Chasing Before Page 6

  Neil and I are alone for the first time since we’ve arrived in Level Three.

  “Come here.” He scoots over against the headboard on his narrow bed to make space for me, wincing a bit as he does. He lifts his arm, and I tuck in next to him carefully. I melt into his side and lay my head on his shoulder. He might be safer without me, but he makes me feel safe.

  Neil sighs into my hair. He runs his fingertips lightly over my wrist and then up my bare arm. It tickles, but in a good way. I bury my face into his shirt and breathe the scent of soap mixed with smoke.

  “You almost died,” I half sob into his chest. “If I had known Level Three would be so dangerous . . . Maybe we should have stayed in Level Two.”

  Neil shifts his position and draws me deeper into a hug. He tilts my face up and kisses my forehead. “We can get through this. We have each other.”

  “That’s why we should share a room. I don’t want there to be two doors and a hallway between us. I’ll constantly worry about you. Won’t you worry about me?”

  Neil looks pained, and I can tell my words have caused a conflict within him. “I want you to stay. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I wouldn’t have felt right about living with you on Earth.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “How can I feel right about it here?”

  I pull away from him. “In case you haven’t noticed, the afterlife is not exactly what church taught it would be,” I huff. “The morality police will hardly come knock your door down.”

  “Probably not. But even when there are no outside rules, you have to decide inside what’s right. And I’m still trying to figure it all out. That’s all.”

  “What if we materialize bunk beds?” Even as I say it, I know it’s not going to fly.

  He shakes his head, confirming my suspicions.

  “I guess I can wait.” I kiss his cheek tenderly, even though the rigidity of his belief system annoys me. I get up and smooth my dress, materializing clean fabric in place of the blood and filth as I do. “You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll go to my room and let you rest.”

  “I didn’t mean you have to leave right now!” He reaches for me, but I sidestep his grasp. He shoves out his bottom lip, and everything about him—the mussed curls sticking to his ears, his torn shirt and soot-blackened khakis—begs for me to lie down next to him and forget that he’s pushing me away.

  “Hey now, you’re the one who insisted we get separate rooms.” I try to keep my voice light.

  “Oh yeah,” he says with a lopsided grin. “That wasn’t my smartest move ever, was it?”

  I laugh and tap his arm with my fist. “Nope. Are you changing your mind?”

  “I want to—” He catches my wrist, entwines his fingers with mine. He lies down and presses his cheek against the sheet.

  “But you can’t,” I finish for him. He doesn’t deny it, and my last bit of hope dies as he closes his eyes. His grip loosens, like he’s fallen asleep.

  I watch him resting for a few moments, caressing his arm lightly with my fingernails, dreading the return to my own practically empty quarters. But if Neil needs time to get used to the idea of rooming together, I should give it to him.

  I trudge across the hall to my room. My dad’s chair is still here, but I push it into a corner. Then I form a simple bed. To cheer myself up I choose for the sheets and pillowcases a bright shade of Granny Smith–apple green that I admired in a department store once. I conjure up coordinating heavy drapes to cover the window. Back on Earth it always made me uncomfortable to sleep if I was exposed to the outside. Then I lie down and stare up. It should be too dark to see. I’m inside, the drapes are closed, and there are no artificial lights. There’s no electricity anywhere. But I can still see. I guess seeing in the dark is a perk of the afterlife I never noticed in Level Two because everything was too bright.

  The hum that warns me of the Morati’s presence is a steady, low background noise to my whirring thoughts. Why is Gracie so important to Neil? Will he ever let me room with him? How can I get my memories back? Does Neil want to retrieve them as much as I do? And will we survive long enough to even have the chance to see more?

  I sigh in frustration, turning my head to the blank expanse of white wall next to me. After being in the Level Two hives for so long, I can’t stand the color white. I leap up off the bed. I will recreate the collage of photos I had up over my desk back in Germany.

