The Ward (8 page)

“Yo, Ter,” I croak, seeing him up front at the wheel. “Th-th-thanks for coming to pick me up.” I smile weakly. He looks in the rearview mirror, brows knitted together, clearly anxious. “Who won?” Curiosity always gets the best of me.

“You worry about getting warm,” Terrence tells me from the front seat.

I grunt. He probably won. Better than Kent or Jones winning, though, I remind myself.

I open my mouth to tell him about the spring, but then I remember—it was a scouting mission, and no one, not even Ter, my closest friend, can know I work for the Blues.

Besides, the
Codes and Violations Handbook
states that any findings on a scouting mission must first be reported to the Blues’ base. Never tell civilians anything. Makes sense, I suppose, not telling civilians. Can’t have hordes of people fed up with crappy rainwater drainage systems—draining acid rain, at that—flocking to a structurally unsafe abandoned building all at once. Recipe for disaster.

I keep my mouth shut, but that giddy feeling about my discovery, combined with Derek’s warm, muscled body all pressed up against my side, makes me feel nothing short of bliss. I choose to ignore pain at this particular moment. And then, of course, reality does its thing.

My postrace report to the boss
. I’ve never missed a report. I don’t even know what the procedure is. . . . Will Chief punish me? A subzero fear works its way up my spine.
It’s okay
, I tell myself.
It’s okay
. He must’ve heard about the accident by now. He’ll know I haven’t bailed.

Still, I can’t help the shivers once they start in.

Derek rubs his hands together nervously. “You should really get out of your . . .” He coughs a little, as if not wanting to finish his sentence.

He thinks I’m shivering because I’m cold. . . .

“Terrence brought a pair of sweats you can change into.”

I almost gather the energy to full-on belly laugh. Now, I’d be lying if I said that the thought of being in a state of undress with Derek hadn’t crossed my mind at one point or another. But this is a whole different story. No way, I am
not
getting naked in a mobile full of boys. “Psht. You wish,” I spit out. I’ll stay cold in my shredded, shrunken leather getup, thank you very much.

A line of static comes in through Ter’s headset. He holds down the green button by the mouthpiece. “Come in?” He releases the button, then looks back.

“She with you, Terrence?” Even through the low-grade mic, I can hear Benson’s fear.

“Sure is,” Terrence replies with a heaving sigh.

“You okay, kiddo?” Benny asks.

He never calls me “kiddo.” I race with the big boys, and I get treated accordingly. But the way he says this now, well, he must be feeling especially mushy.

Terrence passes the headset to the backseat and I slip it over my ears, clicking the green button. “Fantastico, B. Just a few scrapes.” I pause, remembering how I have to meet up with Justin. “I’ll see you at the Tank in an hour,” I say, my hand instinctively moving to the tender gash on my forehead. At least it’s not dripping anymore. That was annoying. And painful, obviously.

“The Tank, Ren?”

The line goes silent, and Ter and Derek exchange glances in the rearview mirror.

I groan, embarrassed that I forgot. A racer goes down, the after-party gets postponed a night. A nice bit of respect in a not-so-respectful industry. “Oh. Right,” I mumble, unhappy. I don’t like delaying my meeting with Officer Cory.

“It’s a good thing, Ren.” Derek’s eyes catch mine, and I glance away. He pulls a scratchy wool blanket from underneath the seat and drapes it over my shoulders and around my waist. “You need rest.” And though it doesn’t do much to warm me, I’ll admit that it’s nice when he starts to rub the blanket over my leather sleeves.

Looking up at Terrence and Derek, I’m amazed. It still amazes me . . . having people who care. The only missing piece is Aven. For a second I’m angry she’s not with me, even though she’s home, barely moving these days, and couldn’t make it here if she tried. Still. I nearly died.

She’s the only person I really want with me right now.

“Let’s hitch your mobile now, too. . . . Will you last that long? I can come back for it if you’d rather,” Terrence asks.

“Let’s just get her home, Terrence,” Derek responds. “She needs to get warm. I think the worst is over, but still.”

“No, really, I’m—”

“Later. He’ll come back for it later,” he interrupts.

