Hunted (5 page)

“Come on; someone’s leaving,” he says.

I follow him to the booth, where we wait for the smartly dressed woman to clear her stuff. She winks at us as she leaves.
. . . cute couple . . .

Alex sets down our trays, then slides into the booth. I sit down across from him, a grin on my face. I feel almost high being around him.

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Cheryl Rainfield

No! It’s crazy, stupid thinking. I’m not sure it’s thinking at all.

I look around and wave to Rachel. She comes over and slides into the booth beside me, her plate loaded with lentils and rice, steaming vegetables, and salad. That same tension between Rachel and Alex is back—over me.

I take a bite of my falafel and rice and try to pretend I can’t feel the undercurrent between them. Try to pretend I’m as blind and as deaf as they are.

“So, what’d you think of Mr. Arnold?” Alex asks fake-innocently, trying to hold back a smile.

“I think . . . he should’ve found another job,” I say.

Alex laughs, raising his bottle of water like he’s toast-ing me. “You said it. He sure kills any love of English. And that used to be my favorite class.” I can hear Alex trying to figure out whether I like him, whether I’d let him kiss me, even while he’s telling himself to forget me. I see a gun in his mind, feel the explosion of sadness and guilt, but also relief.

I lean back, studying his animated face as he talks. I know if I reach for it, I can find out exactly what happened, what his locked-up sadness is about. But I don’t want to find out that way. I want him to tell me, like he would in a normal relationship. I want him to trust me enough to tell me. So I focus hard on the meal, on what everyone’s saying aloud, to keep myself from picking up anything else he may be thinking.

. . . I’m really having fun . . .
, Alex says, leaning forward.

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“I am, too,” I say.

“Are, too, what?” His brow wrinkles.

Oh. My. God! I can’t believe I slipped up like that!

“Liking the food,” I say quickly. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.” I shove more falafel into my mouth.

Sweat pricks my scalp. I can feel Rachel watching me like a cat as she eats, trying to put it together. Alex, too, is looking at me like he knows he missed something but can’t figure out what. I curse myself for being so careless.
This
is why it’s important to never get involved. Because it’s too easy to make stupid mistakes.

“It’s just that I’ve had so many rotten first few days of school, and you guys are making this one good,” I say, grabbing my backpack from beneath the table. “So thanks.”

“If today was good, why not have lunch with me again tomorrow? Make it
another
good day,” Alex says, smiling at me winningly.
. . . love the way she looks at me, like she
sees me . . . maybe likes me . . . but why does she keep running?. . .

Tell him no. Tell him! “Sure,” I say.

Alex turns, almost reluctantly, to Rachel, who balls up her napkin and tosses it onto her plate.

“Okay, I’m in,” she says. “Same time, same place.” She gets up jerkily with her tray and walks to the cleanup area.

I follow her, scraping my leftovers into the compost bin. “I know you meant this to just be the two of us . . . ,” I say.

Rachel looks at me, her eyes shiny with held-in anger.

“It’s not like I have any claim over you.” 67

Cheryl Rainfield

All in a rush, I feel how much she wants me to fall for her the way I have for Alex. But I can’t—and she knows that.

“We’re friends,” I say. “I know it’s not the same, but it’s what I can give.”

Rachel flushes and looks away. “I wasn’t—I hope—” Her voice wobbles.

“It’s okay,” I say, and it really is.

68

CHAPTER 8

We’ve only just gotten back to school when the loudspeaker crackles.

“Attention, students—I want you to be careful on your way home today. There have just been reports that the Paras behind the terrorist blog,
Teen Para
—” Terrorist? Now I’m a terrorist?

“—attacked a group of citizens. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, report them immediately.” The loudspeaker clicks off.

The hallway grows still, fear radiating from the other students. And then the noise starts up again, as people chatter and yell, their mind-voices as agitated as their regular ones. Some girls start screaming and a few boys punch their lockers. I stare at Rachel and Alex, not really seeing them.

“Holy shit,” Alex whispers.

“I can’t believe . . . ,” Rachel says, then trails off.

They’re blaming
my
blog for an attack on Normals?

How could anyone even think I’d do something like that?

No Para would. Attacking Normals will only bring in-69

Cheryl Rainfield

creased Para-hatred, stricter punishments, harsher laws.

Retribution and suffering.

My mind is so blank I feel dumb. I don’t know why anyone would do this. And I don’t know why they’re blaming me.

No. I know why. Normals are devious. Especially the ones with the most power. They want to rile up the others any way they can. Keep the hatred bright.

It must mean that I’m making a difference. That some Normals are actually listening to me. Seeing us as people.

I clench my hands into fists. They’re not going to shut me up that easily. “Gotta get to class,” I say. I jog down the hall away from them without waiting for a response, yank out my cell, and log onto an anonymizer site.

Then I click onto Google. The news is all over. The photos of the beaten Normals, the note that was left, pro-claiming “Para Freedom”—

I log onto my blog. Two thousand comments already.