  There was a family shot in the center of my arrangement, and I can see clearly in my mind how my dad has his arm around me and is laughing so hard, his eyes are almost closed. My head tilts toward him, my eyes focused on the photographer. My mother’s mouth is open, answering someone’s question probably, her attention on anything but us, as usual. I materialize the print into my hand, and it seems pretty close to the original, with its glossy sheen and bright patriotic colors, even if it is merely a copy. Then I materialize a thumbtack and pin it to the wall.

  Next I pin up photos of Autumn and me. My favorite is still the one where we dressed up as mermaids in the middle of August. We went door-to-door telling the neighbors we needed candy for our trip to visit the sea king, and my dad took a Polaroid of us when we returned from our scavenging with purple-stained lips and sticky hands. I also love the candid shot of us at the Blue Lagoon in Iceland, our heads close together like we’re sharing a secret.

  I don’t have many photos of Neil. For someone who was so comfortable on the stage, Neil didn’t like to pose. I did clip one from the newspaper, from the article about his performance in Our Town where he’s kneeling at Emily’s grave. There were a few on Neil’s phone, but you can’t materialize electronics here. Grammy snapped one before prom with her old camera, and I took arty photos of her rosebushes to finish off the roll so I could get them developed. The resulting print was a bit crinkled because I used it as a bookmark. I’d pore over it for hours, admiring the way Neil looked in a suit and tie. I pin it next to the one of my family and trace my finger over his crooked smile.

  By the end of the night, one wall is completely covered with photos and mementos. If the Morati make me disappear from this dimension, at least part of me will be left behind.

  eight

  BELLS SOUND, signaling what I assume is the start of my second day in Level Three. I don’t want to wear this sunny yellow dress when everything is falling apart around me. I materialize jeans and a plain black T-shirt, but black belongs to the seraphim guard. Instead I decide on a pale pink blouse with scalloped sleeves. Neutrality sounds good right now.

  I go across the hall to Neil’s room and knock. Hearing a muffled voice but not catching the words, I take for granted that Neil is inviting me in. I push open the door. Libby sits in the chair Kiara used last night, and Neil is on the edge of his bed. All his injuries seem to have healed, and he has also changed into a fresh orange polo shirt.

  “Good morning, Felicia.” Libby gets up. “I’m on my way out.”

  “Thanks, Libby.” Neil rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll think about what you said.”

  “You do that. Remember, the best thing we can do right now is stick to our routines so everything seems back to normal. Everyone should be in class today. No exceptions.” Then she shuts the door firmly behind her.

  “Did the bells wake you?” Neil bounds over and squishes me into a hug. I’m struck, all over again, by the easy way we fit together.

  “No, I was up all night. I was thinking, with the Morati out there, and the bombings . . . maybe we should skip class and stay here. Maybe it would be safer.”

  “You heard what Libby said.” Neil hugs me more tightly. “And besides, all we can do is stay vigilant. If the Morati want to find us, what’s preventing them from coming to our rooms?”

  He’s right. I could ask Autumn to assign us a security detail. It wouldn’t be effective against a bomb, though. Or we could materialize force fields and walk around with those. But that wouldn’t work either. We’d tire out in less than five minutes.


  “I have something for you.” He practically skips over to his desk and opens the top drawer. He pulls out a long, flat box and hands it to me. “Birthday gift number two.”

  I pull the lid from the box and find a mini Maglite, like the one Neil was carrying on the night of our first kiss in the forest.

  “It doesn’t work here,” he says, “but it reminds me of one of the happiest days of my life, so I thought you might like to have it anyway.”

  I place the package on Neil’s bed and lean into his waiting lips, closing my eyes and picturing the looming trees and the way the light bounced through the darkness. I let the memory of that faraway kiss wash over me, intensifying the closeness of this moment.

  Neil’s door creaks open. “Ready to go?” Autumn calls from the doorway. Neil releases me from his embrace but laces his fingers through mine.

  “Ready.” Neil says it more convincingly than I could right now.

  “Muse orientation meets in Hall One,” Autumn says.