I do not want to leave my Rimbo all crunched and crushed at the bottom of the channels, but I have no choice. “Fine,” I grumble. Whatever. It’s clearly not fine, but so long as my Rimbo gets to Benson’s garage, I’ll be okay. Then he can fix her up, find out what happened to “Plan B” and why it bunked out on me.

“Ter, you know where Ren’s place is from here?” Derek asks.

My fists ball up instinctively. “
No
—not like this. Aven . . .” I cry out.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tense.

I never talk about Aven. Not even to Ter, and he knew her from the start, at Nale’s. They learned early on not to bring her up unless I did. Which I usually don’t.

“If she sees me like this she’ll be so worried. I have to get cleaned up first. Someplace else . . . please.”

Terrence nods, but answers sheepishly, “I still live at home, with my dad. So unless you want to go to the hospital, which is exactly where my pops will make you go, my place is a negatory.”

I know where this is going. I need to get myself some girlfriends.

“Fine. Ter, take Ren to my place.”

7

4:15 A.M., SATURDAY

A
ll this clean water, and here I am just
floating
around in it. I’ve always known Derek was rich; he’s
my
bookie after all. But this is obscene.

Is this what it will be like for everyone in the Ward once the Blues get to piping off that spring?

Thanks to Yours Truly.

I allow myself a bit of brag time in my head, because hey, I did almost die on that mission of theirs. That’s worth something. I laugh to myself, buzzing from tonight’s events. The sound echoes like gunfire against the marble bathroom walls.
Derek’s
bathroom walls.

Man, do I love bubbles. I love bubbles so much that if I could be anything in the whole universe, it would be a bubble. Prepop, of course. Postpop and they’re, well, gone. Bubbles just float around, not a care in the world, multicolored
and
clear, would you believe it?

There’s this one bubble doing a balancing act on my big toe right now. I dip my fingers in the sudsy bathwater and, sticking my tongue out as I do when aiming really, really hard, I flick my finger, sending a splash its way. But it’s a persistent bugger.
No!
it says.
I will not go down without a fight!

It’s nice not being dead, you know?

It’s especially nice not being dead, in Derek’s tub.

The bathwater starts to feel cool, so I reach for the shiny porcelain handle and add more hot. Indulgent, I know.

The water comes streaming from the faucet like pure gold. And all this water! He must have a drainage system the size of Africa. Bet it takes up his entire roof, which means he owns the building.

Come to think of it . . . which building am I even in?

Leaning my head against the hammered brass tub, I try to remember the ride back, during which I was completely zombified. Last thing I recall is dozing off on Derek’s shoulder.

I have no idea where in the Ward we are.

I do know I was half-asleep by the time he set me in the tub—the only way to get my temp up. He must’ve been fretting about the possibility of my getting hypothermia. Eventually, when I realized I was being lowered into even
more
water, I woke. And there Derek was, sitting over me in my birthday suit.

So yeah. There I was, naked in front of Derek. Me. Naked. In front of Derek.

And I didn’t even get to enjoy it!

That’s when I screamed like a banshee outta hell.

“Okay, okay! I just wanted to make sure you didn’t drown. Again.”

“OUT,” I’d said, not bothering to correct him that I did not, in fact, drown a first time. And out he went.

What an effed-up night. It’s like all my dreams are coming true—finding freshwater, getting closer to Derek—but in this really messed-up way.

My mind drifts to other things, like how I’m gonna handle Officer Cory, and the logistics of this freshwater discovery. And the fact that I missed my report to boss man. I bet he’s already messaged my backup cuffcomm at home to reschedule. I’ve
never
missed a report before—I don’t mess around with these guys. Never wanted to give them a reason to cut my pay. We couldn’t afford that.

I sink my head underwater, eyes open. Let the heat flood over, watching a watery mosaic of light and soapy blue. Sound becomes cocoonish, as if the world only exists within a few inches of my skull.

I found fresh.

I found
fresh
.

Then why does it feel like nothing’s changed? Why does it feel like nothing’s better?

The answer is easy.

My sister is still going to die, whether or not Justin Cory quadruples his offer, whether or not everyone gets their fair share of the spring. Whether or not I work for the Blues, or race, or live, or bite it. Whether or not anything. She just is. All the fresh in the world can’t keep Aven alive.

