Hunted (4 page)

I look away from Becca again to let her think she’s smarter, harder, than me.

Rachel’s looking at me with hungry-dog eyes
. . . . god,
she’s not just cute, she’s nice, too. Why does she have to be
straight?. . .

“Come on,” I say to her, and shove through the heavy school doors.

45

CHAPTER 6

Thoughts rush at me, skewering my mind with jagged noise. Why do Normals have to be so loud? I focus on the sickly looking yellow-green lockers, the beat-up white-and-gray-speckled linoleum tiles, and the flickering fluorescent lights to ground myself, and the mind-noise retreats to a buzz.

Rachel turns to me, her face serious. “Look—uh—

there’s something I need to tell you.”
. . . queer . . . lesbian

. . . no, queer . . .

We walk together, ignoring the slamming lockers, the students shouting, laughing, yelling. I try to look encouraging. I wish I could tell her that we actually have a lot in common. We both get judged or hated just for being who we are.

Rachel blows out her breath, her bangs fanning her forehead. “Okay. I’ll just say it. I’m queer. I’m not going to hit on you or anything like that, but I thought you should know, in case you got a problem with it.”

“Nope, no problem—as long as you’re okay that I’m straight.”

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Rachel snorts. “I thought you would be. You still wanna hang out?”

“Of course.” I can’t believe she’s asking me that. But then, she doesn’t know that I’m a Para.

Rachel smiles at me, her cheeks flushed.
. . . why
couldn’t she be queer? . . .
“So—where’re you from?”

“All over. My mom and I—we’ve moved a lot.”

“Army position?”

“No. My mom—she just doesn’t like to stay in one place too long. Not since my dad died.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, touching my arm.

Jumbled thoughts and emotions burst through me. I catch a glimpse of her dad—red cheeked, broad shouldered, smiling, and then staring out a window, gray faced, eyes bleak and weary.

I move my arm away, then reach up to scratch my nose, trying to make it look like that’s what I meant to do.

I wish for relief, for anything to stop the noise in my head.

“Is there a swim team here?”

Rachel blinks and the images fade. “Sure. They practice every day after school, but it’s so late in the year, I’m not sure there’d be any positions open.”

“No, but maybe I can swim a few laps.”

“I can take you around after school, if you like. My brother’s on the team.”

“That’d be great!” I smile at her—a real smile. I’m starting to like her, though I don’t want to. No attachments.

It’ll just make it harder when we move on.

A huge ParaWatch poster scowls at us from the wall.

47

Cheryl Rainfield

It’s double the size of the regulation poster, the text fresh-blood-red on nighttime black.

PARAS THREATEN US ALL. DO YOUR DUTY—REPORT A PARA. REWARDS GIVEN FOR ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO AN

ARREST.

It’s worse than the last town we stayed at. So many more posters. My breath shudders in my throat.

Rachel follows my gaze. “We’re not all that dogmatic.

Mr. Temple encourages the ParaWatch groupies.”

“Mr. Temple?”

“The principal. He’s a real bigot.” An image of the man with the balding head flits into my mind—the man who made my skin crawl.

Rachel looks at me out of the corners of her eyes.

“He’s racist, sexist, homophobic—and, of course, a Para-hater.”

I blink. She’s a Para-supporter! I knew I felt good about her.

. . . lookit that big lesbo and the new girl trash . . .

going to take her down a notch . . .

The venom in the thoughts is so strong it almost snaps my head back.

I tug Rachel around so we’re half facing Becca.

“That’s so cool that the school wants to start a gay-straight alliance,” I say loudly.

“Uh—yeah?” Rachel says, her forehead scrunching up.

Becca stops an inch away from us, looking at me with disgust. I don’t move, just look back, face neutral, waiting.

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“Lesbo Para-lovers like you shouldn’t be allowed to walk through these halls!”

“Becca, are you worried that you’re a lesbian—or a Para?” I ask, keeping my eyes innocent-wide. “Because usually that’s what people are afraid of when they talk like you.”

Red crawls up Becca’s neck and face, like tiny red ants.

