Fated (28 page)

Stare at him until everything dims but his three sets of legs, brownish-red shell of a back, extra long antennae, and the wings that enable him to flit, more than fly.

His antennae twitching before him, discovering the lid is now gone, he moves forward—too fast. Scurrying out of the jar well before we’ve had a chance to properly blend.

I watch, horrified, as he picks up speed, veers out of my stall and into the next, just as someone walks in and takes up residence.

I slide my foot over, attempting to coax him back to my space, only to have the person beside me see my foot invading, and cry, “Excuse me, but
do you mind?
”

She kicks her foot against mine, using way more force than necessary, causing my boot to slam smack into the cockroach so hard I let out an audible gasp. Ignoring the tirade of hateful comments drifting from the next stall, I lift my foot carefully—terrified I’ve inadvertently crunched him, killed him, before I even had a chance to put him to work.

But cockroaches are much tougher than that. There’s a reason they’re one of the oldest surviving groups of insects on earth. Other than having rolled onto its back, it appears in good shape. So I take a deep breath, focus on its frantically writhing body, the three sets of legs spinning in circles in a fight to right itself again—all too aware that the second I merge, I’ll be joining that struggle. But also knowing there’s no way I can risk turning him right side up until I’ve had a chance to join him.

The girl in the next stall flushes and vacates, banging the door so hard, it makes the blue metal walls rumble and shake. Forcing me to bide my time while she visits the sink, the sound of the door closing behind her allowing me to focus on the cockroach, and it’s not long before I’m
in.

I’m alive.

Surging with adrenaline.

A primal fight for survival firing up all of my nerve endings. All I have to do—all
we
have to do—is right ourselves again.

The longer we remain belly-up, the more this overwhelming feeling of panic kicks in. Knowing that’s only going to waste much needed energy, I drive into him harder—mixing my will to live with his primal fight to survive. Pushing his legs even faster—like a cockroach on steroids—until I manage to flip him over and land smack on the belly. The antennae twitching, scoping, until it locates the side of the jar, equates it with danger, and sprints for the opposite wall. Instinctively seeking the place where it’s darkest—and that’s when I remember that cockroaches are true creatures of the dark—they live in it, hunt in it, doing whatever it takes to shun the light and remain undetected.

Paloma knew exactly what she was doing when she chose him for me to merge into.

For something so reviled—so hated, abhorred, even feared—I’m amazed by how very powerful I feel now that I’ve joined him. I’m like a tiny, commanding tank, trekking my way across a vast expanse of gray-tiled bathroom floor that, from this perspective, seems to go on forever.

I pick my way around a crumpled paper towel that fell short of the bin and pause in the corner, body still, antennae twitching, trying to determine if I can sneak under the door or if I have to wait for someone to open it. Determining it’s too close to the ground to chance, I’m left with no choice but to wait. So I squeeze into the corner, hoping that soon, someone will push their way in, so I can seize the moment to sneak out.

The door opens, banging so hard against the wall I cram into the corner and give silent thanks for the little rubber stopper that keeps it from doing any real damage. Watching as a pair of knee-high black boots, pointy-toed red flats, and sky-high silver stilettos walk in—trying to determine just the right moment to make my move when I realize the shoes belong to Lita and the Cruel Crew. And from what I can tell, they’re discussing me.

“What’s up with that jacket she wears?” the girl with the bright pink lips says, who, according to Xotichl, is either Jacy or Crickett, though I’m not sure which is which.

“Seriously,” the other one echoes, the one with the best blond highlights of the bunch. “What’s up with
all
of it?” she adds, looking to Lita for approval—they both do.

I glance between the door and them—it’s closing but is still open enough to provide an easy escape. If I make a run for it
right now,
there’s no way they’ll notice me and I’ll be well on my way.

I’m just about to do exactly that when Lita heads for the mirror, stands right before it, and says, “I don’t know…”

The door’s closing—one second more and I’ll have to wait ’til they leave.

I start to move, start to make a run for it, my legs short, spindly, but powerful nonetheless, propelling me forward faster than I ever would’ve imagined. But just as I’ve reached it, pink lips heads for my stall—the one the real me is currently occupying—as opposed to the obviously empty one right beside it with the door hanging wide open.

