he saw me; he remembered me. So many questions crowd my brain at once, it’s like one of the famous Portland fogs has swept up from the ocean and settled there, making it impossible to think normal, functional thoughts.
My aunt finally notices something’s wrong. Just before dinner I’m helping Jenny with her homework, as always, testing her on her multiplication tables.
We’re sitting on the floor of the living room, which is squashed up right next to the “dining room” (an alcove that barely holds a table and six chairs), and I’m holding her workbook on my knees, reciting the problems to her, but my mind is on autopilot and my thoughts are a million miles away. Or rather, they’re exactly 3.4 miles away, down at the marshy edge of Back Cove. I know the distance exactly because it’s a nice run from my house. Now I’m calculating how quickly I could get down there on my bike, and then beating myself up for even considering the idea.
“Seven times eight?”
Jenny pinches her lips together. “Fifty-six.”
“Nine times six?”
“Fifty-two.”
On the other hand, there’s no law that says you can’t speak to a cured. Cureds are safe. They can be mentors or guides to the uncureds. Even though Alex is only a year older than I am, we’re separated, irreparably and totally, by the procedure. He might as well be my grandfather.
“Seven times eleven?”
“Seventy-seven.”
“Lena.” My aunt has squeezed out of the kitchen, past the dining room table, and is standing behind Jenny. I blink twice, trying to focus. Carol’s face is tight with concern. “Is something the matter?”
“No.” I drop my eyes quickly. I hate it when my aunt looks at me like that, like she’s reading all the bad parts from my soul. I feel guilty just for thinking about a boy, even a cured one. If she knew, she would say, Oh, Lena. Careful.
Remember what happened to your mother. She would say, These diseases tend to run in the blood. “Why?”
I keep my eyes trained on the worn carpet underneath me. Carol bends forward, swoops up Jenny’s workbook from my knees, and says loudly in her clear, high voice, “Nine times six is fifty-four.” She snaps the workbook closed.
“Not fifty-two, Lena. I assume you know your multiplication tables?”
Jenny sticks her tongue out at me.
My cheeks start heating up as I realize my mistake. “Sorry. I guess I’m just kind of… distracted.”
There’s a momentary pause. Carol’s eyes never leave the back of my neck. I can sense them burning there. I feel like I’ll scream, or cry, or confess, if she keeps staring at me.
Finally she sighs. “You’re still thinking about the evaluations, aren’t you?”
I blow the air out of my cheeks, feel a weight of anxiety ease off my chest.
“Yeah. I guess so.” I venture a glance up at her, and she smiles her little skittering smile.
“I know you’re disappointed you have to go through the process again. But think about it this way—this time you’ll be even more prepared.”
I bob my head and try to look enthusiastic, even though a little, pinching feeling of guilt starts nipping at me. I haven’t even thought about the evaluations since this morning, not since I found out the results would be discounted. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Come on, now. Dinnertime.” My aunt reaches out and passes a finger over my forehead. Her finger is cool and reassuring, and gone as quickly as the lightest stirring of wind. It makes the guilt flare up full force, and in that moment I can’t believe I was even considering going to Back Cove. It’s the absolute, 100 percent wrong thing to do, and I stand up for dinner feeling clean and weightless and happy, like the first time you feel healthy after a long fever.
But at dinner my curiosity—and with it, my doubts—return. I can barely follow the conversation. All I can think is: Go? Don’t go? Go? Don’t go? At one point my uncle is telling a story about one of his customers, and I notice everyone is laughing so I laugh too, but a little too loud and long. Everyone turns to look at me, even Gracie, who puckers her nose and tilts her head like a dog sniffing at something new.
“Are you okay, Lena?” my uncle asks, adjusting his glasses as though hoping to bring me into clearer focus. “You seem a little strange.”
“I’m fine.” I push around some ravioli on my plate. Normally I can put away half a box myself, especially after a long run (and still have room for dessert), but I’ve barely managed to choke down a few bites. “Just stressed.”
“Leave her alone,” my aunt says. “She’s upset about the evaluations. They didn’t exactly turn out as planned.”
She lifts her eyes to my uncle, and they exchange a quick glance. I feel a rush of excitement. It’s rare for my aunt and uncle to look at each other like that, a wordless glance, full of meaning. Most of the time their interactions are limited to the usual thing—my uncle tells stories about work, my aunt tells stories about the neighbors. What’s for dinner? There’s a leak in the roof. Blah blah blah. I think that for once they’re going to mention the Wilds, and the Invalids. But then my uncle gives a minute shake of his head.
“These kinds of mix-ups happen all the time,” he says, staking a ravioli with his fork. “Just the other day, I asked Andrew to reorder three cases of Vik’s orange juice. But he goes and gets the codes wrong and guess what shows up?
Three cases of baby formula. I said to him, I said, ‘Andrew…’” I tune the conversation out again, grateful that my uncle is a talker, and happy that my aunt has taken my side. The one good thing about being kind of shy is that nobody bugs you when you want to be left alone. I lean forward and sneak a glance at the clock in the kitchen. Seven thirty, and we haven’t even finished eating. And afterward I’ll have to help clear and wash the dishes, which always takes forever; the dishwasher uses up too much electricity, so we have to do them by hand.
Outside, the sun is streaked with filaments of gold and pink. It looks like the candy that gets spun at the Sugar Shack downtown, all gloss and stretch and color. It will be a beautiful sunset tonight. In that moment the urge to go is so strong, I have to squeeze the sides of my chair to keep from suddenly springing up and running out the door.
Finally I decide to stop stressing and leave it to luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. If we finish eating and I’m done cleaning up the dishes in time to make it to Back Cove, I’ll go. If not, I’ll stay. I feel a million times better once I’ve made the decision, and even manage to shovel down a few more bites of ravioli before Jenny (miracle of miracles) has a sudden late burst of speed and cleans her plate, and my aunt announces I can clear the dishes whenever I’m ready.
I stand up and start stacking everyone’s plates. It’s almost eight o’clock.
Even if I can wash all the dishes in fifteen minutes—and that’s a stretch—it will still be difficult to get to the beach by eight thirty. And forget about making it back by nine o’clock, when the city has a mandated curfew for uncureds.
And if I got caught on the streets after curfew…
The truth is, I don’t know what would happen. I’ve never broken curfew.
Just as I’ve finally accepted that there’s no way to get to Back Cove and back in time, my aunt does the unthinkable. As I’m reaching forward to take her plate, she stops me. “You don’t have to clean the dishes tonight, Lena. I’ll do them.”
As she’s speaking, she reaches out and puts a hand on my arm. Just like earlier, the touch is as fleeting and cool as wind.
And before I can think about what this means, I’m blurting out, “Actually, I have to run to Hana’s house really quick.”
“Now?” A look of alarm—or suspicion? — flickers across my aunt’s face.
“It’s nearly eight o’clock.”
“I know. We—she—she has a study guide she was supposed to give me. I just remembered.”
Now the look of suspicion—it is suspicion, definitely—makes itself comfortable, drawing Carol’s eyebrows
