MILA 2.0: Redemption (17 page)

Human threat detected: 50 ft.

Maybe it was just someone heading back to the dorms. One quick glance dissuaded me of that notion. The man was hard to see because of the flashlight he wielded like a weapon, but one thing was for sure. He was heading right for us.

“Duck,” I whispered, dropping below the top of the hedge and pulling Hunter down with me.

“No one’s allowed over there!” a deep voice boomed from the path.

Human threat approaching: 30 ft.

“He’s coming,” I whispered, meeting Hunter’s wide eyes in the dim light, my pulse nothing more than a frantic flutter in my neck. Wide-eyed, we crouched behind the hedge, face-to-face, our noses so close that his breath feathered across my face.

20 ft.

If we were caught now, we were dead meat. The dean would find out, and that would be the end of our plan. At best, he’d ban us from campus. At worst—well, if he was involved with Holland, then who knew what the worst might be?

One voice in my head urged me to run. In the dark, with a head start . . . I had a good shot of escaping. But Hunter could never keep up. I’d left him once before, and I couldn’t abandon him to danger a second time, regardless of how he treated me.

We could pretend that someone dared us. Or that we’d just been taking a walk, and I’d dropped my iPod somewhere. Something, anything, so long as it was remotely plausible. I was an android; I could pull this off. Maybe—

Hunter’s yank on my arm interrupted my mental chatter. He fell back, one hand catching his fall, landing on his butt and pulling me onto his lap.

“Wha—?”

“Boyfriend,”
he mouthed. The reference barely had time to register—Daniel’s idea, right—when his arms hauled me up against his chest and his mouth covered mine.

At first, I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could. I felt stunned, almost Taser-level stunned. My eyes widened and my hands braced on his shoulders.

As I sat there, torn between fear and surprise, I reminded myself that this wasn’t a real kiss. It was our cover story. A
stolen tryst near a deserted building.

As cover went, it was way better than any of my ideas. It just might work.

Human threat: 10 ft.

But only if we convinced whoever was about to catch us.

I pulled him closer until his body heat combined with mine. My fingers slid through his hair. If this guy was going to buy our story, we had to put on a show. I felt the shock of my actions shudder through Hunter and I closed my eyes. His heart and my heart were unified in terror. The pressure of his mouth increased, and I waited. Both for the threat to arrive, and for all the old feelings to surface. At one time, I would have done anything to be in this position. To hold Hunter close and take refuge in the safety of his arms.

Except that now, any refuge seemed like a distant dream.

Which left the awkward realization that I was playacting with someone who, even if he ever forgave me, would never understand me.

Along with the equally awkward realization that I wished he was someone else.

“Hey, you two. Out of there.”

Hunter waited a couple of seconds before pulling away, giving a brilliant performance as a boy caught off guard. He pushed to his feet, swiping a lock of hair from his face with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, sir. We didn’t realize . . . just snuck away to . . . uh . . . you know . . .”

While Hunter stammered, I rose from my spot on the ground. Slowly, with the sense that here, in this planter, I was surrendering a dream for good.

I curled into Hunter’s chest in a pretense of shyness that was really all about not letting the guy see my face. I peeked through my fingers, so I could catch a glimpse of him. His uniform tagged him as someone other than faculty. A pair of gardening gloves dangled from the utility belt around his waist, and the blades of grass clinging to his work boots made my shoulders relax with relief. Not the dean or a teacher. A landscaper.

“Sorry,” I said, with feigned embarrassment.

The man pursed his lips, hands on his hips. He did a quick survey of our surroundings—less the building and more the foliage. “You’d better not have busted any of those branches. . . .” he threatened.

I pushed subtly on Hunter’s chest, hoping he got my message. Retreat.

He backed away, one step, then two. “We didn’t, I swear. We were careful. Just wanted a place to be alone, you know what I mean?”

“I should really alert campus security, let them deal with you,” he said. Hunter and I both froze, my hands turning to ice.
No. Please, don’t do that,
I urged silently.

“. . . but I remember what it was like, back when I was in
high school. The good old days. But find a room next time, or I will call security. Now scoot.”

“Thank you and we will.” Hunter whirled and retraced our path. I felt the man watching us as we left, so I was careful to stay on Hunter’s far side, keeping my face in the shadows.

“Quick thinking back there,” I said, when we were finally out of earshot.

“Thanks.” His gaze lingered on me for a few seconds before he focused on the path ahead.

We arrived at the spot where we’d left Lucas, behind the bleachers and near the giant tree.

The sight of him helped calm the aftershocks still
thump-thump-thump
ing through my heart. I needed his perspective on what I’d found.