I freeze. Unable to risk it. If she somehow manages to push her way in, if the lock I double-checked somehow fails, she will catch me slumped over the toilet seat—my body present, my consciousness in limbo—and I will never live it down.

I slip back to my corner, it’s the only thing I can do. Antennae twitching with frustration when she finally gives up and claims a vacant stall, just as the bathroom door closes—my perfect chance for escape now lost.

Except it’s not.

Not entirely.

Not for something as small as a cockroach.

That same paper towel I avoided before must’ve been inadvertently kicked by one of their heels, as it’s now firmly lodged between the door frame and the door. Leaving a crack just wide enough for me to slip through and get on with the job Paloma sent me to do.

I creep toward it. Keeping a close eye on Lita still standing before the mirror, cupping a hand around each breast, heaving them higher into her bra, as she smiles seductively at her own reflection, and says, “Take
that,
Cade Richter.”

She rubs her lips together, fluffs her hair around her shoulders, and when she twists her head from side to side so she can verify just how pretty she is, I can’t help but agree. I mean, she could certainly learn a thing or two from Jennika on the proper application of eyeliner—and the highlights could definitely be a lot better—but she’s still pretty. And no matter how awful she’s been to me, it breaks my heart that she’s so willing to waste that beauty on Cade.

I’m so engrossed in my thoughts, it takes a minute to register when she says, “Anyway … I think her boots are kind of cool.” Returning to a conversation I was sure had already ended.

Her statement causing pink lips to cough in her stall—as the other one gapes at the sink beside Lita’s, striving to adjust to this new way of seeing me. Quickly recovering when she says, “Yeah, and her jeans are cool too.” Shooting Lita a sidelong glance, eager to get a jump-start on agreeing with her before pink lips has a chance to bang out of the stall.

Lita rolls her eyes as though she’s sick of being surrounded by suck-ups, even though it’s obvious she wouldn’t have it any other way. Sighing deeply as she says, “I’m talking about
the boots.
The jeans are
common.
But the
boots
…”

Common if you buy all your clothes in Europe!
I start to say. Until I realize I can’t.

I’m a cockroach.

A cockroach with a mission.

I have no business caring about this kind of nonsense.

“I’m so glad you said that,” pink lips says, taking her place on the other side of Lita. “Because all this time I’ve been secretly thinking they were awesome.”

Oh, brother.
I creep forward, eager to get out of here before it gets any worse.

Glancing toward the mirror to see Lita roll her eyes, shake her head, and say, “Jacy …
really
…”

“What? It’s true. I totally did!” pink lips/Jacy says.

“Whatever.” Lita sighs. “It’s just—do you have to agree with
everything
I say?” She snaps her bag shut, hikes it high onto her shoulder, and makes to leave.

But I need to leave first. I’ve seen more than enough of the inner workings of their clique, and now I need to get out while I can.

I crawl toward the door. Unwilling to use my wings, knowing it’ll attract too much notice, I begin scaling the crumpled paper towel that holds the door open, which, from my new, low-to-the-ground perspective, may as well be Everest.

Having just made it to the summit, when Jacy falls in place behind Lita, causing Lita to heave a great sigh, boost the door open, and say, “Please—after
you,
” in the most sarcastic voice she can manage. And all it takes is the reshuffling of feet just behind me, along with the careless kick of Jacy’s red pointy shoes spiking my back end, to force me off the paper towel mountain and send me flying out of the bathroom and into the club.

My body grazing the pant legs of more unsuspecting clubgoers than I can count. Veering wildly out of control but trying not to panic, since panic will only result in a lost connection—until I land with the kind of heavy, unexpected thud that reverberates throughout me.

I’m stunned. Watching as an army of shoes stomp all around, and knowing I can’t just sit here like the universally hated target I am, I start moving. Making slow, cautious progress until the band takes a break and the journey becomes increasingly perilous when the same crowd that swarmed the stage, now suddenly leaves the stage in search of the bathrooms, a drink, and each other.

