Revive (6 page)

“You hit your head.”

“I'm a little disoriented.”

He shakes my arm. “The way you're acting, you probably have a concussion or something. You need help.”

I turn from him defiantly, doing what I should have done earlier while I pondered his T-shirt. I take in the coffee shop, assessing the baristas and customers for signs of threats and the doors for easy exits. The guy at the next table pulls an e-sheet from his pocket, unfolds it and begins reading the newspaper.

Read Harris.

Great. That's more specific, but it doesn't make more sense. Is Harris a book, an author, a website, what?

Would Kyle know? Is it wise to ask him?

He's watching me, or more like he's studying me while I watch everyone else. Why isn't he sharing more with me? Why won't he tell me more about myself? Is he purposely keeping things from me?

“Really crazy suggestion here,” he says. “But since you're refusing to see a doctor, maybe you should call your dad.”

I freeze at the sheer obviousness of it. A dad. Parents. Yeah, I should have one or both of those. Everyone has one or both of those.

So why am I drawing a complete blank? I mean, yes, my memories are screwed up and missing, but this is parents. This should be fundamental. And yet the whole concept of parents feels foreign. Alien.

I have no parents.

I always look up, I can't trust doctors, and I have no parents—things I'm sure of. Sophia—Seven—I—am a freak.

Swallowing, I return my attention to Kyle. “Have I ever talked about my parents?”

“You've mentioned your dad before. I think you said he works for the government.” Kyle raises an eyebrow, and I nod along like I know this. “You don't talk a lot about him, but he calls you once a week.”

One of those disordered facts in my brain files itself away. “Sunday evenings. He calls every Sunday evening at eight.”

Fourteen calls since September, ranging from three minutes to thirty-two in duration. In my head, I can hear his voice, but his face is a mystery, and I have no idea what we talk about on those calls. But whatever. It's better than nothing.

Kyle looks relieved again, possibly more so than when I hummed that Gutterfly tune. I hope this means he'll drop the doctor-hospital crap. He nudges me. “So you going to call him?”

“Yeah. Just want to finish my coffee first.”

Actually, first I want to reconcile this certainty that I don't have parents with the vague memory of talking to my dad every week. It doesn't make sense, so there are two possibilities here. One, the man I spoke to wasn't my dad and I lied about it for the same reason I was lying about everything else. Or two, everything I'm certain about is wrong.

I'm not sure which possibility scares me more. Both scream that trusting Kyle with even this much information might be a mistake.

I shiver and break off more of the muffin, biding for time. “Tell me about the dance.”

“Not that much to tell,” Kyle says. “It was boring, like most dances. But you looked awesome.”

I throw him a smile, my growing mistrust stopping me from being flattered or flirting back. As Kyle talks about who we hung out with and shares stories about people I don't remember well, I search the backpack for a phone. There's got to be one. Who doesn't carry a phone?

At last I retrieve it. It's stuck at the bottom of the bag under the hat and mittens. I'm also hauling around a sketchbook, a set of fancy pencils, a water bottle and some protein bars. Weird. Was I planning on doing some drawing today? Do I draw? I push the questions aside, more to ponder some other time.

My thumb hovers over the phone's screen, and I'm aware that Kyle's watching me again. I must act normal. Must hide my confusion. But it's difficult not knowing what normal is anymore.

As for the confusion… Icons float in front of me on the phone, taunting me. What do they all mean? How do I use this?
Relax,
I remind myself. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind.

The less I struggle, the easier it becomes. Like it did at South Station, my body remembers patterns and movements, even if I don't. My thumb moves, gliding over the screen, and a contact list appears. I scroll through it, looking for one that says “Dad” or “parents” or “home”.

There is none. I have Kyle, Audrey, Yen, Chase and other names I recognize from the snippets of my recovered memory. But there's nothing that connects me to anything or anyone outside of RTC. No Dad. No Cole, One, Nine, or any other person masquerading as a number.

I finish my coffee then think to check the call log. I talked to my dad—or whoever—on this phone. There should be a record of it.

It takes another second to remember how to pull up the log, but I trust my fingers again to lead me to last Sunday's date. At one minute after eight, a call came in.

I stare at the number, waiting—hoping—for it to trigger something. Do I dare call it in front of Kyle? If the person on the other end isn't my dad, then there must be a reason I hid that information. And if it is my dad, will I freak him out and make him worry when he discovers what's wrong with me?

“We need to discuss your next phase,” a man says in my ear.

