Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) (2 page)

I’m a little taken aback, but I fumble around in his pocket and pull out a mini Maglite. I turn it on, and without letting go of Neil’s hand, I twirl in a circle so beams of light bounce off the surrounding trees.

“We should go,” I say. Then I turn the flashlight off and slip it back into Neil’s pocket.

I step closer to him, and recklessness takes over. I reach up and touch his lower lip lightly with my finger, and I close my eyes—

A siren blares. Glass
shards cut my face. Intense pain hammers me everywhere at once. One, two, three beats, and
then I jerk my hands out of the grooves. I’m back in my memory chamber, almost surprised to see I’m unharmed.

Something’s wrong. That’s not at all how the night ended.

Voices buzz all around me, an unusual sound. I sit up to look over the ledge to investigate. The other drones are all doing the same.

“Did you feel that?” Virginia calls out. A chorus of yeses responds, and everyone makes their way down from their memory chambers, to meet in the middle.

I head over to where Virginia stands, and Beckah joins us.

“What just happened?” Beckah asks, shaking. She has a haunted look on her face, a look I see echoed on all the other faces.

A girl named Amber is pointing at something behind me. “Omigod!” she shrieks, excited. “There’s a boy coming in through a door!”

Impossible. We haven’t seen any boys here. Ever. I spin around, and my mouth drops open. Because I know this boy. And he’s calling my name.

CHAPTER 2

“FELICIA!”

His deep voice echoes through the hive, and the drones go silent, looking over at me with open curiosity.

He’s standing in some sort of rectangular doorway—one that has never existed before—and he looks uneasy, frantic even. From behind, an arm is pulling at his black, fitted T-shirt, and as I rush over, I try to catch a glimpse of his companion. But all I see through the door is more glaring whiteness.

“Listen.” His voice is lower now that I’m near the doorway, his head turning and his eyes darting from me to whomever it is he’s with, and back again. “I’ll be coming for you. Soon. Be ready.” He steps out, and the last I see of
him is his black high-top Converse, halfway laced. There’s a pounding sound, heavy footfalls, and the door slides closed.

Not even a second later I run my hands over the smooth wall the closing of the door left behind, feeling for a ridge, a hinge, a control panel. But there’s nothing. Just like there was never anything to find the approximately one million times I’ve been over this wall before, searching for a way out. I beat my fists against it, and then turn and let myself slide down the wall, defeated. At least I know now for sure there’s something more than this single hive. Which means Neil might be out there somewhere.

“Who was that?” asks Virginia. She crouches down, examining my face. Beckah hangs back a bit, staring at me in awe. The others crowd around, reaching out to press their own hands against the wall.

“That was Julian.” I shake my head, still not quite believing it.

“Who’s Julian?” Virginia probes. “You sure seem important to him.”

“Very important,” Beckah chimes in, tucking her petite frame in next to me. “He said he wants to take you away, but I know you wouldn’t leave us.”

“He’s just someone I knew once.” I look Virginia straight in the eye and do my best to sound dismissive so she won’t pry. “I have no idea why he suddenly showed up after all this time.” It doesn’t make sense. Not that anything makes sense here.

I turn to Beckah and soften my tone. “Don’t worry,
Beckah. I promise I won’t leave you behind.” And I mean it too. I’d go crazy if I didn’t have her and Virginia with me.

Beckah lights up and reaches out to squeeze my hand. She’s never given up her habit of touching us, despite our insensitivity to physical contact. “Thank you. You two are the best friends I’ve ever had,” she says. I squeeze back.

“Well, he must be important to someone,” Virginia says, clearly not yet ready to close the subject. “I mean, why does he get normal clothes while the rest of us are stuck with these shapeless white shifts? He even has hair.” Virginia rubs her bald head. It’s the same bald look we all have.

I laugh, the bitter sound of it strange on my lips. Leave it to Virginia, former head cheerleader, to ask hair and fashion questions. “At least you still have some color,” I say. Virginia pushes up the long sleeves of her shift, proudly exposing more of her tawny skin. There are only two other girls in our hive who don’t blend into the walls. The rest of us are so bleached out, we’re like photographs that have been overexposed.