  The trek to Hall One is short. We join a stream of other students on the way to their classes, over the avenue and through the grassy courtyard where Neil nearly died yesterday. Neil tenses as we walk past the spot where he fell, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s none of the chatting and joking we saw yesterday. Instead people hurry with their heads down and their shoulders hunched.

  Autumn leads us into Hall One and into a corridor with a row of orange doors, each a richer hue than the last. She stops in front of the first one, painted an orange as pale as the first tinges of sunset. “This is where they hold orientation. Miss Claypool will call everyone in soon. I’d wait with you, but I have to make sure everyone goes to class.” She gives me a quick hug and leaves.

  Neil and I wait with a group of about thirty other applicants. He retrieves the brochure from his back pocket and pores over it, like there’s going to be a pop quiz or something.

  “I wonder when they’ll finally let us in,” says a male voice beside us.

  When I turn, the guy smiles ruefully at me. He looks like he’s in one of those hipster rock bands, with longish dark hair that falls over one eye, a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt, and skinny jeans slung low on his hips. The awkward way he stands, though—sort of like a junior high kid who isn’t comfortable with his height yet—makes me think he’d be the bassist rather than the lead singer.

  Something about his manner sets me at ease. “Well, until they do, at least we can read over this amazing brochure.” I elbow Neil in the side.

  “I’m Moby. Nice to meet you.” He tosses the hair out of his eye and sticks out his hand.

  Both Neil and I look at his hand awkwardly and mumble our names. Then, hoping I don’t piss him off, I say, “Uh, I think it’s the custom to bow here. Shaking hands is too intimate because you might slip up and let the other person look at your memories.”

  Moby shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, pulling them down dangerously low. “Makes sense. Do you know anyone else in the muse program?”

  “We used to,” Neil says. A haunted look comes over his face. “Her name was Megan. She played the tuba, and made animal sculptures out of grass. But she died in the bombing.”

  With the side of his black boot, Moby kicks at the baseboard that runs along the hallway. “I also lost someone. He was this strung-out roadie who used to work our shows. I don’t know anyone else here.”

  I guess I was right about Moby being in a band. “Now you know us.” He seems nice, and obviously he could use some friends.

  Moby nods. “God, I wish I had a cigarette. Maybe I could materialize one. But it’s not the same.” So far I haven’t seen anyone smoking. I’m not sure it’s even possible.

  Neil looks at him curiously. “Did you consider other afterlife positions, other than muse?”

  “Not really. I thought with my background . . .” He trails off.

  “Yeah.” Neil points out a section at the top of the second page of the brochure. “But I’ve been thinking that healer might also be interesting.” He reads aloud from the brochure. “Healers tend to the perceived physical wounds of recruits who are still adjusting to afterlife physiology, as well as provide psychological counseling. Prerequisites include: one, honesty and integrity; two, demonstrated compassion; and three, agreement to a strict adherence to healer-patient confidentiality.”

  The scene in Neil’s bedroom last night flashes before my eyes. I’m grateful for the healer’s work, but I don’t want him to be one, or to be one myself. “If we joined the healers, you’d likely end up with Nate on your couch. He’s messed up enough to need counseling.” This statement earns me a dimpled smile from Neil, so I snatch the brochure. “Let’s see what else there is.”

  I scan the text for another alternative. “Listen to this. Seraphim guards are part of an elite force that performs highly secretive and sensitive missions. Prerequisites include: one, a strong mind; two, a highly developed sense of loyalty; and three, ability to follow orders.” I materialize a highlighter and mark prerequisite one with fluorescent green. “Kiara said you have a strong mind, Neil,” I say pointedly.

  Moby whistles under his breath. “Seems like a sweet gig. Bet you have to be as tough as nails to get through that training.”

  The door opens, revealing a woman in a high-necked black dress with an orange lace overlay. She looks like she stepped out of Victorian England by way of a Halloween jack-o’-lantern. Her gray hair is streaked with orange too. “Come in, come in.” She waves her arms. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  The room is a typical lecture hall, with benches arranged to face a lectern and chalkboard. We all find a place to sit and murmur expectantly as our teacher writes her name—“Miss Claypool”—on the board with orange chalk.