I adjust the phone and glance at Audrey, who is sitting mere feet away. “Okay, but I really need to work on this philosophy paper tonight. I'm drowning in work.”

The man on the other end is unmoved. “Can you leave the room?”

The memory lasts only a second or two, but it's enough. The number that called last Sunday—that's the number I'm looking at now. It's an important number; it was an important conversation. But it wasn't my dad on the phone. Any doubts I had are gone.

That means, as of just last weekend, I was lying to Kyle.

It also means I should call the number, but instead I'm stuck reliving the details that returned. Trying to sort them into place in that filing cabinet at the back of my mind.

Kyle waves. The scents of coffee and sugar wash over me. “Sophia?”

Traces of the mystery conversation run through my head, and words accidentally slip off my tongue. “I was searching for someone. They were in danger.” That's what the conversation was about. The details are gone, but that much remains.

Kyle says nothing for a moment. His face is curiously blank as though it's taking all his brainpower to follow my incoherent ramblings. Actually, it probably is. I'm jumping from one topic to another without any logic. “Yeah, you said that already. You're sure now?”

I nod. Part of me wants to tell Kyle everything in the hope that it means something to him, but I swallow the urge.

Student X was in danger. Did I ever find them?

Kyle plays with a stirrer. Silence spreads across our table like spilled coffee. The shop is alive in conversation and clatter, but there's none between us. We're drowning in the quiet. Finally, Kyle releases the stirrer. “Do you remember who or why?”

“No. I didn't know who, just that…” I mentally bite my tongue. “Just that I was sent to help them.”

Shit, even that might have been saying too much. Besides, it makes me sound crazy. Which maybe I am.

Kyle looks up sharply. “Sent? By who?”

“I don't know. None of this makes sense.”

“No, it really doesn't.” He squeezes my hand.

I stare at his skin—really stare—because for some reason something about it makes my brain itch. I strain to make another memory appear, but of course it doesn't work that way. Anyway, it's just a hand. Why would his hand be important?

No way am I going to ask. When I listen to myself, it's not hard to imagine that Kyle must think I'm crazy. That I'm suffering from some kind of delusions brought about by the cut on my forehead. Yet one thing I don't doubt is that it's all real.

Real, and I never told Kyle any of it.

I shift the phone in my free hand. My answers—some of them anyway—are at that number. They must be. But now, more so than ever, I'm not sure I should call it in front of Kyle.

I set the phone on the table and put my jacket on.

Kyle gets up with me. “Ready to leave?”

“No. I want to call home, but it's too noisy in here. Going to do it outside. I'll be back.”

His hand falls on my phone. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Going outside?”

“Calling.” He reaches for his jacket and knocks over his empty cup because he's not paying attention. “Was thinking whether you might not want to worry anyone, you know? Like you said—if things are coming back to you, then maybe you should hold off calling. Figure stuff out more.”

His pupils have dilated, and he pushes his hair around. I pretend not to notice, but I tense as well. “Maybe my dad can help. Talking to you is helping, so it makes sense.”

“Yeah, but…” Kyle's fingers twitch. He wants to grab my phone, I can tell. “It also makes sense to figure out more information before you call. Like who you were looking for, and did you find them.”

No, it doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense, and it's making less by the second. “Just a few minutes ago you were suggesting I call.”

“Right, but I changed my mind.”

I zip my jacket. “I don't understand why.”

He scuffs his sneakers.

Trust no one.

Not even Kyle.

If I came to RTC to find a student in danger, and bad people were also searching for that student, then it stands to reason those people might also have sent someone to the school.

Kyle?

Are the butterflies that spawn in my stomach when he touches me less about how hot he is and more the product of some residual memory? Did I know something more about him before I hit my head, if that's even what happened? Is that why I dragged him away from school today?

Or is he the one who caused the problems I'm having? Did
he
drag
me
? Did he do something to me? Has anything he told me been true?

Oh, shit. What have I done by confessing this much?

Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I push by him toward the door.

“Sophia, wait!”

He reaches for my arm, but I dodge his hand. If I took down those guys at South Station, maybe I can also take down Kyle if it comes to that. I hope it doesn't, though, because I'm still not sure how I pulled off those moves.

“Sophia!”

A group of people entering the coffee shop get in my way, giving Kyle the chance to catch up. The door shuts behind him. Though I take off in the least crowded direction, people create obstacles in my path, and the brick sidewalk is a hazard of ice and slush.

I might be able to outrun Kyle, but perhaps that's not the best idea. He has answers. I want them.

Never mind “Sophia”. Indecision might be my real name.