“Of course not, you—you—piece of Para-loving trash.” Becca stalks away from us, her back stiff with anger.

Rachel laughs loudly, her belly shaking. “Becca’s the biggest homophobe and Para-hater in the school, in case you didn’t figure that out. You just made my day. My year!”

“I’m glad.” I grin. But fear rattles inside me. I’ve just drawn attention to myself—again.

The crowds are thinning out. Rachel looks at her sport watch. “We’d better hurry—Mr. Arnold hates it when you’re late. He gives you a detention even if you’ve got a good reason.”

She jogs up the stairs and I follow.

A tall man with a nose that looks too big for his face leans around a classroom door and glares at us, his glasses askew. “Hurry it up, Miss Levy,” he says, in a nasal, almost whiny voice. “You don’t want another tardy mark added to your record.”

“Just forty-five minutes of purgatory to get through,” Rachel whispers. “Remember it won’t last all day—even if it seems to.”

Rachel slips through the doorway.

Mr. Arnold stops me. “Take those sunglasses off. They look ridiculous.”

49

Cheryl Rainfield

I make a show of pulling out the “doctor’s note” Mom scrawled out for me. “They’re prescription glasses, sir. I need them to see.”

“Oh, for—Very well.” He impatiently gestures for me to walk in ahead of him, then snaps the door shut behind us.

“There’s an empty seat near the front.” I’ll bet there is.

Students turn, curious. Dark brown eyes meet mine, the wide mouth curving into a happy-to-see-you smile.

Alex.

I take a shaky breath, holding in my answering smile, but I can feel it flood into my eyes. I curse myself. He’s a Normal. NORMAL. I must be losing it.

“Any day now, Miss Ellis.”

I walk over to the empty desk and perch on the hard chair. I take my books out carefully, focus on my every movement to keep myself out of Alex’s head.

Mr. Arnold stands in front of the smartboard. A few whispers start up, but when Mr. Arnold turns and frowns, his bushy eyebrows converging into one, they abruptly go silent. “If you’ve got nothing better to do, you can take out your scripts and read ahead while I put up these questions.” Everyone groans. I reluctantly open my battered copy of
Othello
while Mr. Arnold drones on and on, like a fly buzzing around the room. A whiny, irritating little mosquito.

“Miss Ellis? Miss Ellis, can you tell us the answer?” I look up into his expectant face, seeing his I’ve-got-you-now expression. The answer is so loud in his head that it’s hard to ignore. I know it’s wrong, but I want to wipe the 50

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smirk off his face. “Brabantia accused Othello of using witchcraft.” I think back to the scene—I read it at the last school—and add, my lips so dry they stick to my teeth, “He did it because he was a bigot.”
Like most of you Normals.

Mr. Arnold blinks.
. . . How did she—? . . . Swear I had
her . . .
“That’s correct. Although not everyone would agree with your assessment.” He turns away.

People’s attention swings to me like polar north. I slouch in my seat, pretending to be bored.

“Mr. Arnold, Mr. Arnold,” a tall, confident boy calls, waving his arm like he’s in grade three.

. . . Paul again . . .
another student thinks.

Mr. Arnold sighs loudly. “Yes, Mr. Barrett? What is it this time?”

The boy doesn’t glance in my direction, but I feel his awareness of me. “Isn’t that like people today, accusing someone of being a Para when they’re not?” I stiffen.

The room erupts into voices. People’s thoughts pulse with emotion so loudly I almost can’t hear what people are actually saying.

I clench my hands in my lap, breathe slow and deep like Dad taught me to. I visualize people’s thoughts being covered in layers of heavy air that dampens their volume, pushes them down like sand falling through water.

Everyone’s focused on what the boy said. I’m sure he did it on purpose, but I don’t think he meant to single me out.

I reach out toward him and feel it immediately, the way his thoughts seem to vibrate in and out of each other, like 51

Cheryl Rainfield

he can manipulate them. He’s a telekinetic. He should know to be more careful! He put us all in danger, just by opening his mouth. And yet, I can’t help admiring him for what he said.

