AS WISTY FALLS to the floor again, sobbing against my pants leg, I keep my face pressed to the glass, waiting for the details of the
But we’re in between billboards now, and traffic is slowing down. I pound the back of the van in frustration. I’m about to crumple on the floor next to Wisty, but I’m suddenly jolted alive with a rush of -
Celia.
It’s her scent, no doubt about it. The perfume she wore the day she originally disappeared. It’s like she’s right here with me, like she never left.
I’ve never heard of a portal in a moving New Order vehicle. Is it even possible? I start pounding on the floor, the walls, then the back van doors, shouting her name.
“Whit,
But I’m pounding the window again. I see her hair. Waving across the next billboard some hundred yards away, streaming in front of her face.
I hurl my body against the door. “Get us out of here, Celia!” I know, at least I
I don’t even care that she sounds annoyed. I love it. It reminds me of when she’d start telling me about her chem test in the hall at school, and I’d just give her a kiss right in the middle of her sentence.
Am I listening to her now? I am actually. The sound of her voice is like a drug I can’t get enough of.
The van is getting closer to the billboard. My face can’t be pressed any harder against the glass, my body flattened against the door. We’re passing right by her image, and I practically feel the heat of her breath on my cheek.
“Together again?” I ask.
“Together again,” she repeats as we pull away.
And then she’s gone. But I’m still dazed by the lingering image of Celia until we turn in through a very high gate marked BUILDING OF BUILDINGS.
Chapter 44
WHIT AND I MAY have electrodes all over our arms, but at least we’re upright and sitting in high-backed leather chairs so comfy it’s like swimming in butter. And we each have a glass of water next to us. It’s all five-star accommodations here at the Building of Buildings, which is basically The One’s crib and bat cave-type place, and it’s where the very grumpy men in the van brought us.
Whit and I had both been curled in the fetal position in the back of the van when suddenly we were yanked out and escorted into the B of B. So this had started out as one of our most pathetic public parades into captivity yet.
I actually made eye contact with some of the citizens who were watching as we trudged across the luxuriously outfitted marble lobby. Maybe I’ve been infected with a big-ego savior complex, but I thought I saw a flash of… respect, maybe even admiration, or at least something vaguely hopeful buried deep in some of the glazed Beaner eyes. It helped me get my groove back anyway.
The more I stare at our interrogator right now, the more I think maybe I see it in him, too. Grudging respect? He’s hiding it pretty well, though. He’s definitely polite but sterile to the point of being scary.
The questions have also been pretty sterile so far-such as name, address, and N.O. ID number.
Then he throws this real doozy at us.
“Have either of you had any children in recent months?” he asks, deadpan. We both stare at him blankly. “Now that we have you and your parents on death row, we need to ensure there are no other living members of Clan Allgood. Please answer so that the polygraph can register a result.”
“No,” we both manage to say.
“Excellent,” he says, watching the readout from the lie detector.
“I get an A plus for not being an unwed pregnant teenager?” I say. “Wow. Maybe I like the New Order after all.”
He completely ignores me. “Now let’s get down to some very important business. On a scale of one to five, with five being the most, how would you characterize the efficacy of your parents’ instructions to you vis-a-vis harnessing your… abilities?”
“What are you talking about?” I demand. “As
“Ms. Allgood,” he says.
“News flash, mister. I’m not big on following rules!”
Whit nudges me as if he’s signaling I should settle down. Since when is he going all Golden Boy again? We’re Resistance leaders, aren’t we?
The interrogator clears his throat. “We
“Are you talking about
Mr. Interrogator looks extremely alarmed. “Shhh! Take my word and do
Perfect invitation for me to get punchy. I’m practically singing at this point: “Magic, magic, magic,
The Repressed One finally explodes. He’s up and grabbing us by our collars, my shirt in one hand and, surprisingly, that of my Mute Golden Boy brother in the other.
“You make me
He looks at Whit. “You, with all your potential, and look what you do! Nothing! Sitting here like a mannequin! And your dynacompetent sister, here-why, she possesses a power so amazing, so devastating, so -”
There’s a sharp noise as the automatic dead bolt on the room’s door clicks open.
“Ah,” says our interrogator, suddenly whiter than a pickled egg. “Said too much, did I?” he whispers to himself. “Oh!” he manages to squeal as somebody steps softly into the room behind us and the temperature drops, oh, maybe fifty degrees.
And just like that the interrogator turns into a medium-size rubber tree in a large terra-cotta container. Somebody has just made him into the quintessential potted plant.