that. You probably even love the idea of the Dome. All cushy and sweet.”
It feels like he’s scolding her. “I’m not looking back. You’re the history teacher!”
“I only look back so we don’t make the same mistakes again.”
“As if we’ll ever have the luxury,” she says. “Or is that what you’re planning with your little lessons? A way to infiltrate OSR , bring down the Dome?” She shoves the picture at his chest and walks to Halpern. “Unlock the trapdoor,” she says.
Halpern looks at her. “What? Does it lock?”
She looks over at Bradwell. “You think that’s funny?”
“I didn’t want you to go,” Bradwell says. “Is that so wrong?”
She walks quickly to the ladder, and Bradwell does too.
He says, “Here, take this.” He holds out a little piece of folded paper.
“What is it?”
“Have you already turned sixteen?”
“Not yet.”
“This is where you can find me,” he says. “Take it. You might need it.”
“What? In case I need a few more lectures?” she says. “And where’s the food anyway?”
“Halpern!” Bradwell calls out. “Where’s the food?”
“Forget it,” Pressia says. She pulls the ladder down.
But as she puts her foot on the first rung, he reaches up and slips the piece of folded paper into her pocket. “It can’t hurt.”
“You know, you’re just a type too,” she says.
“What kind?”
She doesn’t know what to say. She’s never met anyone like him. The birds on his back seem restless. Their wings shiver under his shirt. His eyes are brooding, intense. She says, “You’re a smart boy. You can figure that out.”
As she climbs the ladder, he says, “You just said something nice about me. Are you aware of that? That was a compliment. You’re sweet-talking me, aren’t you?”
This only makes her angrier. “I hope I never see you again,” she says. “Is that sweet enough for you?” She climbs high enough to give the trapdoor a shove. It flies open and cracks against the wood. Everyone in the room below stops and stares up at her.
And for some strange reason, she expects to look into the room overhead and see a house with flowers stitched into the sofa, bright windows with wind-swelled curtains, a family with measuring-tape belts eating a shiny turkey, a dog smiling at her in sunglasses, and outside, a car wearing a bow—maybe even Fandra, alive and combing her fine golden hair.
She knows that she’ll never forget the pictures she saw. They’re in her mind forever. Bradwell too, with his mussed hair, his double scar, and all the things that poured from his mouth. Sweet-talking him? Is that what he accused her of? Can that even matter now that she’s heard the Detonations were orchestrated, that they were left to die?
There is no sofa, curtains, family, dog, or bow.
There’s only the room with the dusty pallets and the barred door.
PARTRIDGE
TICKER
PARTRIDGE’S ROOMMATE , SILAS HASTINGS , walks to the mirror attached to the back of the closet door and slaps his cheeks with aftershave. “Don’t make this one of those things where you have to study right up to the last minute. It’s a dance, for shit’s sake.” Hastings is a clean-cut kid. He’s bony and way too tall, and so he’s all arms and legs and always looks oddly angular. Partridge likes him all right. He’s a good roommate—fairly tidy, studious—but his one flaw is that he takes things personally. That, and sometimes he’s a nag.
What’s made things tense is that Partridge has been avoiding Hastings, saying he has to study more, complaining about pressure his dad’s put on him. But in reality, he’s been trying to find time alone—when Hastings is shooting hoops or goofing off in the lounge, things Partridge used to do with him—so that he can study the blueprints from the photograph taken in his father’s office, the one his father sent to Partridge’s academy postal box. Sometimes he winds up the music box and lets it play itself out. The
It feels like he’s scolding her. “I’m not looking back. You’re the history teacher!”
“I only look back so we don’t make the same mistakes again.”
“As if we’ll ever have the luxury,” she says. “Or is that what you’re planning with your little lessons? A way to infiltrate OSR , bring down the Dome?” She shoves the picture at his chest and walks to Halpern. “Unlock the trapdoor,” she says.
Halpern looks at her. “What? Does it lock?”
She looks over at Bradwell. “You think that’s funny?”
“I didn’t want you to go,” Bradwell says. “Is that so wrong?”
She walks quickly to the ladder, and Bradwell does too.
He says, “Here, take this.” He holds out a little piece of folded paper.
“What is it?”
“Have you already turned sixteen?”
“Not yet.”
“This is where you can find me,” he says. “Take it. You might need it.”
“What? In case I need a few more lectures?” she says. “And where’s the food anyway?”
“Halpern!” Bradwell calls out. “Where’s the food?”
“Forget it,” Pressia says. She pulls the ladder down.
But as she puts her foot on the first rung, he reaches up and slips the piece of folded paper into her pocket. “It can’t hurt.”
“You know, you’re just a type too,” she says.
“What kind?”
She doesn’t know what to say. She’s never met anyone like him. The birds on his back seem restless. Their wings shiver under his shirt. His eyes are brooding, intense. She says, “You’re a smart boy. You can figure that out.”
As she climbs the ladder, he says, “You just said something nice about me. Are you aware of that? That was a compliment. You’re sweet-talking me, aren’t you?”
This only makes her angrier. “I hope I never see you again,” she says. “Is that sweet enough for you?” She climbs high enough to give the trapdoor a shove. It flies open and cracks against the wood. Everyone in the room below stops and stares up at her.
And for some strange reason, she expects to look into the room overhead and see a house with flowers stitched into the sofa, bright windows with wind-swelled curtains, a family with measuring-tape belts eating a shiny turkey, a dog smiling at her in sunglasses, and outside, a car wearing a bow—maybe even Fandra, alive and combing her fine golden hair.
She knows that she’ll never forget the pictures she saw. They’re in her mind forever. Bradwell too, with his mussed hair, his double scar, and all the things that poured from his mouth. Sweet-talking him? Is that what he accused her of? Can that even matter now that she’s heard the Detonations were orchestrated, that they were left to die?
There is no sofa, curtains, family, dog, or bow.
There’s only the room with the dusty pallets and the barred door.
PARTRIDGE
TICKER
PARTRIDGE’S ROOMMATE , SILAS HASTINGS , walks to the mirror attached to the back of the closet door and slaps his cheeks with aftershave. “Don’t make this one of those things where you have to study right up to the last minute. It’s a dance, for shit’s sake.” Hastings is a clean-cut kid. He’s bony and way too tall, and so he’s all arms and legs and always looks oddly angular. Partridge likes him all right. He’s a good roommate—fairly tidy, studious—but his one flaw is that he takes things personally. That, and sometimes he’s a nag.
What’s made things tense is that Partridge has been avoiding Hastings, saying he has to study more, complaining about pressure his dad’s put on him. But in reality, he’s been trying to find time alone—when Hastings is shooting hoops or goofing off in the lounge, things Partridge used to do with him—so that he can study the blueprints from the photograph taken in his father’s office, the one his father sent to Partridge’s academy postal box. Sometimes he winds up the music box and lets it play itself out. The
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