I take another look at him. His curly brown hair frames his face like one of Michelangelo’s cherubs and his green eyes are vivid and clear. His jeans and T-shirt fit him snugly in all the right places. And on top of that, he’s brave, even if a little headstrong. Like I don’t know anything about that.

But how the heck did he get so confident, with him being a Para? I glance away, before he can catch me looking.

Mr. Arnold bangs his book against his desk and the room goes quiet. “We are not here to discuss current affairs; we are here to discuss English. The great masters of writing! Shakespeare! Perhaps you would save your question for a more appropriate class?”

Mr. Arnold reads aloud again, his nasal voice killing any dramatic effect the words might have.

I sneak another look at Paul. He catches my gaze and winks at me. I haven’t been shielding as well as I thought.

He knows, or at least he suspects, that I’m a Para. Unless he flirts with Normals, which I find hard to believe.

The intensity of people’s thoughts lessens as Mr.

Arnold drones on, and for once I’m grateful for a boring teacher.

When the bell rings, Alex is there beside me, smelling of soap, clean skin, and vanilla, and a faint whiff of chlorine. I think I could get drunk on his scent.

I shake my head, trying to toss the thought right out of me.

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“I hear you like to swim, Caitlyn.” I wonder if I’m another of his outsiders that he’s trying to make comfortable. But how did he find out so fast?

. . . asked her yet?. . .

I turn to see Rachel leaning forward, her gaze focused on us.

I look back into the heat of Alex’s gaze. I feel myself being sucked into his eyes, wanting to smooth out the old pain I sense deep below.

Snap out of it!
“I—yes. I love it. Swimming, pools . . .” It’s like my body’s taking over, leaving my brain far behind.

I can’t believe I’m going ga-ga over some Normal—or anyone for that matter. It’s not safe; I know it’s not.

I breathe out. I am not my body. I can control this. “I love the quiet of the water, the calmness—”

“Me, too!” Alex says, leaning forward. “The way it feels like the world disappears, and there’s only you and the water. No noise, no clutter—just the water cradling you—” He stops, his face flushing. “There’s a kind of peace,” he adds, quickly.

“Yeah! I know what you mean.” I stare at him. I’ve never met anyone who loves water the way I do, for the reasons I do. But I can’t sense a fragment of Para in him. Why does he need peace so much? “It’s like—all your problems go away for a while.”

Alex nods his head animatedly. “Exactly!” He rubs his hair, and his curls stand up. “We’ve got a great pool here. I could show you around after school, if you like. I’m on the team.”

He would be, with his broad back and narrow hips, and 53

Cheryl Rainfield

his love of swimming. He shifts his feet, looking awkward when I don’t say anything. “There’s no pressure; I get it if you don’t . . .”

I shake my head, force myself to focus. “Rachel’s going to show me around,” I manage to get out.

“She won’t mind,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

But she will. I can feel her misery, all the way from over here. And it brings me back to myself. “How about we all go together?” I say, then wish I could take it back. What am I
doing
?

Alex grins, his white teeth bright against the dark of his lips. “It’s a date.”

“If you’re finished setting up your social life, perhaps you’d move on to your next class?” Mr. Arnold says, glaring.

Alex laughs. “You know you like us hanging around.

It gives you something to talk about in the teacher’s lounge.”

Alex brushes my back with his fingers, then settles his hand on my shoulder, like that’s where he meant it to be all along. A warm feeling fills my belly.

. . . Why do I feel so good around her?. . .

His thoughts are happy, bright as Christmas lights.

I quicken my pace to the door, just enough to break contact and stop the rush of his thoughts and emotions. I can barely control my own.

Rachel’s waiting in the hall. Her lips turn upward uncertainly, like she’s not sure whether she did the right thing or not.

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“Rachel!” I gasp, yanking out my crumpled schedule.

“Could you show me where my next class is?”

“Sure.”

I turn to Alex, who’s standing behind me, still as a mannequin. “See you after school.” I rush Rachel down the hall, away from him.

55

CHAPTER 7

Rachel raises her eyebrows. “I thought you
liked
Alex.”

