A long series of beeps comes from my InstaComm. I glance up with glistening eyes and see the screen morph from the digital clock to a caller ID notice.
My trip to Elusion must have sucked all the battery life out of my tab, because Patrick doesn’t use my IC number very often. My body feels just as drained, my throat so raw it’s hard to speak. And yet I’m surprised by how quickly I’m able to say the word.
“Deny.”
FIVE
EVERYTHING ABOUT REALITY SEEMS SO much dimmer and flatter the morning after. It’s like someone hammered a spigot into the sky and drained the last remaining specks of tint out of it. I think I slept a total of two hours last night, so I have this intense anesthetized feeling that I can’t seem to shake—not even with two caffè macchiatos ravaging my bloodstream.
And being at school on a Sunday (thanks to the Department of Education’s newly adopted semi-Standard 7 schedule) is only making it worse. I forgot to do my math homework and was late to tech ed, which allowed Mr. Herbert the opportunity to give me another twenty demerits. Now I’m only one away from detention.
After adjusting my O2 shield, I pull up the hood of my sweater to ward off the chill, tucking my hands into the pockets of my skirt. I walk through the long stretch of campus connecting the fifteen-story hexagon-shaped building—where my classmates and I spend most of our days toiling away for eight and a half hours straight—toward the dark, round building that houses the cafeteria.
Along the way, I’m doing all I can to compartmentalize everything that happened yesterday into the tiniest little quadrant in my brain, far away from all the receptors that process memories and pain. I try to concentrate on hopeful stuff, like how I woke up to a fresh-faced Mom making breakfast in the kitchen; how we chatted about Cathryn’s party over a stack of hot pancakes covered in agave syrup; how she tossed in a load of laundry consisting of only her canary-colored scrubs, because she is going back to work at the hospital tonight.
It wasn’t easy skipping the unsettling details: my odd night out with Josh and how awful I felt after coming back from Elusion with Patrick. I just didn’t want to spoil the upbeat mood she was in. If she is getting her life back on track this time, I don’t want anything to get in her way, especially me.
As I reach the cafeteria doors, I quickly take off my O2 shield and shove it in my bag, then swipe my passcard in front of the code reader. Once I’m inside, I’m hit with a remarkably gross stench. My eyes flick over to today’s menu, which is scrolling on a digital blue screen above the chow line.
Miso meatballs with hemp hearts
.
Ugh.
I cringe as I peruse the rest of the menu while an ocean of kids rushes into the cafeteria to meet up with friends, unapologetically bumping into me and bouncing me around like an anchorless raft adrift in the Florapetro-polluted waters of Lake Saint Clair. I really don’t feel like dealing with the raucousness of the lunchroom today and would spend the entire period in the library if I could, but our passcards all have GPS encoded, and a monitor would hunt me down in less than five minutes.
I squint in the bright halogen lights, looking for a familiar face. The cafeteria is about half the size of a football field. In fact, it’s so big that when the air quality is in the negatives, the track team uses this room for practice. I feel kind of bad that they’re forced to endure the faux-meatball smell and race around not only the perimeter but in between the long translucent concrete tables and benches that line each side of the orange-tiled room. The glass-domed ceiling is lit from behind to give the appearance of sunlight, and although it succeeds in making the room appear even more cavernous than it is, it gives it an otherworldly, unnatural feel.
In the past, each grade used to eat together, but the school has gotten too big to do that, so there are now eight lunch periods, each lasting for exactly a half hour, the first beginning at ten thirty a.m. As a result, most of us go through the day eating really early or really late and almost all of us are always hungry. At lunchtime, we usually don’t fool around with chit-chat—we just eat.
But today, something is different. Hardly anyone is paying attention to their food. Instead, everyone is frantically typing away at their tabs and talking excitedly among themselves.
“Regan!” I hear someone call out from the center of the room.
My eyes shift around, trying to locate the source of the voice, and land on Zoe Morgan, who is waving both her arms at me. Her black hair is pulled back in a tight, side-swept braid and she’s wearing a snug gray cardigan and tiny blue cargo skirt with ruched knee-high black boots—actually, if those heels were any higher, she’d definitely be on the verge of a dress code violation. I look down at my choice of shoes and remember that since I was running late this morning I grabbed the first pair of shoes I could find, which just happened to be my mom’s gray rubber clogs.
Great, just great.
I pull my hair into a low ponytail as I walk over to Zoe’s table, which is occupied by a crew of popular seniors. I take a seat in between her and Jane Gonzales, one of the best-known student-council representatives at Hills Sector High, who manages to squeak out a hello without taking her eyes off her tablet. Zoe doesn’t even bother doing either.
“Have you heard from Patrick today?” she asks.
I hesitate, wondering if Patrick told her what happened between us in Elusion last night. I hope not. I’ve been avoiding all of Patrick’s calls and IMs for a reason. I’m still not sure what to say to him, so how can I explain anything to her?
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“It’s Avery,” Zoe announces, narrowing her dark eyes. “Did you see her latest vlog?”
“No.” In fact, I make it a point to avoid Avery in all forms whenever I can.
“You wouldn’t believe what she said about Orexis and Elusion.”
I reach toward my pocket to grab my tablet, when Zoe places a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t bother. Her whole site is shut down,” she explained. “Everyone is trying to locate the video, but all record of it has been wiped out, including the satellite sites that were streaming it.”
I let out a groan. “What swill is she dishing now?”
“Avery claimed that Orexis was involved in some sort of massive consumer deception. And then she said something about how the people responsible for harming the public wouldn’t ‘escape’ retribution or ‘elude’ justice, which isn’t even clever if you ask me.”
“As if anyone with half a brain would believe her,” I say through clenched teeth. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
“There’s more,” Zoe adds.
“What else?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
Zoe cleared her throat. “She said that there’s an object or something inside the program that’s threatening users’ lives.”