Spontaneous (14 page)

O
ur numbers doubled. Over the next week, 89 became 113, which ballooned to 158 and then topped out at 210. The government was searching beyond the borders of Covington for fugitive members of the senior class and they were having plenty of luck. Nobody wanted to be harboring combustible—and possibly contagious—students. If local private detectives and police forces didn't find someone, then bail bondsmen and good old-fashioned vigilantes stepped in and did the job.

Since we were cut off from the world—no internet, no phones, only paper and Sharpies to write letters to our parents—we didn't know exactly what was happening out there. The new arrivals filled us in as best they could.

“Rest of the world is completely freaking,” Bree Malone told us one morning in the commons. “I'm lucky I surrendered. Turns out Carlos Bazalar was hiding out at his grandparents' hacienda in Peru or wherever, and these two kids with machine guns drove in
on dirt bikes and
pop-pop-pop-pop
. Mowed. Him. Down. No joke. And Gayle Heatherton? That bitch was spotted watching some high school talent show in Ohio. Entire auditorium cleared out in three minutes flat and a kid got trampled and broke both legs. A gym teacher tied Gayle to her seat with jump ropes thinking it would keep her there. Nothing left but red sludge when the police arrived though. Yessir. The Covington Curse does not respect state borders.”

“Damn,” I said. “Really? Carlos never hurt anybody. And Gayle? All the way in Ohio? She was the best person to argue with. That girl had opinions.”

“She was a firecracker, all right,” Bree said. “Shit. Sorry. No pun intended.”

“So the rest of the world is convinced it's a virus?” Tess asked.

“I saw a poll on Fox and ninety-five percent of the country thinks we should be kept in quarantine,” Bree said.

“Viruses don't tend to zero in on single classes of high school students in random towns in New Jersey,” Tess said, a valid argument that many of us had already raised.

“You think that matters?” Bree asked. “People don't use logic when they're scared. And they're friggin' terrified of us. And not just us. Anyone who used to be in our class.”

“Really? Former classmates?” Dylan asked.

“Yep,” Bree said. “Rounding them up too.”

Indeed. The ones who moved (even as far back as elementary school), the expelled ones, the ones who dropped out—they were on their way to join us as well. Including Jane Rolling.

W
hen Jane Rolling arrived on the eighth day of our quarantine, her face was red with fury. At least that's how Tess described it. She noticed Jane before I did and approached me in the commons to whisper, “
You've got competition
.”

“What hole did they dig her out of?” I asked. “I mean, where is she living these days?”

“Ask your boyfriend. I saw him hugging her before she went off to be deloused.”

It'd be a lie to say I wasn't jealous, but I also knew that Dylan was entitled to hug whomever he damn pleased. And rather than be a passive-aggressive sneak, trying to squeeze information out of second- or third-hand parties, I decided to go directly to the source.

It did take me a few hours to build up the nerve. Hours spent pacing and peering around shoulders to see if I'd spot Jane. That was the thing about our quarantine. By day six, they had stopped
running tests on everyone except the new arrivals, so the rest of us were basically hanging around. Which was kind of fun for the first day or so. Shooting the shit, catching up with people I hadn't seen in weeks.

Boredom set in pretty quickly, though. Yes, I had Dylan, but our physical contact was limited to hand-holding and quick kisses stolen in moments when the SEALs weren't watching. I thought constantly about that night in my room, wishing I'd endured the headaches and dizziness from the concussion and taken the chance on lust while I had it. I was feeling much better now, with only the occasional dizzy spell, which meant I was also feeling a hell of a lot more horny.

God, I hate that word.
Horny
. It's so lecherous and pre-teeny. And yet it's the best way to describe what I was feeling. Hot and bothered? Ugh. No. In heat? Gross. What am I, a farm animal? No, I was horny. Like we all are at some point.

That's what I tried to bottle up—my horndog jealousy of a girl who'd journeyed to parts of Dylan I had yet to explore—when I finally approached Jane in the canteen tent. She was eating soup and I sat down next to her with my chair flipped around and my arms draped over the back. I figured this made me look relaxed, but in control.