Heels slam down all around me until I can’t decide which is scarier—the spiky tip of a stiletto or the heavy, rubber tread of a boot?

In a desperate fit to survive, I wind up the wings on my back and propel myself from shoe to shoe, pant leg to skirt hem, until I’m in the clear. Then I make for the wall, clinging to the shadows, until I’m free of the busier part of the club and into that weird hall of corridors, where I make for the office I visited last time I was here.

I pause by the door, watching as Cade perches on the edge of a desk, flipping a baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The sound of wood slapping, dull and continuous, as another man, a man who’s clearly older and most likely related, talks to him about something that, though I can’t quite make it out, has clearly captured Cade’s interest.

I sneak closer, straining to hear, but before I can glean much of anything, Marliz appears. The sight of her causing Cade to abandon the bat and slip out, as Marliz approaches the desk. Her face slack, eyes resigned, loosening her apron strings as the man tilts his chair away from his desk, and growls, “Close the door.”

I steel myself against the force of the slamming door, watching as Cade makes his way down the hall, pausing briefly to light a cigarette despite the fact that he fails to smoke it past the initial drag. He just waves it around—the tip sparking, flaring, as a blizzard of ashes drift to the ground. Unknowingly leading me down a series of halls so confusing I take note of all manner of landmarks so I can find my way back.

There’s a gum wrapper on the ground, just before the door with the chipped paint near the bottom, that looks like the shape of a heart. A real heart—the kind with aortas, and ventricles, and arteries—as opposed to the Hallmark kind.

There’s a squashed cigarette butt in the corner where the wall is warped and bubbled in a way that could be the result of water damage.

But while I’m off to a good start, it’s not long before there are so many doors, so many hallways, so many little bits of debris to keep track of, I completely lose count. So I tell myself it’s not my concern what becomes of this cockroach when I’m finished with him. From the looks of things, I’ve done him a huge favor by leading him to an area where the carpet is crusted with a wide assortment of his most favored treats. Bits of hair, flakes of dried skin, an unlimited supply of unidentifiable small greasy things that just the mere thought of prompts his instincts to kick in. Making him hungry enough to try to turn around so he can go hunt some of that down. And it’s all I can do to convince him to work past it, to get back to what I need him to do.

I pick up the pace, sneaking dangerously close to Cade’s heels but feeling pretty good about the move until he stops without warning and I slam so hard into the back of his big brown boot, it takes a moment to reorient myself.

I’m just about to scramble backward in a bid to keep a safer distance between us, when I realize we’re here.

Watching as Cade waves the smoldering tip of his cigarette before what at first appears to be a large blank wall—but that’s before I remember Paloma’s advice and train my focus on the invisible, the unknown—coaxing it into my immediate field of consciousness—and it’s not long before that brick wall has morphed into something entirely different.

And all I can think as I gaze at it wide-eyed is that Paloma was right.

The portal looks nothing like I would’ve imagined.

thirty-five

Cade stops. Stiffens. His spine straightening, head tilting as though he senses something out of place—something out of the ordinary.

Could it be me?

He turns a slow circle, head swiveling from side to side, gaze running the length of the hall. And when he lowers his gaze to the ground where I wait, I take my chances, spread my wings, and flit toward his pant leg. Assuring myself I can easily extricate my way out of the situation if necessary—all I have to do is sever the bond and I’ll find myself right back in the bathroom, no worse for the wear.

Though I’m not sure I believe it.

I’m in deep.

Maybe too deep.

It’s as though the cockroach and I are now one.

I cling to the hem of Cade’s jeans, keeping silent and still while he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and moves forward again. Then I scurry up the back of his leg where I stop at his waistband and sneak halfway into his belt loop, hoping for a more secure ride and a much better view.

My eyes dart like crazy, taking note of all the details—ugly, greenish/gray industrial carpet, hideous white walls that have seen so much tobacco smoke waved before them they’re streaked a dull yellow/brown. Desperate to find something that sets it apart from all the other hallways I’ve seen but coming up empty. No wonder most Seekers couldn’t find it—it’s something extraordinary hidden well within the confines of the painfully ordinary.