I look at my arm without thinking, to the raised Xs there.

She has only two. Indoors, the Blues don’t test. We talked about bringing her to the hospital, but there’s just not enough money. Cheaper to buy the pain meds black market, and have the doctor make a house call when we’re flush with green from hefty winnings.

The last doctor gave her three months.

I dig my nails into my palms. How dare he give her an expiration date? She’s not an effing carton of milk.

And when she does “expire”?

I’m back to being alone, just like how it was before I met her.

Whatever. She’s already a corpse. You’re not losing much
.

I force myself to unclench my fists, hating myself for even thinking that. It’s not true, not always, though these days she’s less and less herself. There’s a rock in my throat—if I cried it would go away, but I can’t.

Water trickles into my ear canals, replacing the air. The sensation, so small but so distinct, it’s too much. I open my mouth and choke back a wrenching gulp, taking in the sudsy bathwater.

I shoot out of the tub; my chokes become gasps. The drops on my face are no longer just from the bath, I’m sobbing. With the echoes, there are a hundred of me, each one a blubbering mess. I’m so loud, I have to sink back underwater.

The bathroom goes blessedly quiet. Walls can’t hear a girl bawling from under here.

I
can still hear me, though.

A light
rap rap
jerks me back out of the water, just in time to hear Derek calling through the door, “Everything okay in there?”

Everything
should
be okay, but I’d like to say bugger off, because obviously everything is not okay. “Fine,” I shout back just a little too agreeably.

Pulling myself together with a few even exhales, I’m tempted to reach for the water once more, but decide not. It’s already cold, no use making it warm again. My fingers are prunish, and that combined with the red scratches makes ’em look like they belong to the undead.

I step out of the tub and slip on Ter’s sweatpants. Left next to them, a white T-shirt, small enough to fit me, which makes me wonder where Derek got it. Next, I make sure my canteen of gold is latched, secure, to my belt.

I’m about to leave when it occurs to me—I may want to make full use of whatever else Derek’s got up for grabs in this bathroom.

Like, maybe deodorant, if I’m lucky.

On the shelf: soap in the shape of a seahorse (why would anyone have that?), a shiny pink seashell, and a glass bottle of clear liquid, speckled with tiny gold flecks. I push down on the cap and spray the air in front of me.

The smell . . . at first it’s just boozy, like a bottle of alcohol that hasn’t been opened in too long, but after that, it’s sun on water, grass for miles, and a bouquet of real flowers. I imagine, at least. I’ve heard that stuff is great.

Now this,
this
I want to steal.

And it’s probably worth more than a cure for the Blight. But after I spray myself, I leave it be.

I turn to make sure everything is in its place before heading out. I haven’t unplugged the drain in the tub—not sure he’d want me to. Gray water can be reused. Derek seems like the type to have plants; he could water them with it. Or maybe he’s just rich enough he doesn’t have to. Hell, I’d take it with me if I could. Wash some of my clothes.

Voices at the door stop me short.

“Why did you bring her
here
?” It comes out as a hiss. A girl. An angry girl by the sound of it.

I stifle a groan. Only a girlfriend would be over at four in the morning, pissed that another girl was naked in his bathtub.

How could I not have known?

Derek says something in reply, but his voice is too low to pick out the words. I should get closer.

Careful not to make too much noise, I crouch in front of the door.

“I can see it plain as day, Derek,” she says. “I know what it looks like, remember?”

“You’re paranoid.” Derek pauses just as I’m about to twist the brass doorknob. Instead of risking it, I stay close to the tile, craning my neck so that I can hear under the door. “She’s just a friend, Kitaneh. Barely that. I’m her bookie, no different from any of the other guys.”

My stomach bottoms out, worse than cruising off the side of a building, because that’s a feeling I actually enjoy. I always knew I never really had a chance with Derek, but to hear him say it like this . . . it makes me want to puke.

“There are rules,” the girl, Kitaneh, says.

I’m sure she’s talking about bookies and racers not mixing affairs—no one would like that, but it doesn’t matter. He’s just said I’m “barely” even a friend. My neck is starting to hurt and the voices sound like they’re moving farther away, so I reach up for the door handle—I want to see this girl. When I peek out, I catch a glimpse.