One Was Lost(8)

Lucas is on his feet now, moving closer. Coming for me? Paranoid thought, but still, the fear needles into my spine. He turns toward Mr. Walker’s tent, and I can’t move as he unzips the door, throwing it open. Still can’t move when I hear him inside, calling Mr. Walker’s name. Softly first and then louder. Swearing, followed by an awful rustle and grunt.

He’s hurting him!

Fear turns to adrenaline, and I sprint for my teacher’s tent, my steps landing fast and sloppy. I don’t know what I’m thinking when I throw open that flap, but I freeze at the entrance, some ancient nameless instinct holding me back.

“There’s something wrong with him,” someone says. I can’t tell if it’s Mr. Walker or Lucas. It’s too dark in here. My eyes strain for focus, my brain still sloshing around, trying to find sense in something.

“Come help me!” It’s Lucas.

My eyes adjust, shadows forming into shapes. Lucas is bent over Mr. Walker. I crouch just inside the door. Our teacher looks awful. Pale and slack, half on his sleeping bag and half propped on Lucas’s knees. Is he breathing?

“Sera!” He looks urgent. “Help me!”

I jerk at the sound of my name, and our eyes lock. It’s as close as we’ve been since the party, but this is different. Seeing him like this—face blanched and breath shaky—sends goose bumps up on my arms.

“Wake him up,” I say, the words as hollow as my middle.

“I can’t.” Lucas shakes his head. “I can’t.”

Outside, someone screams.

My feet and legs wobble when I stand, and the world is topsy-turvy back in the sunlight beyond the tent door. I blink sweat out of my stinging eyes and take a step, searching for the source of the wailing. Trees. Trees. Emily.

She’s in shorts and a T-shirt, her hands bunched in both sides of her hair, her mouth stretched wide, even though her scream has dribbled into silence.

I grit my teeth against my swimming head and start walking. Emily sucks in another breath. I think she wants to scream again, but she’s empty. She backs up, up, up until she’s against a tree near the pile of our stuff, the color drained from her face.

Is she going to pass out? I think she might, so I move faster, feeling the ground go wobbly. My steps thud off rhythm. Emily spots me and yelps.

I reach for her, not sure if I’m trying to comfort her or hoping she’ll catch me. She scuttles beyond my reach, her eyes like bits of coal.

“Emily, it’s OK!” I say, lifting my hands.

She flinches again, and I hear footsteps coming my way.

“You’re freaking her out.”

Jude, of all people. Puke down the front of what I’m betting is a sixty-dollar T-shirt.

He crouches, and I follow his lead. We’re treating her like a cornered dog, and I don’t like it. What are we going to do, offer her a Beggin’ Strip?

“All right?” Jude asks her.

Emily’s face hardens at him, but she nods.

I swipe a shaky hand through my hair, and my knees are too weak to hold the crouch. My butt hits the ground, so I just sit, trying to breathe. Trying to think.

“Mr. Walker’s alive, but he’s not conscious,” Lucas says, his heavy footsteps behind me.

“Did he get sick?” Jude asks.

Lucas sneers. “Apparently, that’s just you, little girl.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” I snap, then to Jude, “I feel raunchy too.”

“Like, hungover raunchy, right?” he asks.

I wouldn’t know, so I shrug, but Lucas mutters something that sounds agreeable. Jude’s shoulders hitch down a notch, and he finally takes that last earbud out.

“What the hell happened to us?” he asks as he’s coiling the white cord, examining the bare plug with a frown.

“They did it to you too,” Emily says. We all turn to her. She crosses one arm over her middle and juts her chin at Jude’s arm. “Your word is different.”

“What w—” He never finishes. Because when he turns his left wrist up, we all see it. The letters are ornate like a tattoo. Or maybe henna. His reads Deceptive.

Emily lifts her wrist, and I have to squint to make out the letters.

Damaged.

Lucas checks his and snorts. “Of course.” Then he flips his wrist up so we can all see.

Dangerous.

My turn. I swallow against the lump in my throat, and it goes down hard, bruises my insides. Just do it. Do it.

I turn my wrist up, praying so hard for a familiar olive stretch of clean skin. I see the black marker ink immediately. My mouth goes watery and sour before I even read it. I hold it up but close my eyes because I know they won’t like it.

My word is Darling.





Chapter 4


No one says a thing. Maybe what’s written on our wrists is all the words we need. Or maybe we’re all trying not to throw up. It’s probably both. We need to think. We need to do something.

I lumber to my feet, still spinny and sick. Lucas steadies me with a hand to my hip, and I recoil. “Don’t!”

He backs away, palms raised. “Calm down, Darling.”

“Yeah, I’d love to know why you get the nice word,” Jude says, voice rough.

The letters on my wrist burn. “It’s not like I wrote this.”