The other drones are starting to lose interest in the wall and in me. They drift back off in the direction of their chambers. The temporary excitement has been sucked out of the hive, leaving only the dull nothingness we’re used to.

Virginia looks at the retreating drones with disdain and lowers herself to the floor with an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh. They’re all so
boring
.”

Beckah regards me solemnly. “Where would you even go if you could get out of here? Would you look for Neil?”

“Of course she would, silly,” Virginia blurts before I can reply. “She talks about him all the time.”

I untangle myself out of Beckah’s grasp and cross my arms over my chest, imagining for a second they are Neil’s arms wrapping me in a hug. “I really miss him.”

“I wish I had the chance to have a boyfriend as nice as Neil,” says Beckah. “Or any boyfriend, really.” She picks at invisible lint on her shift.

“Eww . . . but what if you find him and he’s, like, ninety years old?” teases Virginia. “Maybe it’s better to stick with your memories.” Of course Virginia has a point. We’ve been here so long, and it’s entirely likely Neil lived to a ripe old age, that he got married and forgot all about me. It’s too depressing to contemplate.

“I can’t stand not knowing,” I say, hugging myself tighter. “I need closure. To know how he lived. If he ever still thought of me. How he died.”

Virginia and Beckah stiffen at the mention of death. “I really want you both to meet Neil,” I say, hoping my enthusiasm will relax them again.

It works. Virginia winks at me. “Oh, but we have met him,” she says.

She’s referring to the fact that they’ve both rented some of my memories of Neil. I haven’t shared the more intimate ones on the net, but if I could blush, I would. “I mean, for real.”

I duck my head, but Beckah catches my chin with her steady fingers and lifts it so I’m staring into her faded blue
irises. “I hope we find him, Felicia. You deserve to be happy.”

Maybe I should tell her that happiness is not exactly what a girl with my checkered past deserves, but the words stick in my throat. A strange mist swirls around Beckah’s head, causing her mouth to go slack, her eyes to go glassy. The mist seems to permeate the room and to sink into my skin, making my limbs feel heavy. I want nothing more than to lie down. The three of us pick ourselves up slowly and wander off to our separate chambers.

I climb in, my thoughts jumbled. What was it I wanted to do? Look for a book? No, something more urgent than that. The name tugs at the edge of my consciousness. Julian. I need to look for him. Figure out what he wants with me. Figure out if he can really get us out of here so I can look for Neil. Once I position my hands correctly, the familiar glow of the hologram screen greets me. I scroll through my Julian memories, so unvisited that I wouldn’t be surprised to find them collecting cobwebs. I decide on our first meeting and push play.

Ward, Felicia. Memory #31125

Tags: Germany, Autumn, Julian, Sushi, The Three Seasons

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Autumn and I have commandeered a table at our favorite sushi restaurant near Eschenheimer Tor. We haven’t
been here long, but I’ve already downed my second cup of espresso, burning my tongue in the process. Autumn’s not paying attention to me, or her steaming cup of green tea. She’s got her notebook out and she’s focused on the couple sitting next to us, who are arguing over who should pay the bill. As I tear open the paper covering my wooden chopsticks, I stifle a yawn.

“Should we get two orders of California rolls or one?” I ask Autumn. I split my chopsticks and place them carefully on my chopstick holder, a lacquered green stone.

Autumn lifts up her hand to shush me. She scrawls notes into her notebook with her purple glitter pen. The feathers on top of it bob back and forth, and I bite back my annoyance. After a few moments of harsh remarks in German, the woman next to us reaches into her purse, pulls out some euros, and slaps them into the black plastic folder provided with the bill. The couple gets up to leave. The woman strides to the door without a backward glance, and the man shuffles behind her. The door dings once, closes, and then dings again.

“How hungry are you?” I ask. Neither of us has bothered to open our menus. It’s never a question of what we’ll get, just how much.

“Let’s do two orders,” Autumn says. She stacks her menu on top of mine, and then tucks her notebook and pen back into her bag.

“So, what was that all about?”

“Something I learned from Mr. Bennett,” she gushes. “Eavesdropping is the best way to develop an ear for
authentic dialogue, which is going to help us so much with our novel.”

