My smile freezes in place. A new set of headlights coming down the street blinds me for a moment. But when the car parks in front of Duke’s house and the headlights dim, I wish they had blinded me for longer, because I can now see it’s Laila’s truck.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, though, right?” Duke’s voice in my ear reminds me I’m still on the phone. “Can we talk then?”
Laila steps out of the car, her long legs glowing in the streetlight. I pray for her to walk across the street to Bobby’s house. But she doesn’t. She bends over to check herself out in her side mirror, fluffs her hair, and then walks the path to Duke’s front door.
“Addie? Are you still there?” Duke asks. “We can talk tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.” I don’t know how I manage to choke out any words, but I do. “Sure.”
Laila reaches over and rings the doorbell.
“I have to go, girlfriend. Sleep good.”
“Bye.” I hang up and stare at my phone as if it were the one who betrayed me and not my best friend. I want to start the car and drive away, but apparently I’m a fan of self-torture, because I force myself to watch Duke answer the door, hug Laila, and then take her inside.
CHAPTER 32
NOR-Mo-ther-mia: v. the process of returning my body temperature back to normal
“You went to Lincoln High?” Trevor asks me this from across the yard. My eyes sting with the question. I just want to disappear with my dignity, but he’s standing between me and my only escape—the house.
I must’ve been staring at the front door, because he steps aside and gives the don’t-let-me-stand-in-your-way gesture. At this point, much to my dismay, my body starts shivering from the cold. With my eyes focused on the door, I walk toward it as fast as possible. “I’m sorry,” I say as I pass him.
“Addison, wait. Don’t I get an explanation?” His voice is low and hard.
I know he deserves one, but I lied. It’s as simple as that. I’m still lying. And according to my dad, I have to keep lying. Nobody can ever know who I am. I stop on the porch, my back to him, and take the anger I feel toward the Compound for making me keep their secret and let it swell inside me. It’s the only emotion that’s going to let me survive looking at him.
I turn and his eyes are pleading. “Do you want one?” I ask.
“Yes. You lied to me. And for what? Were you worried that I hated your old school because of my shoulder?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t. It’s just part of the sport. Why would I judge you for that?”
“Because it’s more than that. There’s more.” So much more.
“Can we talk?”
I nod and lead him into the house. We sit on opposite ends of the couch, and he won’t even look at me. I have to tell him.… I want to tell him. The problem is that I don’t know if the truth is going to make everything okay again. His shoulders look stiff, and I hate that I’ve done this to him. I want to reach out, hold his hand, rub his shoulder, anything to help him relax. I inch a little closer, and he shoots me a warning look, sending me right back onto my cushion. I take a deep breath and dive in. “Rowan was right. Our school is top secret, and your shoulder wasn’t an accident. But I promise I didn’t know that until after I met you.”
He doesn’t respond for a long time. “The pain didn’t come until after I was tackled. It felt like someone was ripping out my bone. For a year now I’ve tried to talk myself out of that memory. I don’t understand. How did they do it? Special technology?”
I bite on my lip. “I’m not supposed to tell you. My dad would kill me. You can’t tell anyone.”
He nods.
“Aside from the fact that you gave me way too many muscles and I’d never wear an outfit like that in my life, I am the Amender.”
He stares at me, probably waiting for the statement to make sense.
“The story we’re writing—that’s me, that’s my high school.”
His eyes that were starting to soften put up their cold barrier again. “Is this a joke to you?”
I shake my head, then stare at the window over his shoulder for a moment, concentrating on bending the light so I can change the color of my eyes. It’s one of the things I had made the comic book version of me capable of. When I look at him again, he jumps off the couch and backs away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quickly letting them change back and standing as well. I hold up my hands. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. Please don’t freak out. I’m still me.”
He’s quiet for a long time, lingering between the couch and the front door.
I stay where I am, not wanting him to retreat any farther. He’s already looking at me like I’m something out of a sideshow. I rub my arms, the chill from outside still clinging to my body. “I can’t read your mind or anything, so help me out here. What are you thinking?”
“I think I’m dreaming,” he says.
“Good dream or nightmare?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He studies my face as though he can find the answers written there. “How?”
“There are a lot of theories. Some say the psychologically advanced have just always been a percentage of the population. Others think that we are descendants of demigods (that’s the only theory Laila chooses to acknowledge). And then there’s the idea that we are the next step in evolution. Whatever the case, it’s definitely genetic—something we’re born with.”