Читать книгу Unbreakable - Elizabeth Norris, Elizabeth Norris - Страница 30

first met Cecily my sophomore year. She was the only freshman in AP Chem, and when it came to answering questions and playing teacher’s pet, she gave Alex a run for his money. She sat up front with a crisp notebook and eight different-colored pens, and she practically fell out of her seat with enthusiasm every time Mr. Easterly asked a question.

She was blond, bubbly, and far too excited to be at school. She was perkiness personified.

Alex had a huge crush on her, and I hated her a little on principle.

Then I got stuck with her for a lab partner.

Alex was at some special “best students in California” weekend up at Stanford, and Easterly was trying to discourage Mason Rickman from coasting through class by letting Cecily do all the work, so he stuck me in a threesome with the two of them, knowing I’d badger Mason into doing his fair share. The lab itself was essentially analyzing a few different chemicals in commercial bleach. My plan was to just get it done—even with Mason slowing us down, it would be an easy one.

But then Mason spilled some of the bleach and Cecily said, “God, Mason, just because Janelle is here doesn’t mean you have to get all weird. Stop letting her make you nervous. It’s like you have a crush on her or something.”

Mason snorted. “Well, I certainly don’t have a crush on you.”

“Thank goodness. I don’t need another stalker. I mean, it’s hard enough to leave my house as it is.”

Mason looked at me and rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face.

“Don’t worry, Janelle,” Cecily said to me. “He’s a little funny looking, but I promise you he’s pretty harmless. In fact, if we let him, he’d probably just go to sleep.” Then she handed me a beaker. “Here, fill this before he manages to spill it and get it all over our clothes.”

I realized Cecily was funny. She made fun of Mason—and me—constantly. And she loved it when we managed to think of something witty enough to make fun of her right back.

She was smart and hard-working—like me, if I was less serious and more friendly. When Alex came back, she and I stuck him with Mason on most of the labs and worked together. Though he hated working with Mason, he loved the attention he got from Cecily as a result.

I’ve already lost Alex. Cecily is the only friend I have left. I can’t lose her, too.

I try to listen to Cecily’s aunt as she describes what happened. Kate and some others heard Cecily shout, “Fire!”—it’s the one thing you can shout and guarantee that people will come running—and got up and ran to the hallway in time to see her disappear through some kind of black hole. But there’s something wrong with either my ears or my focus—or both. I feel like I’m caught in some kind of air tunnel and the wind is roaring in my ears.

We’re on the first floor of Qualcomm, where the small children and families with young ones are staying, where the crime took place. Despite the time, handfuls of people are standing around watching Deirdre and me.

And I can’t stop staring at them, memorizing each one.

Their faces all ask variations of the same question: What are you going to do about this?

A young boy is missing, which is tragic enough as it is. But Cecily is missing too—the girl who kept this place together, the girl who gave people hope. Underneath the lines of anger on their faces is a desperation—you can see it in their eyes. Because without Cecily, how will they keep going?

The faint singed line of a burn on concrete—what I now know is the mark of a portal flaring to life and disappearing quickly—draws my eye, and I squat down to touch the end of it with the tips of my fingers. It doesn’t feel any different. There’s nothing about this soft mark to suggest that two people were just ripped from this world.

I look a hundred feet south, toward the bathroom. In my mind I see Cecily in pink sweatpants and her I ONLY DATE NINJAS Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt coming out of the room where she sleeps and heading toward the bathroom. Her white-blond hair is mussed, probably from tossing and turning, and she has circles under her eyes from not actually sleeping.

I see her stop and her head swivel at a sound—maybe a shout or a yell, maybe just something unusual and therefore alarming—and then I see her take off running toward us, toward an eleven-year-old boy with sandy-brown hair struggling against one or both of his captors. She shouts for them to stop, and one of them turns to her, grabbing her when she gets close, deciding that taking her is far better than leaving a witness. A girl who just turned sixteen, a girl who’s petite, and thin, with blond hair and innocent doe eyes—she’ll be easily placed as a slave.

She shouts, “Fire!” as one of the abductors covers her mouth and jabs her with a syringe. Then they’re vanishing through the portal.