Just then, Montford scored another goal. The bleachers erupted in a mass of jumping, screaming bodies. On the field, the players zipped past and high-fived one another.

“We’re back,” I said, when the noise dwindled to just barely deafening. As soon as he saw me, Lucas smiled, and I answered with an even bigger grin of my own.

Hunter remained a few feet away, eyeing us in moody silence.

“That sounds slightly terrifying,” Lucas said, when I told him how close we’d come to getting caught. “How did you throw him off?”

“I . . . um . . .”

“She kissed me. That seemed to convince him we were just sneaking off to have some fun,” Hunter announced.

“Oh,” Lucas said. His smile wavered. “That sounds like . . . quick thinking.”

“I must have really sold it, too, because the guy bought it hook, line, and sinker.” This time, there was no mistaking the barb in Hunter’s voice.

I was about to tell my faux boyfriend to stuff it, but Lucas got there first. “I’m sure he did,” he said evenly. “Only an oblivious ass wouldn’t see what an amazing girl you were with.”

Flustered, I gave Lucas the rundown while we waited for the others. “Something isn’t right about that building,” I told him. “But I need some time to figure out how to get past the retinal scan, and I don’t even know when we’re coming back.” Then I took a deep breath and blurted out, “Next time, you’re posing as my boyfriend.”

I caught a hint of pink in Lucas’s cheeks, and a smile in his eyes, but he let the subject drop.

And then Daniel approached with Abby and Samuel. He rubbed his hands together and shared the good news he’d heard from the dean. “Saddle up, kids. You’re going to Montford classes in the morning.”

F
our pairs of eyes inspected us as we stood in the administration building.

The dean had greeted us briefly, then handed us off to the student welcome committee, which were the two boys and two girls staring us down.

I didn’t recognize the first girl. The dean had called her Celeste, but she quickly corrected that to Celia. Her glasses were pink and square, dominating an elfin face. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a pristine ponytail, and the collar of her green polo shirt looked freshly ironed.

I did recognize the second girl, with the jittery, hazel gaze: Hannah Peckles. Her smile was friendly but distracted; her thin fingers had stubby, ragged nails. Most importantly—she was one of our grant students.

J. D. Rothschild was the third greeter. When he joined Hannah, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. Was this another stroke of luck? Or something more sinister?

I mean, all of a sudden we were welcome to stay here for a few days. “Get the feel of the place,” the dean had said. It seemed almost too easy. Was there some reason the dean had accommodated us? Was there something he knew?

The fourth greeter was a student named John, but he was so engrossed in some game on his smartphone that he didn’t seem to notice us.

Two out of four. What were the odds of getting two grant kids by pure chance, in the pool of hundreds, to show us around? I didn’t need an android brain to know the odds were slim.

We would be following these kids to all their classes and staying in their rooms overnight.

“When your time here is over,” the dean told us, “we’re sure you’ll never want to leave the Montford campus again.” Maybe he meant that to sound welcoming, I thought. To me, though, it sounded almost like a threat.

“Follow me,” J.D. said. “First stop, the cafeteria.” He led us down the hall while casting a sideways glance at John. Then he began tapping buttons on his own smartphone, too. I fell into step just behind the boys, all the better to conduct a clandestine body scan.

Vitals all normal, though both blood pressure and heart
rate were in the bottom range. No internal injuries that I could detect.

The only noteworthy item on Hannah was this:

2-in. scar, upper abdominal region.

Consistent with emergency spleen surgery.

I shifted my focus to J.D.

3-in. scar, lateral side of right thigh.

2 metal pins, right femur.

Consistent with femur fracture.

I filed that information away, just in case. Maybe both of them were accident prone.

“Dude, no, don’t steal my contraband—go get your own,” John said, scowling at his phone and then at J.D. His dark hair looked freshly washed, still damp from the shower, and his brown polo hung loose and short on his gawky frame, as though he’d had a recent growth spurt.

J.D. didn’t even try to hide his cat-got-the-canary smile as he stuffed his phone into his pocket.

“What are you guys playing?” Samuel asked.

“Treasure Walk. Hannah’s latest geek game,” John said.

“You created that game?” I asked, peering over John’s shoulder. The pirate ship and treasure graphics were surprisingly good. We already knew that Hannah had been developing successful games and apps for years, but now we were undercover. We couldn’t let these kids know that we’d done any research.

Hannah blinked, as if she hadn’t heard the question.

“She asked if you made the game, space case,” J.D. said.

Hannah’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh. Yeah. I started it over the summer.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “If you’re interested, I can show you more. You’ll be staying with me.”

I was rooming with a Watson Grant kid? A great opportunity, sure, but also another coincidence.

The ponytail girl, Celia, glanced sidelong at Abby. “And you’ll be staying with me,” she said. Not that she sounded happy about it. She regarded Abby’s outstretched hand like it was a snake.

I was overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu, which disappeared as rapidly as it’d come on. Had I met her before, as Sarah?

“Don’t mind Celia, she’s a germophobe,” J.D. offered breezily, head still bent over his phone. Hunter was staying with him—they could bond over soccer. And Samuel was staying with John.

Hannah yawned and mumbled to no one in particular, “Sorry. Late night.”

We reached the cafeteria, where they had us stow our bags against the wall so we could eat. Located in the building connected to the dorms, the tables were already starting to fill with early arrivers.

Unlike in Clearwater, the tables and chairs were set up
in clusters, like conversation groups, some with straight-backed chairs, others with upholstered chairs and throw pillows. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far left wall. The food counters were broken down by type, though most of them were closed at the moment—a pizza place, a sandwich-and-burger shop, frozen yogurt. A coffee stand with muffins and pastries was already attracting a small line, and another line started to form at the Eggs and More station, where I could see omelets being expertly flipped.

The rest of the grant kids were missing. The cafeteria was bustling now. Why hadn’t any of them appeared?

I nibbled on the edge of my toast, wanting to look as casual as possible. “It’s nice of you all to share your rooms with us for the week,” I said. “Did you draw the short sticks or something?”

J.D. snorted. “Pretty much. If you have any kind of scholarship or grant, Dean Parsons requires you to be on his ‘welcome committee.’ Lame, but at least we earn homework exemptions the week before finals. When I met Hank, at least, I was happy about it for once. Last time, they assigned me this kid who could only talk about
Doctor Who
and the paradoxes of time travel. If I’d had a time machine, I would have sent him to a parallel universe.”

“I like
Doctor Who
,” John said, shrugging off J.D.’s groan.

Just then, Hannah’s jaw contorted with another wide yawn. “Sorry.”

The third yawn in such a short time span drew my attention to her face.

Initiating scan . . .

Hue in orbital socket, 2x darker than average.

My vision zoomed until I had a close-up view of the skin beneath her eyes. I could make out the thick, uneven application of pale beige makeup. Hannah’s failed attempt to hide the blue shadows.

Chemical compound consistent with cosmetic concealer, approximately 1 mm. thick.

Assessment: Combined with 3 yawns in 78.2 seconds, irritability, and signs of mental confusion, symptoms indicate probable sleep deprivation.

Interesting. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at J.D. Despite his freshly washed and groomed appearance, there were faint smudges under his eyes, too.

I filed that information away, just in case. Hannah had mentioned studying, and these kids were grant recipients. Not unusual for them to work hard, especially if they had to maintain some kind of baseline GPA.

Fingerprint scan match.

Targets approaching.

Claude Parsons.

Ben LaCosta.

They appeared in the doorway, heads down, shuffle-stepping past the first few tables. Claude had a pair of
wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his black hair was just as shocking against his pale skin in person as online. Beside him, Ben looked unnaturally tan for a redhead. And tall. He was even lankier than his photos suggested, all gawky limbs that moved in jerky, still-growing-into-themselves ways.

But it was Claude who tripped, righting himself by catching the back of a girl’s chair.

He shook his head, as if in a daze. He rubbed his eyes and widened them. Forced alertness: that thing people did when they were trying to wake up. Both of their shirts were wrinkled, and I noticed that Ben had on two slightly different brown shoes.

“Hey, guys,” Hannah called after them. Ben glanced at our table and lifted his hand in acknowledgment, but Claude kept his eyes on the kitchen.

“Coffee,” he mumbled, and merged into the crowd.

Samuel studied their backs for a moment before turning back to the group. “Test week? Or too many unsanctioned, you-didn’t-hear-it-from-me parties?” he wondered aloud.

J.D. dropped his fork. He shot a sour look in Claude and Ben’s direction. “Yeah. Tests.”

Celia and John were talking to Hunter and Abby, and it didn’t seem like they heard him. But Hannah did.

She froze with her coffee cup halfway to her lips, her eyes narrowing at J.D.

Initiating scan:

Heart rate: Increase from 75 to 120 bpm.

Five beats later, and:

Heart rate: Decrease back to 78 bmp.

Sudden, transient spike, indicative of brief cardiovascular activity or sudden emotional lability, typically anger, stress, or fear.

Either J.D. was lying about the tests . . . or Hannah thought he should be.

We didn’t get a chance to talk to Claude or Ben, or wait for Sharon to show. Hannah glanced at her phone and grabbed her tray.

“We should head up to the dorm, if we want to have time to stash your stuff before class.” She hoisted her backpack and stood.

The rest of us followed suit, while I evaluated what we’d learned.

So far, we’d met four out of five Watson Grant recipients. All four of them showed signs of fatigue, which, while not uncommon at a prestigious prep school, seemed like a high ratio for our sample size. Probably most intriguing was that one of them may have lied about the reason for the fatigue. And if so, why?

Maybe the sleep deprivation related to something more sinister than studying. What if, say, Holland was deliberately limiting their sleep to make them more malleable? Prisoners
of war were often kept awake for days on end in order to make them more open to the demands of their captors. I wouldn’t put it past Holland to implement this technique on his test subjects. The man had an unsavory history when it came to teens and experiments.

As we made our way out of the cafeteria and toward the dorms, I realized it was a good thing I didn’t need sleep myself. I probably wouldn’t be getting much these next few days.

J.D. paused. “This is where we part ways. No coed dorms at this stodgy place. Though there are ways to get around that rule. . . .”

An oversized set of doors guarded a hallway to the right, and an identical set guarded a hallway to the left. One door on each side was open now, but a shiny metal box adorned the walls on both sides. A card reader, for after-hours access.

Hannah let J.D.’s comment slide, but her eyes flashed. Hannah tolerated J.D., but only barely.

I couldn’t say I blamed her.

Why, then, spend any time in his company at all? If a guy was an ass and did nothing but annoy you, the obvious solution was to avoid him.

Unless, of course, you were forced to spend time together by an external force.

Like, say, a madman.

Hannah and Celia filled in me and Abby on some of
the girls in their grade (someone named Becky was trying a juice cleanse that made her cranky, and Jordan played her techno music way too loud at night), the rules (no smoking, no drinking, no smuggling in boys, no skipping classes without a note, and no leaving the campus during the week), and helpful hints for dorm survival (get to breakfast early if you wanted a blueberry muffin, plug your door latch with silly putty so that you wouldn’t get locked out if you forgot your key).

The double doors opened to a spacious living area, dominated by a flat-screen TV. In a back corner on the far side was a window seat decorated in cheerful red and yellow stripes. Next to that, a counter was laid out with baskets of fruit and snacks.

I glanced back at the striped couch, feeling a whisper of recognition. Had Sarah sat there, during her numbered days here?

“We need another TV. Too much reality crap,” Hannah said.

“Who are you kidding? You barely ever hang out here anyway. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you had a boy tucked away in your room,” Celia teased.

I wondered which of these girls could have been Sarah’s friends. Who would she have bonded with, if she’d been able to stay? The seniors she’d met had graduated, but the new class of seniors—she would have met them. Did any
of them remember her? Miss her? Or had she faded into oblivion? A girl who’d left Montford almost as soon as she’d arrived?

We headed down a wide hallway, passing rooms with numbered doors. Some were decorated with collages, mostly of girls taking selfies or making silly faces, while others were bare. A few had dry-erase boards hanging from them.

Hannah pushed open a door at the very end. “Celia thinks the elevator smells like cat pee, so we take the stairs.” She said it without a hint of criticism.

Celia wrinkled her elfin nose. “I don’t think it smells like cat pee—it does smell like cat pee. I swear, Jayden must have snuck her cat in here again over the weekend.”

Abby and I exchanged a look. Since everyone was being so amiable . . .

“So, are any of you here on scholarship?” Abby asked, in a casual tone. “My mom is really hoping I can get a partial, at least, if I go to prep school.”

“I’m not, but brainiac here is,” Celia said.

Hannah shrugged. “Yeah, I’m on a full ride. Watson Grant.”

“Cool. How did you apply?” Abby said.

Hannah looked startled. “I didn’t—not really. I mean, they approached me, last year. I didn’t even know it existed, but I’d been eying this school already, so it was a real godsend.”

Speech rate: Accelerated.

Average words per minute for this subject: 142.

Increased to 190 words per minute.

Without prompting, my android sensors had kicked in.

Combined with hunched shoulders, signifies probable discomfort with topic.

“Do you know who contacted you? Maybe I could hunt them down and see if they’d take my application—oof!”

My foot swept accidentally-on-purpose right in Abby’s way, and she tripped.

Hannah showed her discomfort by changing the subject.

“Celia’s room is here,” she said, pointing. “That’s where you’ll be staying, Annie,” she said to Abby.

Celia’s door was so plain, it almost looked forlorn.

“Clean freak,” Hannah said. “I mean, she’s a person who likes things tidy.”