“Teen Para did NOT take part in—or condone—this violence. We are looking for equality, for fair treatment through peaceful discussion—not to oppress others the way we’ve been oppressed. We are appalled at this violence.” I publish my post, log off, and run to class.

Everyone’s talking loudly, right over Mr. Borris, the history teacher, who is as ineffective at his job as his bow tie is at dressing up his suit. Thoughts scream at me from all around, jagged and intense, blaming Paras, hating us. I lean into a conversation, focusing hard on the actual sound of the voices. I pretend to be interested, even though I feel sick.

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“Caitlyn!”
John. Again.

Of course he will have heard. I sigh and open myself up to him.

“Caitlyn, we’ve got to get you out of there! They’re out
for blood.”

“No. We just got here.”

“Yeah—and that’s what you said on your blog. That
you’d relocated. You think they’re not going to start looking
at all the new students in every school? Come on; let the
Underground help. I know you’ve had some close calls
lately, but—”

“Too many.”
I know he can hear the firmness in my mind-voice.

“Sit down, people! Sit down!” Mr. Borris yells, slamming the classroom door shut, and finally, reluctantly, people return to their seats. I do, too, taking out my history book. Mr. Borris starts talking slowly, with almost no in-flection in his voice, like he’s trying to put us to sleep.

“Promise me you won’t post anything else on that blog
of yours,”
John sends.
“At least not anything identifying. If
they find you—”

“They won’t.”
But I can’t predict that; neither can he.

“Caitlyn—”

“I promise.”

“The Normals—they don’t see us as people; you know
they don’t. They see us as subhumans—puppets to control,
or to kill if they can’t. There’s no reasoning with them.

You’ve got to take down your blog. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

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Cheryl Rainfield

“I think it’s because of my blog that this happened. I
think I am reaching them.”

“Caitlyn, that’s crazy. Normals don’t listen to us. And
why should they? They have all the power. Why would they
want to share it with us?”
Pain rips through him, rage tearing close behind like a sandstorm.

“Some are more human than others. Some actually
listen.”

“God, Caitlyn!”
His worry unfolds until it surrounds me.
“I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but—Caitlyn,
there’s a Para-killer out there.”
I laugh.
“I know that. All the ParaTroopers. And a
bunch of Normals.”

“No. I mean someone who’s really got it in for Paras.

He tortures them before he kills them. Does something to
them—no one knows what—that causes them to shrivel up
before they die. And he only goes after Paras.”

“What? Why haven’t I heard of this?”

“The stories only started a few months ago. Around
the time the troopers started targeting you more. I didn’t
want to scare you.”

“You think”
—I swallow, mouth dry—
“you think he’s
after me?”

“I think he’s after all Paras. But it makes sense he’d go
after a powerful one.”

“But nobody knows that I’m the Teen Para blogger. . . .”

“Some of the Underground Normals do. I know they’ve
all been vetted, but—this guy is killing Paras in hiding. He’s
finding them faster than the ParaTroopers are. Maybe that’s
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why it hasn’t been on the news—they don’t want anyone to
know that they’re not in complete control.”
I lean back against my seat. I knew there was anti-Para sentiment. You can’t be a Para and not know that. And I knew some Normals hated us. But this? This is more than hate. This is sick. Sick and scary.

“They’re starting to call him the Para-Reaper. So for
god’s sake, Caitlyn—be careful. These Normals—they’re
not worth your life.”

But I’m not doing it for the Normals. I’m doing it for us
all
.

I disconnect, feeling shivery and cold. And that’s when it hits me—John hid this from me.

Paras aren’t supposed to be able to hide from each other. When we connect, we connect fully—mind-to-mind and soul-to-soul. We don’t keep secrets, because we can’t.

I rub my chin. But John did. Somehow, he kept something from me that he was worrying about.

If John can hide things from me, what else is he hiding?

I shake my head, trying to halt the thoughts, but they won’t stop. Maybe I don’t know John so well as I thought I did.

I sit up straighter and focus on Mr. Borris droning on about some ancient war. It’s hard to care about it when I’m afraid another war will happen right now, in my own life-time. I just hope it won’t turn into another Cleansing.

When the class ends, I gather up my books and backpack, then shuffle to the door with the rest of the crowd.

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Cheryl Rainfield

Becca’s standing in the hall, arms crossed over her chest, looking at me through squinty eyes. Her blond hair looks as fake as her smile. Her posse stands around her, all of them with attitude.

I start down the hall away from them. I can’t deal with this right now.

“Hey, new girl!” Becca yells in a voice that reverberates through the hall.

I stop and turn around slowly, my throat tight like it’s been drawn together with string. I smile at her like I don’t remember how rude she’s been.

Becca sneers at me. Others crowd around us, sensing a fight.

“You come to town and all of a sudden Normals are being attacked?” Becca says. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

I force myself to breathe slowly. Becca can’t prove I’m a Para. But suspicion and spite are enough to cause trouble. Just one call will bring an investigative team to check me out.