“
Hola
,” I said, because suddenly I spoke Spanish or something.

“Hi,” Jane chirped, her voice so much smaller and sweeter than I expected.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked and realized immediately that it might have sounded like I was threatening her, so I added, “I mean, do you know my name?”

She shrugged.

“Well, I guess I can make something up then,” I said with a forced chuckle.

She sipped her soup.

“It's Mara, actually,” I said. “You're Jane Rolling, right?”

“I am,” she answered, which of course I already knew. Her round face and cropped black hair were unmistakable. I had been picturing them on the shoulders of rodents and pit bulls and pretty much any fugly beast I could imagine.

“Do you at least remember me from Covington High?” I asked.

“I recognize your face,” she said. “And now I know your name is Mara Actually.”

Her delivery was completely deadpan, and I both loved and hated her for that. If anyone was in control but playing it cool, it was her, and I don't think she even realized it.

“I'm just gonna get it out,” I said. “I'm with Dylan now. We are like . . . a thing.”

Another sip of soup—goddamn her—and then she finally looked me in the eye. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” I replied, and I made sure she heard me exhale. “Now that it's out in the open, I'm guessing I don't have to worry about you shanking me in the shower or anything like that?”

“Our
thing
ended over a year ago,” she said. “I moved on. Bigger stuff to worry about.”

“Right, right, right,” I said, a right for each of her triplets. “Speaking of which, since we're both being all honest with each other, I have to ask you something.”

“I doubt I could stop you if I tried,” she said, which almost sounded like a compliment. Almost.

I fake-chuckled again. “You're right about that. So here goes. Why no blood test for Dylan? I mean, if it was ever a question of paternity, that is.”

If I hadn't hit a sore spot, I had certainly hit
something
. Jane pushed the soup away and scooted closer to me. “
If you're worried about your boyfriend being a daddy, worry no more,
” she whispered. “
There is no doubt about it. They aren't his
.”

It felt like I was the one finding out I wasn't the father. I ran the back of my hand across my brow and flicked it theatrically. “Wooo. That's . . . that's fantastic. Thank you for that.”

Jane shrugged.

The relief wasn't complete, obviously. “So why doesn't Dylan know?” I asked.

“Would it surprise you if I said he was a strange boy?”

“It would not.”

“Well then, there you are.”

“Okay. But it doesn't . . . I'm still confused.”

“He doesn't want to know even the most obvious things,” Jane told me. “Not really. Dylan believes in ideas more than facts. Want to break the boy's heart? Give him something real.”

“I'm real,” I said, patting my body to make sure. “I haven't broken him yet. So he should be able to handle the truth about the triplets.”

Jane sighed a sigh that could feed a village and said, “Talk to him about it if you need the whole story. I've already told you more than I should have.”

“Can I just ask you one last eensy-teensy itty-bitty widdle thing?” I said, and I put my hands together and tilted my head like I was a cherub.

And goddamnit if a tear didn't slip out of the girl's eye and hang there on her cheek, as if to chastise me for being so damn pushy. “You can ask me only one question,” she said as she put a finger up. “You can ask me if I miss my kids more than life itself and if I give a damn about you and Dylan, and what you know, and why you know it, and if your love is eternal or whatever it is you want me to make you feel better about. You can ask me that and only that. So is that your question?”

I started to reach forward to wipe away her tear and then follow up with a hug, but I realized at the last moment it was absolutely the worst thing I could do. “No,” I said as I pulled back and stood up. “I already know the answer to that one.”

I let her be.

W
e were allowed to write letters to our parents, but to keep the quarantine effective, those letters had to be typed and emailed by the SEALs. No physical things were allowed out and very few physical things, outside of captured refugees, were allowed in. The doctors wanted to keep exposure to the exterior world at a minimum, so that nothing could throw a monkey wrench into their “research.” It certainly seemed suspect, but Doc Ramirez assured us they were close to reaching a conclusion and all of us lab rats made a pact to cooperate. Gayle's fate had proven that running away wasn't going to save us and Carlos's fate had showed that no one else in the world wanted us around anyway. This remained the best chance we had at survival.