For our latest in a string of half-completed writing projects, Autumn has come up with an idea for a book about three friends all fighting over the same guy. It’s called
The Three Seasons
because each of the friends has a season as part of her name. Autumn will tackle two of the points of view: Autumn Hooper, “the long-suffering friend,” and Chelsy Winters, “the mentally unstable one.” Autumn has charged me with writing the point of view of Bethanne Summer Chandler, “the guy magnet.” I think it’s her passive-aggressive way of trying to tell me something.

I groan. “Why do we have to work on another novel? Can’t we try a screenplay this time?”

“Maybe I’d rather be the cliché of the starving writer than the waitressing screenwriter.” Autumn tucks an errant strand of her short blond hair behind her ear. “Movies are more your thing anyway. I’m not the one who spends my entire allowance on cinema tickets and downloads.”

“I read as many novels as you do. Maybe more. I’m just not sure I want to write one. And I think you’re so into this because you want to impress Mr. Bennett.” I don’t add that I doubt our tweed-wearing, classics-loving English teacher, as relatively young and sexy as he is, will be all that likely to praise our teen melodrama.

Autumn blushes. “Don’t be a dream crusher,” she retorts. “Have you even started on your first chapter yet?”

“Tell me again why I am involved in this project.”

She goes into lecture mode. “You know it has always been our dream to be published by the time we’re twenty. And I read online that multiple-point-of-view novels are hot right now. Finding the right voice for each character is essential.”

I roll my eyes. “We made that pact when we were eight. How long are you going to torture me with it?”

“And, you owe me.” Her tone hardens. “Everything’s not always about you, you know.”

“I know.” I gulp. I suspect she’s referring to my getting a highly coveted spot in Mr. Bennett’s advanced writing seminar. She’s the one who convinced me to go for it in the first place, and now she’s angry that Mr. Bennett chose me over her, and that I refused to quit and let her take my place. I know I should give on this book project of hers, let her have her way for once, especially since she seems so envious of me sometimes. In the grand scheme of things, it’s so minor. But the espresso has finally kicked in, and I feel jittery and argumentative. “Well, if we have to write something, couldn’t it be a little more . . . epic?”

“C’mon, Felicia. We’ve discussed this.” Her exasperation with me is loud and clear. “Mr. Bennett says it’s important to focus on one project at a time.” Autumn juts out her chin and fixes me with her steely gaze. “And besides, you need an awesome idea first. Do you have one of those?”

I take a deep breath, ready to fight this out if I have to. “I’m sure I could come up with one. How about . . .”

But my words die on my lips, because the door has
dinged again, and Autumn looks like she’s been hit by lightning. She lunges at me and grabs my arm. “Dibs,” she whispers under her breath, pinching me with her fingernails and shooting me a warning look. Then she pulls back with a radiant smile.

Though I want to tell her calling dibs doesn’t magically make a person like you instead of someone else, I refrain. Instead I turn around to check out the latest object of Autumn’s affection. My body stiffens with recognition. The boy walking in is achingly beautiful, too model perfect with his high cheekbones and strong jaw to be someone I’d know, but he looks familiar all the same. He scans the restaurant, reaching up casually to brush shaggy blond bangs across his forehead. When his dark eyes meet mine, the force makes me physically shrink back. He heads over to our table.

“Ist hier frei?”
he asks in German. He pulls out the chair at the table next to us and sits down without waiting for an answer, never letting go of my gaze.

“Yes, this seat is free,” Autumn answers in English, her voice tinged with a sweetness that makes me want to gag.

“Excellent,” he says, easily switching to an English as unaccented as his German. “I knew today was my lucky day.” He plucks one of our menus off our table with a large, pale hand and opens it. “What’s good here, ladies?”

“The California rolls. That’s what we’re getting.” Autumn leans over to point it out on the menu, though he doesn’t stop staring directly into my eyes. “They make it with tamago here. Really tasty.”

“Great.” He snaps the menu closed and lets it fall onto his table. “I’ll get those too, then.” He waves his arm to summon the waitress. She comes over, and he finally breaks his eye contact, setting me free. I let out my breath. Had I been holding it the entire time?

Autumn addresses the stranger. “Is one order okay for you . . .” She trails off.