Revived Page 3

  Like a chameleon, I blend in.

  “Sweet TOMS,” a voice says, presumably to me. I step back from my locker to investigate. A pretty girl a few doors down is pointing at my silver glitter slip-ons.

  “Thanks,” I say, wiggling my toes inside the canvas shoes. Thoughts of birthday party invitations fly into my brain, and I decide to try to keep the conversation going. “I like your hair.”

  The girl runs a hand through her two-toned tresses—golden blond on top and jet black underneath—and smiles with her whole face, from her Hollywood chin to her dark brown eyes. She’s wearing a turquoise sundress and low cowboy boots, and I’m positive she has to be the most popular girl in school. Everything about her is cool.

  “Thanks,” she said. “My mom hates it.”

  “My mom hates these shoes,” I say, shrugging, which is mostly true. Cassie doesn’t like anything remotely flashy or attention-getting.

  The girl laughs.

  “I’m Audrey McKean,” she says.

  “Daisy West.” I smile.

  “You must be new; I know everyone.”

  Yep, she’s popular.

  “Today’s my first day,” I say. “We just moved here from Michigan.” Another student approaches one of the lockers between mine and Audrey’s, blocking our view of each other. Audrey peeks around him and makes a silly face at me, then slams her locker door and moves around the guy.

  “So, what’s your first class?” she asks.

  “English,” I say. “With Mr. Jefferson?”

  “You’re a junior?” she asks.

  “Sophomore,” I say.

  “No way.”

  I raise my eyebrows in question.

  “You look older,” she explains. “You must be a huge nerd.”

  I look at her, surprised.

  “I’m joking!” she says, hitting me lightly on the arm like we’ve known each other for ages. “I’ll walk you to your class. I’ve got Spanish in the next wing over.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Audrey says. “Come on: It’s this way.”

  Audrey and I talk about our mutual love of casual footwear the entire way to first period. She raves about a new pair of laceless runners and I babble about pointed versus round-toed flats. It reminds me a little of the effortless way I chat with Megan, and honestly, I’m bummed when we arrive at my classroom.

  “Hey, do you want to go off-campus for lunch?” Audrey asks.

  “I…” I begin, confused by the attention from someone who has to have friends lining up to hang out with her. I channel a little of Cassie’s paranoia and eye Audrey suspiciously. “Um…”

  “Oh,” Audrey says, her face falling so slightly I barely notice it. “That’s okay if you have other plans. I just thought since you’re new and all…”

  “No,” I say quickly, snapping out of it. “I don’t have other plans. I’d love to go. Should we meet at the lockers?”

  Audrey smiles brightly. “Perfect. See you then!”

  Mr. Jefferson welcomes me to Victory, hands me a textbook that smells like soup and a syllabus printed on yellow paper, and directs me to an open desk on the side of the room farthest from the door. I smile at a girl who’s watching me; it makes her look away. Happy that I get to sit by the window, I slide into my chair, which has been warmed by the morning sun. I grab a notebook and pen from my bag and start reading over the syllabus while the classroom fills up.

  I can tell when the bell’s about to ring because Mr. Jefferson stands up and walks to the podium, then clears his throat a couple times. I set aside the syllabus and scan the room, finding, happily, that no one looks too intimidating.

  When the bell starts to ring, I jump a little: It’s different from the ones in Frozen Hills. Here, the tone is like a longer version of the lowest beep in a hearing test. When it stops, I sit up in my seat a little straighter and pick up my pen, ready to take notes. Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more, making me wonder if he has a cold or something, then opens his mouth to speak.

  Just then, a guy darts into the room and slides into the open desk near the door. Curiously, I watch him until Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more. Maybe it’s a tic. I look at the teacher’s podium and Mr. Jefferson is giving the late arrival a look, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Instead, he introduces me.

  “Class, we have a new student joining us today,” he says, gesturing my way. Like dominoes, each triggered by the one before, heads start to turn in my direction. Mr. Jefferson continues. “This is Daisy West, and she comes to us from Michigan. Let’s all give her a warm Victory welcome.”

  A few people mutter “hi”; a handful smile or wave. I smile politely and wait for the spotlight to move off of me. After a few seconds, Mr. Jefferson clears his throat for what feels like the hundredth time and begins class. The dominoes reverse themselves and I quietly exhale.

