The Girl Who Wasn't Read online

  One foot in front of the other. Again and again.

  I end up inside a small room on a narrow cot that is covered in a thin layer of white paper. It crunches and crinkles as the hands push me down against it. I lie on my back and wince against the light that penetrates from overhead and threatens to burn through my lids.

  I hear a whimper and it takes me a moment to realize it belongs to me. The hands on my shoulders disappear. I have the sense I am alone.

  Minutes later, footsteps sound against the linoleum and someone shuffles in, fabric rubbing against fabric as they sit and scoot toward me in their chair. I wince and turn away from the sound, curling onto my side. A cool hand lands against my cheek, gently pressing as it moves upward inch by inch until it caresses my forehead. The fingers are thin and dainty, and somehow I know it is a female. The pressure disappears and the chair scrapes back. The noise grates on my nerves, but I don’t utter a sound.

  Papers are shuffled and the chair returns. “Raven?” a woman’s voice asks. Tentative, soft.

  I don’t move. I don’t speak.

  “Raven, I am Josephine. I’m a doctor. Can you open your eyes?”

  I turn her words over in my heavy brain. A doctor. After everything I’ve been through, been left to heal from on my own, now they send a doctor? What does this mean? Am I terminating?

  The urge to ask these questions is drowned out by my fear. I’m terrified if I speak, whatever small part of sanity left will snap. The pain will overtake me and I will end. So I keep my lips firmly clamped over my teeth and remain silent.

  “Raven, I’m here to help. I—I know what you are.” She lowers her voice and leans closer as she adds, “I have been to the City.”

  That gets my attention. I strain my lids, forcing them open. My left one cooperates but then slams shut again as light penetrates. I let out a cry and roll away.

  “I understand if you cannot speak. Maybe you can nod so I know your symptoms. Does your stomach hurt?”

  I manage to shake my head. No.

  “Your head?”

  I nod emphatically, desperate to communicate the problem and hoping she can fix it. She knows what I am, where I’m from. She must know how to cure me.

  “Your head hurts,” she repeats, letting me know she understands. “Anything else?” she asks. It is a more open-ended question than the others but again, I simply shake my head. The pain behind my forehead is the priority. “Give me a moment.”

  I hear her stand and move around the room. Cabinets are opened, items are shuffled. I can hear her muttering but the words sound foreign. My fingernails dig into my arms where I’ve clenched them around me but I do not let go. The pressure is an outside stimulus that counteracts the internal pain—however minutely effective it is.

  Josephine returns and her cool fingers land lightly on my arm. I shrink back but she doesn’t let go.

  “It’s all right,” she murmurs over and over until the sound of her voice lulls me into stillness and I give her silent permission to touch me if it means making me better.

  Something beeps overhead. It’s not worth risking a peek, so I lie still and wait for whatever’s next. Josephine extends my arm, straightening it and exposing my veins. Her fingertips pat gently at the crook in my elbow. She rubs something against my skin and I wrinkle my nose at the sterile smell it leaves behind. Then something sharp pricks at my skin.

  The pain is quick and biting. I suck in a breath and hold it until the pinching subsides. The entire episode is reminiscent of something, somewhere … I cannot quite put my finger on it but I know I must’ve experienced this very feeling before.

  Before I can guess, the pain in my head lessens. I imagine a wave receding from the shoreline and brace myself for the impact of the next one but it never comes. Gingerly, I pry an eye open. I find Josephine staring down at me expectantly. Her face is round and framed by strands of brown hair that have come loose from her bun. Though older than her voice made me think, she is very pretty.

  The pain dials back another notch and I lick my lips; a strange sweetness coats my mouth. Josephine continues to watch me without a word. “What was that?” I ask when I find my voice.

  “The drug? It’s a painkiller. It’ll taste funny for a bit.”

  “No, I mean, the prick I felt.”

  She holds up a plastic tube with a needle attached to one end. “You mean the injection?”

  “Yes, that. What is it?”

  “It’s a syringe. The medicine I gave went into your vein. It’s more effective that way,” she explains. I take her word for it. I don’t remember ever having been administered medicines this way, but I’m grateful for how quickly it has worked.

  “Do you know what caused my pain?” I ask.

  I’ve rarely experienced physical ailments and when I have, they are always short-lived. Twig City spares no expense on medicines but their first priority is making us so healthy in the first place that we have no need for treatment.

  “I’m not sure what caused the migraine, but I took a quick scan before I injected you. I should have the results back in a day or two and I’ll let you know what I find.” I nod, assuming she refers to the beeping I heard. “You have a pretty significant bump on your head. That probably contributed.” She hesitates and then asks, “Has this happened before?”

  “No.”

  Her voice softens as she asks, “And the bruise on your cheek?”

  I look away. I’m more angry than ashamed but I’m fighting both. “It didn’t cause my headache.”

  “No, it didn’t,” she agrees. I sense she’s waiting for more but I don’t offer further explanation.

  “The scan you took, it will tell us why this happened to me?” I ask.

  She rises, offering me her hand. “We’ll see. Do you feel like you can stand up?”

  “I think so.” I decline her help and push to my feet. I am standing toe to toe with this woman and we are close enough to the same height that we are also eye to eye. There is something trustworthy in her, but just the same, I am cautious. “How do you know what I am?” I ask quietly.

  She glances toward the closed door and then back again. “I have been to the City. I have treated Imitations there for Mr. Rogen on occasion.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To treat me?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  There is something behind her simple answer but I don’t know the right question to ask. The door opens and Gus pokes his head inside. “Better?” he asks.

  “Seems so,” Josephine answers for me.

  He grunts and swings the door wide, motioning for me to exit. I share a look with Josephine. I have so many more questions and she knows it. None will be answered now, if ever, so I make my way past her and out the door.

  I am delivered to my room where Maria is waiting with a drawn bath and fresh clothes. I don’t argue or wave off her attempts to help me. I am too afraid of my own thoughts if I were left to them.

  “I heard you fenced with Sofia earlier,” Maria says when I’m dressed and seated at the vanity. She is methodically running a soft-bristled brush through my wet hair.

  Between that and the lingering drugs in my system, I am so relaxed I answer without thinking, “Yes, she is much better than I am.”

  Maria’s hand hesitates only briefly before continuing her even strokes with the brush. “Truly,” she agrees. “She is most gifted.”

  I curse myself for my admission. Even with Maria, I must continue to be her. Haughty, condescending, confident. If Titus finds out, I am positive I will have another bruise to match the first—or worse. Still, I can’t help but recognize the note of pride in Maria’s voice.

  “She is special to you? Sofia?”

  Maria nods as she brushes. “She is my daughter.” I can hear her reluctance to admit this. I wonder if she is afraid Raven Rogen would use that sort of affection against her. Probably.

  “She is very lucky to have such a caring mother,” I say.

  Through
our reflections, our eyes lock. Finally, after what feels like a million years, she nods. Her expression never changes. “Thank you,” she says, and I know it is the only nice thing I have ever said to her.

  Chapter Eight

  By the next morning, my cheek is jaundiced from the fading bruise. No amount of makeup will fully cover the damage, so I give up and walk to breakfast with my hair in my face. No one in this house will care but I hate that evidence of my slavery is so prominently displayed.

  Halfway to the dining hall, someone steps out of a doorway and I stop abruptly to avoid a collision. I recognize his boots and look up into the face I’ve missed the past twenty-four hours despite all efforts to the contrary.

  “Linc,” I say as my hair falls away.

  “Rav…” My name—my Authentic’s name—dies on his lips. His brows lift in surprise and then it’s as if a mask falls over his features, effectively hiding his thoughts from me. “What happened to your face?”

  “I … was struck.” I am suddenly unsure of how to explain my injury. Or how he will react if I do. He shouldn’t care how I’m treated. I hope he does.

  “Did that happen on the rooftop?” he asks.

  “Yes…. the rooftop,” I say, grabbing hold of the flimsy explanation.

  He stares for a long moment and I am positive he doesn’t believe me. My heart races as I wait for him to demand the truth, but he doesn’t. He nods toward the hallway, a muscle in his jaw working. “Breakfast?” he asks.

  “Yes, thanks,” I say. We fall into step together.

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says after a hesitation—as if the idea of conversation makes him nervous. Or maybe it’s still an inconvenience to speak to me even after our brief connection the night he saved me.

  It could be either. Or both. I decide to ignore all of that in favor of the question that’s plagued me since Daniel’s forced advance.

  “What makes someone … react to one person and not react to another?” My hands twist nervously in front of me.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, although the tightness in his voice suggests he already knows.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about how some people cause different reactions than others. Some incite annoyance,” I say, thinking of Taylor. “Some fear.” That’s for Titus. “Some instill nothing more than cold indifference. And some,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “send sensations of heat and excitement to sensitive places and …” I trail off, my cheeks warming at my own vivid description. I clear my throat. “In your opinion, is it chemical? Or psychological?”

  He is quiet for so long I’ve given up. When he finally speaks, it’s not an answer. “What makes you ask?”

  “I …”

  We reach the dining room before I can think of a reason that won’t sound either lame or obvious. I’m one foot over the threshold when Linc yanks me backward into the hall.

  He spins me to face him and breathes down at me like we’ve both just reached the end of a sprint. His eyes are searching as they hold mine. I don’t know what he’s looking for but he’s bound to find it.

  “I think,” he says slowly, his warm breath hitting the tip of my nose, “for that kind of passion to be real in a person, it’s mind and body. One feeds the other and it’s something so strong you can’t possibly ignore it.”

  His voice is a rugged whisper that sends chills all the way through me. I don’t know which of us moves but his toes bump mine as our feet slide closer. There’s not much air left between us now. I want there to be none. I want to share his oxygen.

  “And what do you do when you can’t ignore it?” I whisper.

  He leans in and for a breathtaking moment I think he’ll kiss me. But then he sees something, either in my expression or in the vault of his own mind, and he blinks. His eyes shutter and all of the emotion he wore a moment ago is gone.

