Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(8)

There’s an older guy waiting several seats down from me. I slide him a furtive glance, wondering if he’s a carrier, too. Wondering if he’s like me . . . an identified carrier who clearly isn’t dangerous. It hits me then that before yesterday I believed it all. That every carrier was . . . is a danger.

He’s wearing a faded army-green jacket that makes him look faintly military. Or at least like he once might have been in the service. He’s too scruffy-looking to be currently enlisted. He catches me looking, setting cold eyes on me, and then I’m convinced that he’s not like me at all. He’s a true carrier. Alarmed that I’m staring into the eyes of a killer, I quickly look away.

And then my throat closes up, thinking that to the world I’m no different from him. I’m someone that must be monitored. That’s why I’m here.

Mom joins me just before Mr. Pollock appears and motions us to follow him. It looks like he’s wearing the same suit today. Just a different tie. We zigzag through a path created by the labyrinth of cubicles and sink down into the two chairs in front of his desk. I can hear a woman talking on the phone on the other side of the partition. Her voice is monotone as she warns someone that if he doesn’t come in for his next appointment she will issue a warrant for his arrest.

“All right.” Pollock opens up a crisp manila folder and surveys it for a moment. Without any warning, he picks up a narrow black device. A tiny blue light glows at its center as he leans over his desk and swipes it through the air once in front of my face.

“What’s that?”

“Face scanner,” he replies brusquely.

I glance to Mom. Her fingers lightly worry her pearls. He sets down the scanner, makes a mark in my folder, and returns his attention to his monitor, clicking the keyboard a few times.

Finally, he looks at us. “I’ve already alerted your local public school. They’re expecting you tomorrow.”

“Keller High School?” Only fifteen minutes away, it’s closer to the city. I’ve never been there. My world has been Everton since kindergarten.

He looks at me with those small, dark eyes, totally emotionless. “You’re seventeen. You’re required to attend school. You’re lucky. Some states don’t even allow carriers in public school anymore.” The way he says this, the way his head nods, makes me believe he agrees with the policy, that we should be doing it here, too.

He looks at Mom and I can’t help noticing his eyes are a little less icy when he turns his attention on her. He probably feels sorry for her . . . pities her for having a daughter like me. “You’ll have to take her tomorrow, Mrs. Hamilton, to complete all the necessary registration. Keller already has a few HTS carriers, so they have a protocol in place.”

I shift in my chair.

“In the meantime . . .” He hands me a card. “This is your HTS identification. Keep it with you at all times.” Then he hands me a heavy packet. “Familiarize yourself with current HTS regulations.”

I thumb the stapled papers, looking back up at him when he says sharply, “Ignorance of the rules is no excuse. If you commit an infraction, break a law, justice will be swift.”

These words make my chest pull even tighter. “Rules?” I echo.

He lowers his elbows to his desk and steeples his fingertips. “I’ll do you a favor and explain one now. Maybe the most important you can take away from this meeting.” He lifts one finger and holds it ominously before him. “You get one chance. One shot. The first time you hurt someone or behave in a threatening or violent manner, you’re imprinted.” He taps the side of his neck. “One infraction from you, one word from me, and you wear the H. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

Not up close. Never up close. We live in a good neighborhood. I go—went—to a good school. Only hung out at good places. If there were carriers around, they weren’t the imprinted kind. I only saw that kind on TV. Usually cuffed and being led out of a courtroom. Or walking the streets of some crime-ridden area. They were to be feared.

“Of course, if your infraction gets you arrested, then you’re imprinted and in jail.” Pollock leans back in his chair. “You’re out of my authority at that point.”

I nod. “That won’t happen,” I say.

He smirks. “You all say that.”

My lungs swell at the unfairness of it all. I’ve never even been in a fight. Not even in elementary school. It’s ridiculous to imagine me committing one of these infractions he describes. I want to scream: Look at me! I’m not bad! I’m not a monster!

Pollock returns his attention to the monitor and taps the keyboard a few more times.

The fiery indignation fades away and numbness slides into place, envelops me like a blanket. I wrap myself in it to keep from shattering. He rattles off more information. Protocol. He drops that word a lot. He offers more papers. Mom takes them. I can’t move. Can’t speak.

I watch Pollock’s mouth move, but the words are a jumble in my ears. I tune him out and sink inside myself, listening to the music weaving in my head.

Pollock stands and I realize the meeting is over. Mom rises, too. She looks down at me with wide eyes that just don’t seem to blink anymore.

I move sluggishly to my feet, arms crossed, hugging myself. Suddenly, I’m cold. So cold. Inside and out, I’m chilled to the bone.