“I do.” God, I do. But I shouldn’t. I can’t. I’d always be worrying whether I could trust him, whether he’d turn me in if he got mad at me or if we broke up. A Normal and a Para could never make it.

Rachel pushes open the door, and we head down a flight of stairs, following the crowd. “So?”

“I don’t even know if I like-like him.” And I can’t let myself want to. Besides, he’s got a secret of his own, reasons he doesn’t want to get involved.

“Oh, I think you’re crushing on him. I saw your face.” It feels more than a crush. I’m drawn to his happiness, like sunshine warming my skin. I don’t know how he can be so happy with all that’s wrong in the world—people murdering each other, hating each other, raping, starting wars—

but he is. Even with his own wound, whatever it is, he’s happy. I wish I could be.

Rachel stops outside a classroom. “This is it.” She hands me back my crumpled schedule.

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Math. My least favorite subject. I find a seat, try to let the numbers, the equations, mean something to me. But over and over, my thoughts drift to Alex, to his wide smile and laughing eyes, and the calm in his heart.

e

Rachel and I enter the pool area together. Only a few mind-voices pepper me; not many people are here yet. The smell of chlorine rises up all around me, and I breathe it in.

The blue of the pool is unmarred, no one disturbing it yet, the thick navy lines on the bottom guiding the lanes. I ache to dive in.

Alex strides toward us in just his Speedo, a silver swimming cap, and goggles pushed up over his forehead. I try not to stare at his broad, muscular shoulders, his long, lean legs, and the bulge that makes up his suit. Oh my god.

I can’t wrench my gaze away. I have to get a grip!

I don’t understand it. I’ve never fallen for anyone before. My safety’s always come first.

Alex smiles. “I’m glad you came. Practice’s in a few minutes if you want to stay and watch.” Rachel snorts.

Alex’s smile freezes. “Your brother’s already in the pool. You gonna go find him?”

They glare at each other, standing off like fighters.

I can’t believe they’re acting like this, like they’re almost fighting over me. This kind of stuff only happens in movies, not in real life. At least not in my life. Part of me 57

Cheryl Rainfield

wants to bask in the moment, but maybe I’m reading it wrong. Besides, I can’t let Alex get too close.

“I want to look around. Don’t you?” I say to Rachel.

She nods. We take off our shoes and socks, then walk out onto the shiny gray tiles, Alex close beside me. My feet slap the floor, splashing through the shallow puddles of water, my soles automatically finding traction.

The pool is fifty meters long, just right for smooth, un-interrupted laps. I can almost feel the cool water caressing my skin, the peace-bliss of silence.

And then I sense another Para. A telepath.

Of course. She’d be drawn to the water, like I am.

I turn my head casually, and see a broad-shouldered girl in a dark blue swimsuit coming through the doorway opposite us. Our gazes lock.

“Stay strong,”
I send.

The girl stumbles.
“It’s not safe here!”
She disconnects abruptly.

I rub the back of my neck. I’m used to Paras being cautious, but not so cautious that they won’t even connect. . . .

She darts a glance at the wall behind me. I turn to look.

A huge ParaWatch banner is draped over the entranceway, warning us all to be on the lookout for deviant Paras. This school has more anti-Para propaganda than I’ve ever seen.

“Coach opens the pool for a free swim at four-thirty, when practice is over,” Alex says, looking at me. “You could stay and swim then, if you like.” I shake my head regretfully. “Not today.”

“Tomorrow then.” Alex flashes his smile at me, bright as sun glinting off glass.

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I feel dizzy, short of breath.

I grit my teeth. This can’t go anywhere. But I know that I want it to, even as I’m telling myself that it can’t.

I turn to Rachel—but her gaze is on a slim boy with a white swimming cap, poised on the diving board. He springs, the board braying, and makes a near-perfect dive.

Rachel nods her chin at him. “My brother.” Across the pool, the coach blows a whistle, piercingly loud. I wince as it echoes through the pool area. “Swimmers in the pool!” the man yells. “Visitors on the bleach-ers—or out.” He looks meaningfully at us.

