Read Online Delirium: The Complete Collection by Lauren Oliver - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Oliver
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behind Alex’s eyes, even as the rest of his face stays totally neutral. I don’t trust him, I realize, and again wonder why he is lying about being in the labs yesterday. Maybe only because it’s forbidden, like he said. Maybe because he was laughing instead of trying to help out.
And maybe, after all, he really doesn’t recognize me. We made eye contact for only a few seconds, and I’m sure to him I was only a blurry, in-between face, easy to forget. Not pretty. Not ugly, either. Just plain, like a thousand other faces you would see on the street.
He, on the other hand, is most definitely not in-between. There’s something insane to me about standing in the open talking to a strange boy, even if he is cured, and though my head is whirling, it’s like my vision gets razor sharp, making everything look ultra-detailed. I notice the way a piece of his hair curls around his scar, like a frame; I notice his large brown hands and the whiteness of his teeth and the perfect symmetry of his face. His jeans are faded and belted low on his hips, and the laces in his sneakers are the weirdest ink-color blue, like he has colored them in with a pen.
I wonder how old he is. He looks my age, but he must be slightly older, maybe nineteen. I wonder, too—a brief, flitting thought—whether he’s already been paired. But of course he has; he must have been.
I’ve been staring at him accidentally and he turns suddenly to look at me. I drop my eyes, feeling a quick and irrational terror that he has managed to read my thoughts.
“I’d love to look around,” Hana hints not-so-subtly. I reach out and pinch her when Alex isn’t looking and she shrinks away, giving me a guilty look. At least she doesn’t start grilling him about what happened yesterday, and get us thrown in jail or dragged through an interrogation.
Alex tosses his water bottle in the air, catches it in one hand. “Trust me, there’s nothing to see. Unless you’re a fan of industrial waste. There’s plenty of that around here.” He tips his head toward the Dumpsters. “Oh—and the best view of the bay in Portland. We’ve got that going for us too.”
“Really?” Hana wrinkles her nose, momentarily distracted from her detective mission.
Alex nods, tosses the bottle again, catches it. As it arcs through the air the sun winks through the water like light from a jewel. “ That I can show you,” he says. “Come on.”
All I want is to get out of here, but Hana says, “Sure,” so I trudge along after her, silently cursing her curiosity and fixation with all things Invalid-related and vowing never to let her pick our running route again. She and Alex walk in front, and I pick up scattered bits of their conversation: I hear him say he takes classes at one of the colleges but miss what he says he studies; Hana tells him we’re about to graduate. He tells her he’s nineteen; she says that we’re both turning eighteen in several months. Thankfully, they avoid talking about the botched evaluations yesterday.
The service road connects with another, smaller drive, which runs parallel to Fore Street, slanting steeply uphill toward the Eastern Promenade. Here there are rows of long, metal storage sheds. The sun is flat and high and unrelenting. I’m incredibly thirsty, but when Alex turns around and offers me a sip from his water bottle, I say, “No,” quickly and too loud. The thought of putting my mouth where his mouth has been makes me feel anxious all over again.
As we come up to the top of the hill—all three of us panting a little from the climb—the bay unfolds to our right like a gigantic map, a sparkling, shimmering world of blues and greens. Hana gasps a little. It really is a beautiful view: unobstructed and perfect. The sky is full of poufy white clouds that make me think of feather pillows, and seagulls turn lazy arcs over the water, patterns of birds forming and dissolving in the sky.
Hana walks forward a few feet. “It’s amazing.
And maybe, after all, he really doesn’t recognize me. We made eye contact for only a few seconds, and I’m sure to him I was only a blurry, in-between face, easy to forget. Not pretty. Not ugly, either. Just plain, like a thousand other faces you would see on the street.
He, on the other hand, is most definitely not in-between. There’s something insane to me about standing in the open talking to a strange boy, even if he is cured, and though my head is whirling, it’s like my vision gets razor sharp, making everything look ultra-detailed. I notice the way a piece of his hair curls around his scar, like a frame; I notice his large brown hands and the whiteness of his teeth and the perfect symmetry of his face. His jeans are faded and belted low on his hips, and the laces in his sneakers are the weirdest ink-color blue, like he has colored them in with a pen.
I wonder how old he is. He looks my age, but he must be slightly older, maybe nineteen. I wonder, too—a brief, flitting thought—whether he’s already been paired. But of course he has; he must have been.
I’ve been staring at him accidentally and he turns suddenly to look at me. I drop my eyes, feeling a quick and irrational terror that he has managed to read my thoughts.
“I’d love to look around,” Hana hints not-so-subtly. I reach out and pinch her when Alex isn’t looking and she shrinks away, giving me a guilty look. At least she doesn’t start grilling him about what happened yesterday, and get us thrown in jail or dragged through an interrogation.
Alex tosses his water bottle in the air, catches it in one hand. “Trust me, there’s nothing to see. Unless you’re a fan of industrial waste. There’s plenty of that around here.” He tips his head toward the Dumpsters. “Oh—and the best view of the bay in Portland. We’ve got that going for us too.”
“Really?” Hana wrinkles her nose, momentarily distracted from her detective mission.
Alex nods, tosses the bottle again, catches it. As it arcs through the air the sun winks through the water like light from a jewel. “ That I can show you,” he says. “Come on.”
All I want is to get out of here, but Hana says, “Sure,” so I trudge along after her, silently cursing her curiosity and fixation with all things Invalid-related and vowing never to let her pick our running route again. She and Alex walk in front, and I pick up scattered bits of their conversation: I hear him say he takes classes at one of the colleges but miss what he says he studies; Hana tells him we’re about to graduate. He tells her he’s nineteen; she says that we’re both turning eighteen in several months. Thankfully, they avoid talking about the botched evaluations yesterday.
The service road connects with another, smaller drive, which runs parallel to Fore Street, slanting steeply uphill toward the Eastern Promenade. Here there are rows of long, metal storage sheds. The sun is flat and high and unrelenting. I’m incredibly thirsty, but when Alex turns around and offers me a sip from his water bottle, I say, “No,” quickly and too loud. The thought of putting my mouth where his mouth has been makes me feel anxious all over again.
As we come up to the top of the hill—all three of us panting a little from the climb—the bay unfolds to our right like a gigantic map, a sparkling, shimmering world of blues and greens. Hana gasps a little. It really is a beautiful view: unobstructed and perfect. The sky is full of poufy white clouds that make me think of feather pillows, and seagulls turn lazy arcs over the water, patterns of birds forming and dissolving in the sky.
Hana walks forward a few feet. “It’s amazing.
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