“Were we supposed to start on chapter three?” someone asked in a panicked voice.
“Nope,” Rudd replied as he stepped up to my desk. “We’ve still got another two days on chapter two. We’re just taking a time-out to talk about your research projects.” He reached for my handheld. “Hey, Rory. You’ve got APD, right?”
My mouth went dry. I knew he was asking about my topic, but the way he phrased it stirred the little well of fear at the base of my spine. I hadn’t heard the voice since that moment in the arena, but I kept thinking about it. I was seriously questioning my choice of paper topics, wishing I’d trusted Lux after all. Every time I started reading a journal article or a scholarly paper, the nagging uncertainty would creep back in. I’d catch myself questioning the science, trying to poke holes in the research—which, by the way, was a lot less conclusive than I’d been taught to believe. There were theories about how the elimination of synaptic connections in the frontal lobe could cause auditory hallucinations, but no real proof, a fact that every science textbook—and teacher—I’d ever had had completely glossed over. There were moments when I felt certain that there was more to the Doubt than the research let on. Was this why Lux had steered me away from picking APD as my topic? Did the app somehow know that I’d react like this? That in itself was alarming. Virtually every source I’d found talked about the fact that there were some people who were predisposed to hear the voice and less capable of blocking it out. Was I one of them?
“Rory?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “APD.” Rudd punched a button on his handheld and a new icon appeared on my screen. It was red with the letters DPH in the center and had a little lock symbol at the upper right corner.
“You’ve all been given limited access to the Department of Public Health’s medical records database,” Rudd said as he returned to the front of the room. “Your login has been coded to the research topic you selected, allowing you to review the med records for patients who suffered from the mental illness you’re studying.” He picked up his tablet off his desk and tapped the DPH icon. The app launched on the screen at the front of the room. “Now, I know what some of you are thinking,” he deadpanned as he logged himself in. “You’re hoping this means you’ll be able to prove once and for all that your frenemy is a certified nut job. But, alas, your access is limited to dead crazies, and this particular database is anonymous anyway, which means the only identifying information you’ll have are gender, ethnic origin, and birth and death dates.” He made a face of mock disappointment, and we all laughed.
Once inside the database, Rudd gave us a brief tutorial on how to search by diagnosis and how to filter our results. “The point here is for you to play sleuth. To look for clues as to how the pathology you’re studying affects a patient’s wellness, to find patterns and consistencies among different patients, and to reason through the trajectory from diagnosis to death. What are the pivot points? How could healthcare policy be improved to give sufferers of your illness a better quality of life?”
Seeing how the Doubt had ruined people’s lives would no doubt help silence my inner skeptic. Sign me up.
The girls were already in the dining hall when I got to lunch. Izzy was at the salad bar, studying her screen. “It just says cucumbers,” she said as I walked up. “Does that mean I can have an unlimited amount of them?” She looked at me for the answer. She’d been using Lux to help her diet for the Ball and was a half a pound from her goal.
“I think so?”
“Excellent,” she said, dumping the entire container onto her plate.
I grabbed a tray and slid down the counter. I was scrolling through the ingredients in the Chinese chicken salad when I felt someone beside me.
“You coming to the match tomorrow?” I heard Liam say.
“Uh—” I assumed he was talking about water polo, but it would never have occurred to me to go to a match. I could count the number of sporting events I’d attended in my life on one hand.
Liam saw the look on my face and laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“I’m not much of a sports person,” I said apologetically.
“Well, since you said no to my first question, you’re not allowed to say no to my second one.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, eyeing him with mock suspicion.
“Be my date to the Ball.”
I heard the word ball and for a second I thought he was still talking about water polo.
“Wait, the Masquerade Ball?”
“Is there another one I don’t know about?” he teased. A few seconds passed as I just stood there, too stunned to hold up my end of the conversation. Liam was asking me out? My self-concept wasn’t that bad, but guys like Liam didn’t typically go for girls like me. Then again, my experience with guys like Liam was pretty limited. I glanced past him and saw Hershey at the soup station, watching us.
“Sure,” I said finally. “I’ll go with you.”
Liam grinned.
“Awesome. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As soon as he walked off, Hershey walked over. “What was that about?” she asked, setting her tray down next to mine and reaching for a pair of metal tongs.
“Liam asked me to the Ball,” I blurted out.
“Look at you,” she said, nudging me with her hip. “Are you gonna hook up with him?”
“No! I mean, he just asked me. My brain’s not there yet.”
“Well, put your brain there,” Hershey pressed. “Either you can imagine hooking up with him or you can’t.”
How could I want to hook up with Liam when every time I heard the words hook and up in the same sentence, my brain catapulted to North?
“I guess I can,” I allowed. “Maybe.”
“So you like him.”
“I think he’s a nice guy,” I clarified.
“Don’t mistake calculation for kindness, Rory,” she said, snapping her tongs at my face like a crocodile’s jaw. Then she laughed and slid her tray down the bar.
The Grand Rotunda had been barricaded all week, and when I passed through its doors Saturday night, I understood why. The room’s austere marble surfaces were hidden behind elaborate set pieces that seemed to be growing out of the walls instead of sitting in front of them.
“I can’t get over how incredible you look,” Liam said as he held the door open, his voice echoing inside his lion mask.
“It’s the dress,” I told him. And the fact that my face is completely hidden, I wanted to add. Our masks had been hand-delivered in layers and layers of tissue paper to our dorm rooms on Thursday afternoon. When I saw Hershey’s and mine, I knew I’d been right. They were exactly the masks the society members had worn. But up close they were even more spectacular than they’d appeared to me then. I’d been given a peacock, its elongated beak made of smooth yellow lacquer, with textured white stripes above and below the eyeholes that felt like they were made of leather, and close to a hundred tiny curled feathers on the crown. The fanlike crest of iridescent blue-green feathers was a separate piece, attached with stiff wire to a bejeweled hair comb. Hershey’s jaguar mask was less striking but just as beautiful, with wet-looking black fur that felt like it had come from an actual jungle cat. It was hard to believe these pieces were nearly three hundred years old. Aside from a few small patches of matted fur and one bent feather, the masks were in perfect condition.