“What Para would be stupid enough to move here?” I ask, trying to sound like I think she’s joking. “You guys have the best Para-catching rate in the country! Why do you think I
came
here?”

Okay, that’s laying it on a bit thick, but it seems to sat-isfy some of the others. I can feel them backing off. Everyone but Becca.

…Snot-faced pie-hole! I want Alex; I’ve wanted him
for years. He never looks at me, never even gives me the
time of day, and now this—this trash comes and snares his
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attention, just like that? She has to have some hold over
him. I can cause trouble for her, keep her out of Alex’s
sight…
“Yeah, well, anyone could say that,” Becca sneers.

“But only people who haven’t looked at their own crap try to take it out on someone else,” I say.

Becca’s anger flares to hatred and I take a step back, my mind slowing down, fear taking over as Becca’s spite nips at me. I don’t know how to diffuse this.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

I feel his deep calmness, the mind-noise around me lessening, even before I see him. I want to smile at Alex, but I can’t. His showing up now is just going to make everything worse.

“New girl,” Becca says, jutting her chin at me, “transfers here just when Teen Para transfers to a new school?

Take one guess what I think she is.” Alex laughs, his boisterous voice pushing hers back.

“Come on, Becca, you say that about all the new transfers.

Besides, what Para would want to come here?”

“That’s what
I
said!” I say with relief.

Becca whirls on me. “You—you Para-trash! That’s just what you’d say.”

Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything. I take a step back.

“Becca—I know you’ve got more reason than the rest of us to be sensitive about Paras,” Alex says, shaking his head. “But making trouble for Caitlyn because you’re jealous just isn’t cool.”

Becca bites her lip, her cheeks flushing. She stalks away, her posse following her.

The crowd thins out as people rush to class.

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Cheryl Rainfield

“I hope she didn’t make you feel unwelcome,” Alex says, his protectiveness pouring over me. “I, for one, am glad you’re here.”

I feel a rush of giddy happiness and slam it back down.

“No, I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Where’s your next class? I’ll walk you.” He takes my crumpled schedule out of my hands and flattens it out on his thigh. “Social studies with Ms. Edwards? You’re lucky—

she’s one of the nice teachers.”

We walk together—down the hall, up a flight of stairs, down another hall to the left. I am ultra-aware of Alex the whole time—his laughter, his sweet scent, and his desire to defend me. I hold my books tighter and keep myself from reaching out to touch him the way I want to.

I can feel his desire for me mixing with my own.

I stop. Am I really attracted to him—or am I just picking up on and feeding off of his attraction for me? Thinking about it makes my head ache.

“We’re going to be late,” Alex says, nudging me. I take the last few steps to the classroom and create distance between us. The mind-voices of everyone around us start to seep back in and the pain in my head grows sharper.

“See you after school? At the pool?” Alex says.

The pool will give me a break from all these voices, from people’s desires and emotions and thoughts. It’ll make the pain melt away.

And it’ll be so much nicer to swim in a long, clean pool. How can I refuse?

e

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As soon as the last bell rings, I rush to the pool, shuck-ing my clothes and shoes, my smooth turquoise suit feeling like a second skin. People’s mind-voices are more muffled, already, the water calling to me. I stand at the edge, looking down at the blue of the water, breathing in the chlorine as deeply as I can. To me, this feels like home.

Two swimmers are doing laps. The swim team is practicing—again. I turn to go.

Alex enters, the calm he brings with him like a nap in the sun. “Caitlyn!” Alex calls. “Hold up.” I turn. His suit is so small and tight, I have to force myself to focus on his face. “I didn’t realize you guys would be practicing.”

“Coach isn’t here yet. We’re just warming up. You want to do a few laps with us?” He speaks coaxingly, like he can tell that I want to bolt. His brown eyes beg me to stay.

“Wouldn’t your coach mind?”

“Nah. He’s always late. Besides, I’m the swim cap-tain.”

Of course you are.

I dive in. The water envelops me, people’s thoughts releasing their grip. Peace-bliss, that’s all it is, I tell myself.

Even though there’s a pool in the motel, I didn’t come here just to swim with Alex.

I slice through the water, fingers tightly together and slightly cupped. Alex dives in after me, the next lane over.

I see his sleek, muscular body pass me like a seal beneath the water. I swim steadily, the water smooth around me, my breath easy and sure.

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Cheryl Rainfield

As I near the edge, he passes me again in a sprint. He’s an incredible swimmer; I can see it in the power and control of his strokes, in the way he glides through the water.

But he’s swimming too fast.

A few more laps like that and he’ll have tired himself out. He’s too good a swimmer not to know that. So why do it?

Because he likes me. Because he’s trying to impress me.

I glide forward, the water making me as buoyant as I feel.

But whether or not Alex likes me doesn’t change a thing. It can’t.

I push myself a little harder, but still slow and easy, the water cradling me.