We're both hurrying and have already reached the next intersection. The busier parts of the city have vanished behind us, but the traffic down this road is heavy. Ahead, the street is lined with quaint-looking shops and historical décor. To my right, a residential street slopes upward, packed with stylish old houses fronted by iron fences and adorned with seasonal wreaths and greens.

Beacon Hill—that's where I am. The neighborhood name itself isn't useful, but every bit that comes back makes me feel better. A little more whole.

I duck down the side street, which is empty and quieter. Crossing my arms, I spin around and Kyle bumps right into me because he can't stop in time. “Did you do this to me?”

He backs off, shaking away the impact. “What?”

“Did you do this to me?” I point to my cut. “Drug me or something? Is that why my head's all messed up? Is that why I fell and got hurt?”

“Of course not!” Kyle's eyes open wide. He reaches for me again, and this time I grab his hand. I'm not sure I even mean to do it. It's another reflex, triggered by my paranoia. The way I turn his wrist—I have him in a lock. I could snap his arm in two so easily. All it would take is a little pressure. Kyle hisses. “Soph, shit. Stop it. I don't know what happened. I told you—you were fine, then you went into the bathroom, and when I found you…”

He sounds sincere, but how can I trust either of us? “Then why aren't you telling me everything?”

“Everything about what? Would you stop? You're hurting me.”

I release him and raise my hands in despair. “I'm sorry. It's just you're hiding stuff from me. I can tell. I'm trying to get my memories back, and you're holding out on me. And then you go and start acting just as weird as I am about the phone thing. What am I supposed to think? If you're not the one who did this, then tell me what you know.”

I think I must have pushed him too far. He's going to run away now, and I'll have lost the only connection to my memories. But Kyle stays, and that's even more confusing. More reason to wonder why we were together this morning. More reason to wonder if he's after something from me.

Kyle shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks a pile of slush. “I'm telling you everything you've asked about. What else do you want me to say?”

“We can start with why you changed your mind about me calling my dad after I told you what I was doing at RTC.”

“I already explained that.”

“You were lying.”

He opens his mouth to protest but fumbles for words. It doesn't matter. Over his shoulder, I see something far more concerning than Kyle's behavior.

The men from South Station have found me.

Chapter Five

Eleven Weeks Ago

The bleachers shake, a lurching sea of blue sweatshirts. Then a single boy emerges from the mass and collapses on the floor. More screams follow. I strain to see around the girl in front of me as a crowd gathers around the boy.

“David! David, can you hear me?” someone yells, kneeling next to him.

The other person pulls David's hands away from his face, and I hold my breath. At first glance, his skin appears red, a normal reaction to the AnChlor. But then I see what's really going on. That red isn't his skin. It's blood, and it's leaking from his eyes and nose. He lies on the floor, unresponsive.

I grip the railing, frozen.

“Everybody, get them out of here.” One of the faculty members is yelling at the staff, and someone else is already on the phone, calling for an ambulance.

Behind me, crying students, most probably unaware of what's happening below, are pushing past, lost in their own discomfort and desperate for fresher air.

I'm also lost. I can't move, and I'm shoved and bumped as the others hurry to leave.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The AnChlor is supposed to be safe. My plan was good. Yet David's body remains still and bleeding, and I'm also still, and inside I feel like I'm bleeding too.

X's life is important, far more important than most people's lives. I know this. Rationally. Logically. I know. And yet, how is this right or fair? How do I tell myself this is okay?

Sometimes we must make trade-offs—two-hundred-eighteen variations thereof.

I've made tradeoffs before. I believe that occasionally some people must die for the good of others. But those some people? They've never been good in the first place. They're not innocent. Their deaths do the world a favor.

This student, on the other hand,
is
innocent. He's someone like Audrey or Kyle or Chase. Someone like Sophia. He's not supposed to be a trade-off. This wasn't supposed to happen, and I can't rationalize away the idea that the bleeding body on the gym floor could have been one of the people I'd been laughing with earlier at dinner. Nor can I ignore the irony that I came here to save one innocent person's life, and what if I just took another innocent life in the process?

X is more important, I remind myself. But thinking it and feeling it are two different things, and I'm not feeling it at all. The only thing I'm feeling is sick.

I turn my head away from David as I shuffle down the bleachers. This is weakness, and I hope I'll snap out of it. In the meantime, no more AnChlor. I'm glad I got rid of the rest. I have time, after all. My next attempt to find X will be done differently.

Screw efficiency. Some things are more important.