  Except that I have that prickly feeling, like someone is staring at me.

  Warily, I search the classroom. Everyone in the row next to me and the next one over is paying attention to Mr. Jefferson. But when I get to the row by the door, I see that the late arrival is eyeing me. And that’s when I realize what I hadn’t before:

  The guy is flat-out, undeniably, unbelievably hot.

  He casually sweeps the front of his shaggy hair to the side with his thumb. The back of his hair flips out from behind his ears in that adorable way that makes it impossible to tell whether he needs a haircut or just got one. He’s got dark eyebrows—the kind that sexy TV villains have—and almond-shaped brown eyes that make him look like he has a secret. He’s slouching ever so slightly in his faded green T-shirt and worn jeans, and he smiles at me in a way that looks almost… familiar. Then he faces front and I feel like I’ve been dropped back to earth from the clouds.

  I watch the guy for the rest of the period, but he never looks at me again. When the bell rings at the end of class, I lean down long enough to put away my stuff and pick up my bag, and when I sit back up, he’s gone. I’m disappointed until I realize that I’ll see him again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the year.

  And for that, I silently thank Vice Principal Waverly.

  At lunchtime, Audrey and I meet up at our lockers as planned.

  “Hi!” I say as I approach.

  “Hey, Daisy!” Audrey says back, matching my broad smile. “How’s it going so far?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” I say. And then I look away, embarrassed.

  “What?” she asks, reading me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “There’s just a cute guy in my English class.”

  “Ooh, really?” she asks. “I want to hear all about him—but save it for the ride. We only have forty-five minutes.”

  We shut our lockers and turn to leave as two girls walk by. They look at me quizzically, then offer Audrey a pair of anemic waves, like they’re being forced to say hello but aren’t feeling it. Audrey shakes her head at them and refocuses on me.

  “Hungry?” she asks.

  “Always.”

  “Follow me.”

  Audrey expertly leads us through the crowded halls and shows me a few shortcuts on the way out to the student parking lot. Soon we’re buckled into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.

  “I love your car,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I love it, too. I spent two summers’ worth of babysitting money on the down payment, but it was worth it.”

  “You must have worked a lot,” I say.

  “My parents matched what I earned.” Audrey looks a little embarrassed.

  “Nice parents,” I say.

  “What do you drive?” Audrey asks as she pulls out of the student lot onto the main road.

  “Nothing… yet,” I say. “I won’t be sixteen until next month.”

  “No way,” Audrey says, shaking her head.

  “Way,” I say, and we laugh.

  Audrey reaches over and turns on th
e radio. She pushes a couple of buttons and lands on an alterna-song. She puts her right hand back on the wheel and taps her thumbs in time with the beat.

  “This okay?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”

  “Geography or art?”

  “Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”

  “Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.

  “Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”

  Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.

  Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.

  “I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.

  “The Hawkeye State,” I say.

  “Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.

  “You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”

  “Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.

  “Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”

  “My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”

  “Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”

  “Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”

  “Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.

  We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.

  Like we go way back.

  Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.

  I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?

  My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.

  Megan: What’s with the post? I’m the one who lives in Grunge Capitol, USA.

  Daisy: Our fans don’t know that.

  Megan: All 372 of them

  I smile and type:

  Daisy: I assume you’ll be refuting my claims in your post.

  Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.

  Megan: Natch

  Pause. Then she asks:

  Megan: First day go okay?

  Daisy: I think so. Do you ever wonder whether you’re making real friends if you have to lie to them about your life?

  Megan: No. You made a FRIEND?

  Daisy: Maybe

  Megan: Not some geek in a study group, right? A real, living, breathing friend?

  Daisy: The geeks were friends

  Megan: You know what I mean.

  Daisy: I do…. No, she’s cool. Her name is Audrey

  Megan: Hey, D?

  Daisy: Yeah?

  Megan: Don’t question this to death, okay?

  Daisy: I’ll try not to.

  Megan: Okay good. Gotta go prove you wrong on the blog. Love you madly

  Daisy: Love you more. Bye

  six

  “You don’t have plans today, do you?” Mason asks when I creep into the kitchen after too little sleep. Last night, I made the mistake of picking up the latest book in a sci-fi series at eight thirty. By ten o’clock, I was way too absorbed to put it down. I finally went to bed at two AM.

