made of the kind of energy people with hope have. He frees himself and shoves Cary against a row of lockers.

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

“You don’t even know it’s him—”

I hear it first and then I see it: Trace drives his fist into Cary’s face. It’s a dull sound, but I know it’s a sharp hurt. I know what it feels like. Cary’s knees buckle but he doesn’t fall. He rights himself and stands there, stunned, while blood trickles from his nostrils. He brings his hand to his face and stares at his stained fingertips and I see his anger building in a way I’m not sure anyone else can. It’s from his heart, in his veins. I almost want to tell everyone to back away but I watch, transfixed, instead.

“You’re useless—” Trace spits at him. “You fucking
murderer
!”

Cary tackles Trace and they’re a sloppy mess of fists and legs and Grace is screaming
get off him, get off my brother!

Rhys is the one who separates them. He has to hold Trace down in the end by climbing on top of him and pushing his knee into Trace’s back.

I turn back to the window, the man outside.

Trace gasps under Rhys. “We’re wasting time—”

“He’s
not moving,
Trace—”

“Are you sure it’s him?” I ask.

“Who else would it be? I have to go out there—I have to get him—”

“No!”
Grace says. “You are
not
going out there. You can’t—” And Trace says,
Grace, it’s Dad, I know it is, I saw him, we have to get him
because he believes this. He’s fevered with it. It’s his father out there because it can be no one else.

And she’s saying, “No, you
can’t.
You can’t leave me—”

She repeats this over his insistence he has to go outside and the more she says it, it’s like the more she believes he will leave her until she’s crying so hard she’s hyperventilating. Trace tries to reach for her, but he can’t unless Rhys gets off him. When Rhys does, Trace holds Grace and she sobs all over his shirt. He holds her and stares at me, at the window beyond me, trying to soothe her and figure this out at the same time. Then his eyes spark. He turns to Cary.

“You go out there and get him.”

Cary stares.
“What?”

“It’s your fault he’s out there. Go out there and bring him back in.”

“Go out there yourself—”

“I’m not leaving Grace,” Trace says. “This is your fault, so you do it.”

“I am
not
dying for you,” Cary says through his teeth. “And fuck you for asking me—that guy out there? Whoever he is? He’s
dead.
”

Cary storms down the hall. It must be awful to find out your life is worth nothing to someone else. I want to tell Cary he’s not worthless. Harrison probably needs him. Rhys stares at Trace, disgusted, but Trace doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and leans his cheek against Grace’s head. He has no other options.

“Grace, I have to do it.”

“No.
No.
”

He breathes in and tightens his grip on her.

“It’s him. I know it is.”

I get that feeling again. That ache to have what Trace and Grace have, along with the sharp reminder that I don’t. The parking lot is still empty save for the man on the ground. Trace’s words echo in my head
we have to bring him back in
and I don’t know why they do until it hits me and I finally understand them for what they really are: an out.

“I’ll do it,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll go.”

I stop at my locker for my letter to Lily and tuck it carefully in my pocket. I have this insane fantasy where my sister comes across my body on the ground or walking around and she finds the note on me and reads the note and it kills her.

When I get to the library, Cary is actually helping Trace with the door, which is unreal to me. Blood is crusted under Cary’s nose. Trace is shaky, vibrating with the possibility of his father being out there, dead or alive. I watch him closely, looking for some indication he knows it can’t really be Mr. Casper. There are none. His heart will hold on to it until he knows for sure.

Grace and Harrison sit on one of the tables together. Harrison keeps the flashlight trained on the boys and says he’s afraid of the door being open for the brief second it will take me to walk out of it but no one comforts him. Grace is zoned out, like she can’t really understand how this happened or why but I can tell she wants me to go out there. I know she does.

“You don’t have to do this,” Rhys says.

“Shut up.” Trace grunts as he pushes a desk aside. “She wants to.”

I nod. “I want to.”

Rhys sighs, resigned, and then he says something terrible.

“I’ll go with you.” No. No.
No.
I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off. “I mean, let’s just say if by some miracle the guy out there isn’t dead—”

“My father is
not
dead,” Trace says loudly.