  She tilts her head upward, raising her fingers toward the ceiling. “Repeat after me: We invoke thee, oh patron muse.”

  We repeat the muse slogan after her, like a chant: “We invoke thee, oh patron muse.”

  “Today I will introduce you to the art of being a muse. It’s more than merely a job; it’s a profession that will allow you to truly suck the marrow out of your afterlife,” Miss Claypool says.

  Neil scoots closer to me on the bench so that our shoulders touch. I shift my weight toward him. What would he consider would be getting the most out of his afterlife? Does he long to restore his lost memories as much as I do? We haven’t gotten the chance to talk about it yet.

  “To become a muse you will attend training sessions. At the end of the term, those who have earned enough credits, who excel at their audition in their chosen track, and who pass their detachment test will apprentice with career muses on their missions to Earth.”

  A girl raises her hand but asks her question before being called on. “What’s the detachment test for?”

  “Muses can be tempted to go rogue,” Miss Claypool explains. “A muse’s job is to inspire or help with memorization of text. But sometimes muses might feel the urge to give more story to their own lives or to right perceived wrongs. And to do this they might convince a writer to add them as a character to their movie or novel. The detachment test minimizes that risk.”

  It’s not that I want to add more story to my life—it’s that I want to know how my story continued after the car accident. It seems unfair that my natural curiosity might put me at risk for failing the detachment test.

  Miss Claypool outlines what will be expected of us. She reveals that the course work consists of cultural immersion, for which we will have access to a curated collection of memory editions, which are readings of books or viewings of movies and art from the memories of people who experienced them on Earth.

  This captures my full attention. “How do you get all the memories into the collection?” I ask. “Wouldn’t the person who donates the memory edition have to be hooked up to the library for you to access it?” That’s how it worked in Level Two. In order to rent a memory from someone else, that person’s hive had to be part of the network. That’s why I could
never find Neil’s memories, since his hive was isolated.

  “Not at all,” Miss Claypool says. “When a work is deemed worthy for inclusion, the memory holder allows it to be voluntarily harvested for the good of the program.”

  “But don’t they lose it, then?” Neil asks.

  “Not exactly. They can come back to the library and refresh their short-term memories with the material anytime they want. And when they retire, they can petition to have it returned to them in full. Once you get a library card, you can plug yourself in to access the memory editions.”

  That makes it sound like there is a way for human memories to be taken and packaged. Maybe that’s what happened to my lost memories and to Neil’s. If those memories are sitting around in someone’s collection, though, I can’t imagine why ours were chosen. Of course, it’s also possible that the memories still exist in our heads somewhere, waiting to be unlocked.

  The orientation goes on for hours and hours. At the end of our class, Miss Claypool hands out a workbook to everyone and tells us that we can skip class tomorrow if we’d like to check out the career fair. I want to ask her more about the memory extraction process, but my classmates mob her with questions, and Neil nudges me out the door.

  Neil takes my hand and we start walking back to the dorms, Moby beside us. While crossing Eastern Avenue, my neck prickles, like someone’s watching me. But when I turn, no one is looking my way. In fact, the few stragglers out at this time seem to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone and curling into themselves to be as inconspicuous as possible. Still, I can’t shake the feeling, and I shudder.

  “What is it?” Neil asks, jumping behind me like a shield. He plants his feet wide, as if bracing for another attack. Moby goes on high alert too, scanning the rooftops of the row of buildings we just left. I guess we’re all a bit jumpy right now.

  “Nothing,” I say. If I make a big deal out of it, I’ll freak myself out. “How was it to go on tour, Moby?”

  Moby relaxes and launches into a story about his tour bus breaking down. He might look like your typical mysterious loner dude, but it turns out he’s quite the entertainer. He continues to regale us with self-deprecating anecdotes from his life on the road, and we find ourselves slowing our pace to snail speed to avoid parting ways.