Alex rubs his arm. “You staying to watch?”
. . . Say
yes . . . no, don’t . . .

I shake my head. “Can’t.” Though I want to, just to be near him.

“Sorry you didn’t get to see more of the pool,” Alex says.

“Mr. Carter!” the coach bellows.

Alex waves. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I say, even as I shake my head no.

Rachel grabs my arm as we leave. “Somebody likes you!” she says in a singsong voice.

I laugh and swat at her, my breathing shallow. I do
not
care if some Normal likes me.

e

I catch the motel owner staring at me out of the grimy window as I approach the motel, but when I look at her, she moves away.

59

Cheryl Rainfield

I reach after her. Nosiness, a wandering thought about whether my mom and I are Paras or are here to see a Para—

but mostly I feel her desperation for money and to be loved.

She’s thinking about fingering me and my mom, but she’s not sure yet. She doesn’t want another black mark on her record, but oh, she could use the money.

I walk into the lobby, smile at the owner like I can’t hear her thoughts. “Nice day out.”

She squints at me suspiciously; no one’s ever that friendly with her. The kid must want something from her.

But what? “Nice day if you like sweating,” she says. She flicks her lighter, lights a cigarette, and inhales deeply.

“That’s why I’m so glad you’ve got a pool,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, the smile on my face. I wave at her as I walk to the elevators. I feel her gaze on my back.

Will I end up like her one day—desperate and alone? Alex flashes through my mind and I push the thought away. Upstairs, I force myself to get through my homework. Then I log onto my anonymizer, and then my blog—
Teen Para
.

Already there are 350 comments I haven’t answered since my last post. A few of them are the usual Para-hater crap—

“You don’t deserve to breathe!” “Die Para-freak!”—but others are curious, thoughtful, even friendly. Mom would flip out if she knew what I was doing. But I think I’m helping some Normals, at least, realize that Paras are people.

Real people who hurt and hope and dream.

“Sorry for my absence, peeps,” I key in. “We had to move—AGAIN. Troopers were sniffing around our neigh-borhood. Someone must have snitched on us for the moola.

Or maybe they think it’s their duty. But how is it anyone’s 60

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duty to enslave another human being? Did we learn nothing from the Holocaust? From slavery?” I hover my finger over the “Publish” button. Some Normals will get all geared up over what I wrote. But what’s the point of speaking out if you don’t say the truth?

I click the button.

“Caitlyn!”

John’s upset. He must have had a Google alert on my blog, set to tell him as soon as I posted. I sigh. I already know what we’ll both say. We’ve had this discussion so many times.

“Stop taking such crazy risks,”
John sends.

“It’s not crazy if it makes a difference.”

“You’re wasting your time. Normals are never going to
get it. They don’t want to get it.”

“Some don’t. But some do. I’ve seen a few change, become more pro-Para. And isn’t that worth it? We need all
the support we can get.”

“They’re only like that when they have nothing to risk
or to gain. Put their own families on the line or offer them
a reward and they’ll squeal on us like pigs.”
I close my mind to John, ignoring him, though it hurts to shut him out. Hurts like slamming a door on my finger.

But I wasn’t going to connect with anyone from the Underground anyway, not until I find out who the snitch is. If someone’s managed to overhear our conversations, then I’m not safe, not even being in contact with John. I’ve got to stay firm.

e

61

Cheryl Rainfield

When I get to school the next morning, I can’t stop looking for a friendly face—for Alex or Rachel—but I just see a lot of faces I don’t know, all of them shutting me out.

Loneliness washes over me—loneliness and that familiar dread that I’ll never belong anywhere, that I’ll be an outsider for the rest of my life, looking in on what other people have. I clench my teeth, pushing the tears back down.

Tears make the new girl stand out.

Paul strolls toward me, smiling mischievously. Today his curls and rounded cheeks make him look like a Raphael angel. Cute, gifted—why can’t my heart flutter for him?

“Hey, pretty girl. What’s there to be sad about? The sun’s shining, we’re alive, and—” His fingers brush my ear.

I feel his power surge, see his lips tighten in concentration. A chocolate bar rises out of his backpack and flies into his hand as he reaches for it.

“Here’s something sweet for someone sweet.” He draws his hand in front of me and offers me the chocolate bar.

I want to scream, “What are you doing? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”—but at the same time, there’s a part of me that delights in his use of his power, and how he’s getting away with it.

“Thank you,” I say softly, taking the chocolate. I can’t hold back a smile.

“You just moved here,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“Yep. How long have you lived here?”

“All my life,” he says proudly.

Wow. It’s hard to believe that someone who’s as out-spoken as Paul has lived here that long undetected.

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Pain splinters through me. Why does Paul—who takes so many risks with being a Para—get to have a
home
, a community even, while I am forever on the run?

Paul winks at me and walks off.

I want to chase after him, ask why he took such a crazy risk to give me a bar of chocolate. But I think I know the answer. You don’t feel much like living if you can’t be yourself.

e

Rachel finds me at lunch.

“The food here sucks,” she says. “They try to pass it off as healthy, but most of it’s full of fat or additives. And it tastes like crap—soggy French fries and cold nachos.” I shut my locker, clicking the lock closed. Hanging around with Normals is part of the blending in. But I actually feel myself wanting to spend time with her. Not that I’ll be around long enough to really get to know her, so I can indulge myself. “You got somewhere else in mind?”

“The vegetarian grill across the street. It’s got a lot of vegan food, but there’s some meat-eater dishes, if that’s what you’re into. It’s almost the same price as the so-called food here, but it actually tastes good—and feeds your body.”

My mom would love her. I pick up my backpack. “I’m in.”

The grill is bigger than I thought it would be, and a lot more crowded. People’s mind-voices are louder than the din of conversation and clatter of plates. I dampen it down 63

Cheryl Rainfield

as much as I can, focusing on the warm, spicy scents, the colorful dishes of steaming and cold foods laid out along counters down the center of the restaurant. We get to help ourselves.

Rachel and I both have our trays piled with food when she stiffens. I follow her gaze.

Alex. The whole restaurant feels brighter, more vivid, the smells stronger. “What’s
he
doing here?” Rachel mutters.

Alex looks around until his eyes meet mine. He gives me a wide, easy smile. Then he sees Rachel. His smile wobbles.
. . . always together . . . is she . . . ?

How can I tell him I’m not gay? Wait—isn’t it better if he thinks I am?

Alex walks over, taking long, relaxed strides. He smiles shyly at me. “Can I buy you two lunch?”

“No,” Rachel says scornfully.

I’ve seen boys offer this to girls before. Seen the girls giggle and bat their eyelashes as they agree. I never understood their behavior. But suddenly I want to know what it’s like. For once in my life, I want to feel what it’s like to be normal. Not Normal, exactly, but . . . just a regular teen girl who doesn’t have to hide or go on the run. Who can like any boy she pleases.

“Sure,” I say.

Alex takes my tray and carries it to the cashier.

Rachel leans closer. “I’ve never seen him act this way before.”

My heart flutters. “No?”

Rachel shakes her head. “He never acts interested in 64

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anyone
. Not until you. Becca’s going to be in a jealous snit when this gets out.”

Exactly what I don’t need. Another reason I have to stop this before it goes anywhere.

“Caitlyn!”
John sends.
“I know you need money. Let
me send you some. Let me help.”
I grit my teeth and block him harder. It’s getting easier to shut him out.

Alex comes back with my tray and a tray of his own.

All thoughts slide out of my head.

“Guess I’d better go pay,” Rachel says, and heads to the cashier.

“Where’re you sitting?” Alex asks, standing a little closer than he needs to.

“We haven’t picked a table yet.”

I watch him scan the room. My knees are liquid, like I might fall over any minute. I bite the inside of my cheek, think about Rachel, the food, the obnoxious Mr. Arnold . . .

Alex touches my arm softly, like he’s not sure he has the right to touch me.
. . . just being near her makes me
happy . . . was it like that for my dad?. . . have to walk
away . . .