Rhys ignores him. “That means you have to get him back inside and there’s no way you’re going to be able to do it alone. It’s a two-person job. Unless you
want
to die.”

Ha ha. My stomach turns. This went from good to bad, just like that, but I can’t let it stop me. I work quickly to rationalize it. It’s better this way. It makes it easier. Instead of leaving Trace and Grace high and dry, Rhys can go back and tell them if it’s Mr. Casper or not. If it’s Mr. Casper, Rhys can get him back into the school. And me—when I go, I won’t have that on my conscience. That would be good. It’s a good thing that Rhys is coming with me. It’s good.

“Fine,” I say. “Okay.”

Trace and Cary move the last shelf aside, leaving the door naked before us. Rhys bends down and tightens his shoelaces. I do the same.

“Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t ask me quietly enough.

“I was wondering too,” Grace says. “Is it because of…”

She stops but I know what she’s going to say.
Is it because of what I said to you?
I don’t know how to tell her I’m sorry I hurt her but it’s nothing to do with her. I don’t think I can. I knot my shoelaces twice and get to my feet. She waits on my answer.

“I like your family.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

Her face softens. I wonder if she’s thinking of the sleepover. Something inside me just wants to see her remember it like Trace wants it to be his father outside because—I don’t know.

I guess it’s the last thing I have.

“Okay,” Cary says.

Trace gives me a hug and I lose myself in the sensation. It’s so dizzyingly nice, like someone wants me and I almost think it would be worth hanging around for if it was an all-the-time thing. He lets me go, gives Rhys a curt nod, and then hands us each a baseball bat. I hold mine limply at my side. Rhys clutches his so hard his knuckles turn white.

“Stay by the door,” he tells Cary. “Don’t move and open it when you hear us.”

“I’m not moving,” Cary says. “Good luck.”

Rhys looks at me. His eyes ask if I’m ready. I nod. I’m more ready than there are words for. Cary pushes the door open. It’s still dark. A cool April breeze drifts in and curls around us, making me realize how stale the air is in here. I take a gulp of it and hold it in my lungs.

Rhys and I step outside.

The door closes quietly and firmly behind us.

The fence is in front of us. We back into each other automatically, checking both sides. Nothing. There’s nothing. I feel Rhys breathing against me, scared out of his mind.

“Do you
really
think it’s Mr. Casper?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I don’t want to die today, Sloane.”

We stare down the path that leads to the athletic field. It’s a blind spot, totally wide open. We don’t know what’s out there. The path to the front of the school is gated, slightly closer to the parking lot but it’s still a walk around the building. And if the gate is locked, we’ll have to climb it. We won’t be soundless doing it.

I wouldn’t care if Rhys wasn’t here but now I have to care. When there’s more distance between us, that’s when I’ll leave, but for now I have to be careful for his sake. I’m not selfish like Lily. I nod in the direction of the front of the school. Rhys swallows and nods back. I make my way forward but he grabs my arm.

“Let me—” his voice cracks. “Let me go first.”

I shake my head but he trudges ahead of me anyway. I follow him, glancing over my shoulder repeatedly. We reach the gate. He ducks and I duck beside him.

We press our faces against the chain link and look around.

The street ahead seems empty, looks almost normal, like the world has yet to wake up, but as our eyes adjust to the dark, things that are wrong slowly begin to assert themselves. The windows in the house across the street are all broken and the front door is wide open. I can see a shape that looks like a body on the lawn. There’s a car wrapped around a telephone pole and I imagine a man or woman slumped over the steering wheel, killed on impact. That must have been a good way to go. But there’s nothing else that we can see.

No dead.

Maybe they’re still at Russo’s.

Rhys tests the gate. Locked.

“We should go over together,” he says.

We stick the toes of our running shoes through the links. The gate rattles under our weight and the baseball bats clang against the metal. Rhys holds his breath. As soon as he clears the top, he jumps. I do the same, landing easily. He grabs my arm again and pulls me behind a pair of decorative hedges at the corner of the front of the school.