Authors: Sara Grant
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General, #Law & Crime, #Science Fiction
Dark Parties (31 page)
He deflates in front of me. Everything that is so strong and confident seems to melt. “I was sent to watch Sanna, to keep
tabs on her.” His voice is barely audible. “But from the moment I met you, I knew you were the one to watch.”
“Me?” It’s too painful to look at him.
He closes the distance between us. There’s nowhere for me to run. “You are the dangerous one.” He brushes the hair off my
face. “You changed everything.”
A glow starts in one of the tunnels, and I can finally see Braydon clearly, every unique detail. He holds my face in his hands.
“I love you, Neva. No matter what happens, never doubt that.”
My anger fades, but my body still twitches with each passing second. Time is running out. I feel a powerful urge to run and
an equal desire to stay with Braydon forever. He kisses me. Tears mix on our lips. Maybe I can stay. Maybe we can be together.
I try to hold on to him, but he wrenches free from my embrace.
“I’ve found her,” he shouts. “She’s over here.” He shoves me away. I stumble but manage to stay on my feet.
Rage. Panic. Fear. Ignite in one hot burst.
The tunnels pulse with the sound of angry feet stomping toward us.
“Go,” he pleads. “Get out of here.”
I run. Somehow. I run.
I glance back. Braydon is running in the opposite direction into one of the smaller tunnels. “She’s right here,” he calls
as he disappears into the darkness.
He has saved me.
I move as fast as my legs will take me, gulping air with every pump of my arms.
The tunnel isn’t straight, and I am bounced from wall to wall. I am going to die in this tunnel. No one will ever know what
happened to me. I will never know what’s out there.
The air around me sizzles. Every hair on my body stands to attention. This can’t be the end. I am too close.
There is a loud pop, and an electric shock passes through me. My back arches. I am thrust forward and slammed to the ground
and into darkness once more.
THIRTY-FIVE
I am erased.
That’s what it feels like. I am nothing but a thought of nothing. I have no edges or shape. I am the darkness.
I try to hover here, to not think or feel, but thoughts and memories start to spark. Then everything comes flooding back.
My life plays in fast-forward and crashes to a halt at this moment.
My eyelids spring open, and I take a huge, lung-filling gulp of air. My skin starts to tingle as feeling returns. The tingle
deepens into a throb, every muscle, every bone hurts.
I am still in the tunnel, but up ahead I can see an archway, glowing with a brilliant white light. Behind me is only darkness.
My parents, Sanna, and Braydon are trapped beyond that black. I am painfully aware of what they’ve sacrificed to help me escape.
Grief casts a long shadow, but I head toward the light.
At first my body resists my brain’s impulse to move, but slowly I’m able to draw myself to all fours. I crawl forward and
then evolve to standing.
As I stagger forward, I am dazzled by the light. I shield my eyes. As I emerge from the tunnel, I blink and the world comes
into focus. A colorful blanket stretches out in front of me. I squint and the details become clear. These individual dots
are people. People of all shapes and sizes and colors.
There is life outside the Protectosphere. Nothing stands between me and the endless horizon. My eyes sting with tears.
I look out over a sea of humanity, searching for a familiar face. I soon realize there are a lot of familiar faces. Some of
the people in the crowd could be my sister, brother, father or mother. Reunions are taking place around me. I am not the only
one who escaped.
I glance back at the Protectosphere. From the outside, its surface isn’t transparent but silvery, sparkling in the sunshine
and reflecting the bright blue sky above.
A beautiful brown woman at the edge of the crowd notices me. She has long curly black hair, not fuzzy like mine, but smooth.
She smiles the most stunning white smile. Is she human or something else, something new from this vast place that seems to
have no beginning or end?
“Oh, my Lord, are you okay?” the woman says to me in a deep voice that dips and springs in a way I’ve never heard before.
“We saw the flash as the force field was electrified again. We didn’t think anyone else made it out.”
I take one step toward her and stumble. She rushes over to help me to my feet. “What…? How…?” is all I can manage to utter.
“They’ve been coming for hours, emerging from the tunnel in twos and threes,” she explains. “The word spread and people from
all over started to gather, wondering if their loved ones made it out. Do you have someone here?”
Oh, I hope so. “My grandma,” I say, finding my voice. “Ruth Adams.”
“Ruth Adams,” the woman calls, and my grandma’s name multiplies in hundreds of voices.
It may be my imagination, but a hush seems to fall over the crowd. What if she’s not here? I couldn’t bear it. A murmur starts
near the back of the crowd and rolls forward.
I move toward the sound. People are welcoming me. I want to study every face; each one is unique. People of different colors
are clinging to each other. I notice some are speaking words I don’t know, a whole language I have never heard before. I walk
more quickly, and the crowd shifts to let me through. I’m bumping and spinning and racing forward. The crowd parts like a
curtain. I hold my breath as a figure steps into the cleared space.
“Grandma?”
Hope gives my heart wings.
Any book is a collaboration. I should probably simply thank everyone I’ve ever met who has inspired me in one way or another,
be it consciously with a word of encouragement or accidentally by sitting next to me in my high school English class, uttering
something intriguing while I was in earshot, or bumping into me on the London Underground.
But a few people deserve special thanks:
My family. They endured my prose and poetry (not to mention my attempts at singing, visual art, and drama) since I was a little
kid and encouraged me every step of the
way. In elementary school, I was asked to write an essay about who I most admire. I picked my parents—and if asked the same
question today, I’d give the same answer. They demonstrate how to live a life with honor, compassion, and a great sense of
humor.
Sara O’Connor and Megan Thie. There would be no
Dark Parties
without Sara and Megan. They were the first people to read the short story that served as the spark for this novel and demanded
to know what happened next. Sara offered endless editorial feedback and words of encouragement. She’s not the “other” Sara,
she’s the original.
Jenny Savill. My heartfelt gratitude to Jenny for plucking me from the slush pile and being a true partner in this process.
Her editorial guidance, patience, and friendship are invaluable. Also thanks to the team at Andrew Nurnberg Associates for
supporting Jenny and me on the roller-coaster ride of publishing.
Alvina Ling and Connie Hsu and the Little, Brown team for believing in
Dark Parties
and challenging me to make it a better book. I would like to thank them for sharing their editorial expertise. I learned
so much from them. But more important, I thank them for taking such great care of this first-time author.
My tutors at Goldsmiths College Creative Writing MA—Maura Dooley, Pamela Johnson, Blake Morrison, and Susan Elderkin—for their
insights and inspiration.
My SCBWI friends on both sides of the Atlantic and all the wonderful writers in my life who continue to inspire, encourage,
and instruct me: Karen Ball, Trish Batey, Ashley
Dartnell, Emily Jeremiah, Vinita Joseph, Carol Katterjohn, Bronia Kita, Elizabeth Mercereau, Jasmine Richards, Kate Scott,
Pete Welling, and Sandra White—with an extra special thanks to Margaret Carey for critiquing the novel at multiple stages
and still asking to read it again.
My grandma. Eternal thanks for her bedtime stories and for always making me feel special.
And, finally, to my husband, Paul. Thanks doesn’t begin to describe the gratitude and love I feel for him. He’s my muse, cheerleader,
and safety net as well as my editor, psychologist, hero, and best friend.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Sara Grant
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2011
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-08594-6