  “Nothing,” he says roughly. He steps back and curls his lip. I get the impression he’s going for snide but it’s twisted up with something that looks like disappointment as he adds, “You do absolutely fucking nothing.”

  As he walks away, I know I’ve botched things in a way far worse than him discovering my true identity. I’m horrible at being Raven Rogen but even worse at resisting Linc Crawford.

  I play tennis with Sofia on the roof. She’s quieter than the last time and takes the loss without complaint or suspicion. I’m either better than I thought, or Sofia is worse.

  After lunch, when Gus is convinced I won’t have another migraine meltdown, I run laps. The guard watches from the doorway but like before, I enjoy the solitude of being the only one in the fresh air.

  The ends of my hair tickle my shoulder blades as I move. It would be more comfortable pulled back but I don’t want to risk exposing the ink behind my ear—or more importantly, Titus’s anger should the staff notice. I am hyperaware of the exposed skin between my cropped sports bra and the waistline of my shorts but I tell myself this is me, her, Authentic Raven, and they’ve all seen it before. Or they think they have.

  Running is repetitive but it helps in ordering my thoughts. I concentrate on my footfalls, the rhythm it creates. Soon my heavy emotions fall away. I still think of my situation. Of Titus and his threats, of my GPS chip ticking away inside me like a bomb whose countdown I can’t read. But my physical exertion has drowned out my mind’s reaction to it all. I am detached and cold. For the first time since leaving Twig City, I feel like I’ve been trained to feel … nothing.

  Three miles in, Linc takes the place of my original guard. He watches from against the outside wall, but I don’t mind. Linc’s presence isn’t oppressive like the others. I’m too caught up in the run to agonize over our earlier conversation. I know I’ll have to face him eventually. For now, I enjoy the comfort his presence lends.

  When I finish, Linc is waiting with a bottle of water. I take a swig and keep walking to let my body cool down. He falls into step beside me, and I hide my surprise behind gulps of water. We are halfway around the loop when he speaks. The wind gusts are strong this close to the edge and I have to strain to hear him.

  “You’re different,” he says.

  As soon as he speaks the words, my heart hammers against my chest double-time. Any coldness or distance I’d achieved during my run vanishes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s something different about you, ever since that first attack where you got hit on the head.”

  I focus on controlling my breathing, which is coming faster and has nothing to do with the four miles I’ve just completed. “Well, I do have amnesia—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “It’s more than that. You’re not … you. I haven’t figured it out, but there’s something off.”

  I can’t think of an answer that will pacify him. The amnesia story is all I have and if that isn’t working, I don’t know what will, short of the truth. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that. Even if it didn’t mean his certain death—or my own—I can’t bear to see the horror in him that I’m sure my words would bring.

  He lets out a frustrated grunt. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Raven. I may only have worked here a few months, but I can see there’s more going on than I’m being told. Not just with you but Titus, Gus, all of them. Everything’s a damned secret.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you should ask your boss.”

  “Titus is a liar and a tyrant. I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” He stops walking and pulls me to a stop beside him. We are on the outer rim of the track and I’m not sure if we can be seen from the glass doors, but I don’t dare look away from Linc to check. “I’ve worked for you for almost a year and I’ve never—I didn’t feel like this before. You didn’t matter. I didn’t matter to you. And now, when I touch you … It’s all I can think about.”

  “You think about touching me?” Just like that, from nothing more than his whispered words, the heat between my thighs returns.


  His eyes darken and he presses in, his chest brushing against the tips of my nipples. They harden to taut points beneath my sports bra. “I want to touch you so badly my hands hurt. If you’d let me, I’d strip you down here and now and bend you over this railing.”

  I’m more aware of my body than if I were naked. It’s all I can do not to reach down and place his hands on my skin, guiding him to the all the right places right here on this rooftop.

  Before I can muster the sort of courage that would take, he blinks. The storm clouds in his eyes clear. Desire is replaced by longing, a desperation for answers. “I just need to know why I feel this way,” he adds. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t make sense.”

  “Linc, I …” I have no idea what to say, but I desperately want to say something, because suddenly this boy matters very much. It’s more than just wanting his hands on my body. “I am different. I’m not that girl from before.”

  “Why? What changed?” He is leaning forward, hanging on my every word, desperate for me to give him a real answer.

  I open my mouth but the next words out of my lips cannot be the ones on my tongue. I cannot tell him the truth. I close my mouth again. He recognizes my decision and the fire goes out of him.

  There is nothing else to do. I begin walking and clear the blind spot we stood in just as the door opens and a guard steps out. He blinks at me in relief and then steps back inside.

  I hear Linc’s footsteps as he catches up. He passes me without a word and disappears inside.

  I don’t see him again all day.

  Chapter Nine

  On Sunday, Titus joins me at breakfast. He is all smiles and compliments and a complete stranger in his forced joviality. It is the first time I have seen him since he struck me but all traces of his anger are gone. My own, however, has only grown. The sight of him jars me so heavily that I have to grit my teeth to keep from snarling. I force one foot in front of the other and somehow I make it to the table. Biscuits and eggs have already been laid out. A steaming mug sits in front of my plate and I concentrate on it.