  “No plans,” I grumble, easing into a chair. Mason flips over a pancake. “You’re cooking,” I observe. Mason’s actually a really good cook, but he rarely does it.

  “You need a solid breakfast,” he replies. “We’re doing your annual checkup today.”

  “Seriously?” I ask in protest. “No warning? And on Saturday?”

  “Sorry, Daisy,” Mason says sympathetically. “I think it’s better if you don’t have warning; you don’t have time to get worried about it this way.”

  “But why now?” I ask. “Testing doesn’t usually happen until closer to the anniversary.” The bus that went off the bridge into an icy lake and killed twenty-one people—seven for good—did so in early December. Testing usually happens at one-year intervals, as close to December 5 as possible.

  Mason has a funny look on his face. “God asked for them early this year,” he says.

  “That’s odd,” I say. “I don’t remember this ever happening before…. Has it?”

  “No,” Mason says.

  “Bizarre.”

  “I think so, too, but I’m sure he has his reasons.” Mason drops three pancakes onto my plate.

  “Can we do it next weekend?” I whine before taking a bite. “I’m tired,” I say, mouth full. After swallowing, I continue. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense to do the test so early.”

  Mason looks at me, frying pan and spatula in his hands. “Whatever our opinions are, it’s not optional,” he says, surprising me with his abrasive tone. Mason’s usually more chill. He turns toward the sink and, as he’s walking away, he adds loudly, “We’re doing the test today. End of discussion.”

  I read once about the extensive testing that astronauts go through before they get their ticket to space. In my humble opinion, the annual Revive exam is even more rigorous.

  First, there’s a physical, but it’s not exactly “routine.” Sure, they check my eyes, ears, reflexes, and heart, but then there’s a complete neurological assessment and balance and coordination exam. They take tissue and hair samples to review in the lab; even when my throat is fine, they do a culture. There’s a full-body skin scan, where all moles and other markings are carefully recorded. There’s a review of my Health and Diet Diary, a body-fat assessment, and a challenging fitness test.

  Not exactly what you’d get at your standard doctor’s office.

  Then comes the memory test. It’s fun because it usually ends in a contest between Mason and me, and I always win. Last year, we argued for an hour about whether my school in Palmdale, Florida, was on Connecticut Avenue or Connecticut Street.

  “Avenue,” I said.

  “You’re wrong,” he replied.

  “I’m not.”

  “You were only five. You can’t possibly remember.”

  “I can and I do. The bus picked up on the corner of Connecticut Avenue and First Street.”

  “How do you retain these things?”

  “I just do.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that I remembered because of him, that I used to stare up at that street sign wishing I was in the real Connecticut instead of on Connecticut Avenue—that’s how badly I didn’t want to ride the bus to school. Not until I broke down crying one morning did Mason realize that I had been totally traumatized by the whole bus incident.

  He drove me to school after that.

  The memory test is followed by the psych evaluation, which is slightly awkward because it’s administered by my father figure, but so far it’s been okay. T
hen there’s an IQ test, followed by age-appropriate math, science, reading comprehension, and language exams.

  While the testing is grueling, even brutal, I appreciate it for all that it gives the program, data-wise, about the bus kids. But there’s one part I hate: the blood draw. Tissue samples are one thing—a quick pinch from numbed skin—but having fifteen vials of blood drawn at once is like having the life slowly sucked out of you. It starts with a poke and ends with wooziness.

  It’s the worst.

  But even though I see the benefits of the Revive testing—including that dreaded blood draw—the process does drain me to the point of exhaustion. Since I live with two agents and am essentially their human lab rat, my test takes only one day, as opposed to four or sometimes five for the average Convert. There’s no resting between sessions; for example, there’s no recharging the brain between the psych eval and the IQ test.

  After it’s all over, overtired and blurry, I sign my name—my original name, Daisy McDaniel—at the bottom of an oath that binds me to a life of continued silence and make-believe. Then, instead of priming or primping for a party like everyone else my age at seven thirty on a Saturday night, I change into pj’s and struggle to stay awake while I brush my teeth.

  Because summer solstice is nothing compared to this; the longest day of my year is test day.

  seven

  Sunday, I wake up at noon, out of it and thirsty. I stretch, then drag myself out of bed. I’m not sure why, but I check my phone before doing anything else. There’s a text waiting from Audrey: