FIVE
I REPORT TO KELLER HIGH SCHOOL AT EIGHT SHARP. Amid the packet of information from Pollock were the bolded instructions to arrive at eight and depart at three in order to avoid fraternizing with the general population. My first clue that even at Keller things were going to get worse.
Although it’s hard to imagine that. After Zac left yesterday, it took me a long time to pick myself up and go back inside. Even longer for the tears to stop. The tight, aching twist in my chest still hasn’t stopped.
My phone sat quietly on my nightstand all night. I had hoped Zac would call after he had time to process. No call. Not even a ring from Tori. I could only guess that Zac told her. Or he told someone who then told her. It only takes one person to get gossip rolling. Davy Hamilton is a killer. That kind of gossip would be too juicy to keep quiet.
I shake loose the crippling thoughts and focus on getting through this first day.
The building is gray—from the outside brick to the flat carpet and chipping paint inside. Idly, I wonder if gray is the school color. It’s doubtful I’ll be attending any pep rallies to find out.
We enter the office and get behind a student waiting for a tardy slip to class. The secretary’s smile slips from her face when Mom tells her who we are. Humming lightly under my breath, I scan the office as they talk. A student aide gawks at me as she staples papers together behind a desk.
I arch an eyebrow at her and she quickly looks away.
Mom signs her name to a few papers, not even pausing to read anything. It’s like she can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Here’s your ID. Wear it at all times.” The receptionist slides a neon-orange tag across the counter that already bears the picture Pollock took of me yesterday. I take it and loop it around my neck.
“The orange identifies your carrier status,” she announces, loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. A woman on the phone in the corner stops talking and stares.
The secretary nods with approval at the ID dangling in front of my chest, letting me know I have no chance of staying under the radar. I glance at the student aide. Her badge is white. Yeah. No chance.
My eyes burn. I blink back tears, refusing to cry, refusing to let this small thing break me. I’ve been through worse than this in the last forty-eight hours.
She continues, “The counselor, Mr. Tucci, will take you to the”—the secretary pauses, catching herself and correcting whatever it was she was going to say—“your classroom.”
Mom faces me.
I stare at her, hollow inside, nothing there except the lyrics of an old Beatles song: Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better. It doesn’t help much because I want to grab her and hold her and beg her not to leave me here, but it won’t do any good. She’s shut herself off. Her eyes are dull—like she’s beyond feeling anything.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Have a good day, Davy.”
Like that’s possible. I nod and watch her walk away. Leave me in this strange, horrible place.
“Sit there.” The secretary directs me to a chair against the wall. “Mr. Tucci will be with you soon.”
Hugging my sack lunch, I drop into the seat, not bothering to slide off my backpack. A sack lunch is another requirement. Carriers aren’t allowed to eat anything from the cafeteria. Too much chance of mingling with the general population. I sit at the edge of the seat, my body taut, waiting, watching as people come and go through the office.
It’s nine thirty before Mr. Tucci appears. The secretary murmurs something to him and motions in my direction. He advances on me, sizing me up with a mild expression. I stare back. He’s dressed well in a pressed polo and slacks. Something my dad would never wear to work, but still.
“Welcome to Keller, Ms. Hamilton.” He extends his hand for me to shake. I stare at it for a moment, thinking he’s joking. He can’t want to touch me.
His expression softens. “I know this is hard, but if you stay out of trouble, you can finish out your senior year here with no fuss.” Leaning down, he whispers for my ears alone. “Prove them wrong.”
A ragged sigh escapes me. His words remind me of Mitchell and for a flash of a second I don’t feel so alone. Prove them wrong. A lump forms in my throat at the unexpected kindness of this man. Maybe it won’t be so terrible here after all.
A moment passes before I nod, fighting the lump down in my throat. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He smiles broadly. “Follow me.”
He leads me from the office and down a deserted hall. We pass lockers. Teachers’ voices drift from inside the classrooms. His shoes clack over the linoleum floor. We descend a set of stairs and walk until it feels like we’re in the very bowels of the school. We are long past any classrooms. We pass the gym. The stink of the weight room greets me well before we pass its open doors. A quick glance reveals a few sweaty guys working out inside.
There are no windows. No sunlight. Just the buzz of a fluorescent bulb every few feet. I see that the wide corridor dead-ends ahead.
My pulse skitters nervously. “Where are we going?”
He shoots me a disarming smile. Instead of answering, he says, “There are five others. Like you. You won’t be alone.”
I swallow. He means five other HTS carriers. And me. Until graduation. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer to be alone.
“You’ll get to know them well, I’m sure.”
Before the end of the corridor, he turns left and stops before a set of steel double doors and pulls out his keys. Unlocking the right side door, he steps inside. I follow, but don’t go much farther. The space is too small, occupied by a single desk. A teacher sits there, reading a magazine. He’s young, looks barely out of college. He quickly stands when he sees us, dropping his magazine.
“Ah, Mr. Tucci. Good morning. Is this the new one?” He nods in my direction, tugging on his waistband as though his wind pants need adjustment.
“Yes, Mr. Brockman, this is Ms. Hamilton. I’m sure you’ll show her the ropes.”
Mr. Brockman looks me over, his gaze crawling, and I suddenly feel exposed before him. “Not a problem, not a problem,” he says.
I cross my arms. As if that might help to shield me from his measuring look.
“Very good.” With another smile for me, Mr. Tucci departs. I wince as the heavy steel door clangs after him.
And I’m left with Mr. Brockman and the others, HTS carriers whose stares I feel boring into me.
Mr. Brockman motions behind him. “Welcome to the Cage.”
“The Cage?” I echo.
He chuckles. “Yep. That’s what the kids call it. The name kind of stuck. Even the staff calls it that now.” He nods to the wall of chain link behind his desk.
It makes terrifying sense. What better way to remove us from the general population than to stick us down here with only ourselves for company? And beyond isolation . . . we’re confined.
“The Cage” consists of chain link stretching from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the chain link there are about ten desks. Only four students occupy the desks, all staring at me with varying expressions. Maybe Mr. Tucci was wrong about the number. Or maybe number five has done something bad and is in jail.
Immediately, I see that the gate-like door is the only way in or out. Mr. Brockman moves to open it. “It’ll take them a while to round up your assignments. You’ll just have to amuse yourself for today.”
The door squeaks as he pulls it open.
I pause at the entrance, reluctant to move inside, to take the first step that will officially make me one of them. I look back at him, unnerved at how close he’s standing beside me, still looking me over in a way that makes me feel like a piece of meat.
“So you don’t actually teach us?” I ask for clarification, scanning his attire. He looks more like someone on his way to the gym than a real teacher.
He chuckles. “No. Call me a glorified babysitter. I started as a part-time sub, but they hired me full-time last year. I just turn your work in to your teachers on the outside.”
On the outside. Teachers I’ll never even meet. I realize this now.
I peer inside the Cage, eyeing the others. Three boys and one girl. She’s no longer looking at me, concentrating instead on carving something into the desk with her pen.
“That’s Coco.” He takes one more step, bringing his body closer. The soft bulge of his stomach presses against my arm. “Bet she’ll be glad for some female company. Just been her in here with the boys since last year.”
There’s something in his voice that makes the tiny hairs on my nape prickle, and suddenly I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: the Cage and the supposed killers inside—or Mr. Brockman on the outside.
“Course you don’t have to go in just yet.” His voice falls close to my ear. “If you want you can stay out here a bit with me.”
Then I know what frightens me more. At least right now, in this moment, the answer is clear.
In the Cage, I notice Coco’s pen holds still. Her attention remains fixed on her desk, but I know she’s attuned to me. To Brockman. Her alertness reaches me, folds into my own veil of awareness.
Squaring my shoulders, I step inside the Cage.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................
* * *
Office of the Attorney General
Department of Justice Order No: 3109-09
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By virtue of the authority assigned to me as attorney general, I, Samantha Jinks, hereby direct that all United States citizens be tested for Homicidal Tendency Syndrome, otherwise known as HTS, within thirty days of the issuance of this command. Persons who fail to comply will be taken into custody where they will submit to HTS testing standards accorded within their own locality. . . .