We were still allowed to see our loved ones via video. Every evening at eight p.m. we shuffled over to the communications tent and watched the candlelight vigil. Our parents were often there, lined up along the fence, waving or singing or putting up their
thumbs in support. Some held signs that wouldn't have been out of place at a marathon.

WE BELIEVE IN YOU, BREE

SO PROUD OF YOU, PIETRO

BE SURE TO HYDRATE, HELEN

Or whatever. My parents didn't make any signs, but at least one of them attended each evening. As for the rest of the crowd, it was a rotating cast of familiar and unfamiliar faces. With each successive day, the crowd got smaller, but getting a glimpse of them was still our favorite part of our routine. The camera panned back and forth, and different kids would cheer when they saw a loved one.

On the day Jane arrived, the camera panned over three tiny boys dressed identically in powder-blue suits. Friggin' adorable. They were standing at the fence, but they were only barely standing. Two older folks who must have been Jane's parents were holding their hands. The crowd let out the obligatory
awww
s when they saw these cuties. I didn't bother to look in Jane's direction. I didn't want my cold heart to shatter in two, after all.

But as the camera moved on, I couldn't help but turn to Dylan. A few spots down from the triplets stood a young man. I couldn't ever remember meeting the guy, but he had a face I recognized. Dylan's face. Same bone structure; same deep, dark eyes. Only this face was a few years older and its eyes never strayed from the triplets.

“Is that your brother?” I asked him. “Warren, right? He hasn't visited until tonight, has he?”

Dylan nodded, but he didn't look at Warren. He looked at Jane instead.

I put a hand to my mouth and resisted the urge to howl. What a supersleuth I was, because suddenly I understood. Jane and the Hovemeyer boys had gotten themselves into one hell of a love triangle.

D
ylan had snuck off to bed without even a good-night so I didn't have the chance to confront him with my discovery, and once morning arrived, we barely had a moment to rub our eyes before some SEALs shepherded us from our cots to the communications tent. There was no screen set up, no camera or computer anywhere. Only Doc Ramirez. Since she wasn't wearing a mask, we knew right away that something had changed.

“First off, I want to thank you all for your cooperation,” she said. “We couldn't have asked for a better bunch of young men and women to work with.”

Work with? That got more than a few laughs.

Ramirez put up a hand to quiet the crowd, and smiled as she said, “I know. I know. This hasn't been easy, but the good news is that you are all virus free and you'll be going home today.”

Pure elation. Putting her hand up again did nothing to quell the happy noises. Ramirez had to wait this one out.

“We will be releasing a statement to the press later today,” she said when the room finally settled down. “But I do have to warn you all of something. No matter what we say, the public will still be afraid of you. Simply because you are virus free, it doesn't mean we can guarantee that this, whatever it is, won't happen again. So we not only advise that you remain within the borders of Covington, we require it.”

“We?” Skye Sanchez asked. “Who's we?”

“The US government and its armed forces under the authority of our commander in chief.”

“You can't do that,” Claire Hanlon said. “You shouldn't even have been able to detain all of us. I came voluntarily, of course, but don't doubt for one minute that my lawyer won't sue each and every one of you if you force me to do something against my will.”

Though they hardly moved any other muscles, the SEALs inched their fingers closer to their triggers. Ramirez's smile fell away.

“Your lawyer can certainly try,” she said. “But know that we are doing this with the full support of our president and congress. If anyone attempts to leave town, authorities will know and you will be detained.”

“That's not legal and that's not possible,” Claire said.

“It is and it is,” Ramirez said. “Thank you again and good luck to you all.”

With her head down, Doc Ramirez exited one side of the tent and a SEAL peeled back a flap on the other side. Sunlight poured in. Buses were lined up and ready to take us home.