Malice, page 7
Chapter 12
An hour later, the lockdown is finally lifted, and I leave the nurse’s office. Just as I open the door, however, three people cross in front of me: a uniformed police officer with a yellow Labrador on a leash; Ms. Bui, with a perfectly coiffed silver-streaked bun; and Lalana, tears streaking down her face, her eyes darting around as though she’s looking for assistance.
As though she’s looking for me.
I’m the one who always helps her. I’m the person who has her back, forever and always. At least…I used to.
Every cell in my body screams at me to go to her. To take her hand. To make this right.
But I can’t. The lives of millions are at stake.
I back away before she can see me and get outside just in time, scrambling behind a tree and emptying the contents of my stomach into a scratchy bush. The toasted onion and sesame seed bagel is considerably less appetizing on the way up. Oh, man. The excuse I gave Nurse Hoyle is coming true. Funny, so not funny.
What’s happening to Lalana now? Ms. Bui will call her mom, who will call her dad in California. There will be no excuses. No second chances. Lalana will be packed up and shipped to California by the end of spring break.
I did this. Me. With a simple action, I single-handedly ruined my best friend’s high school career. She’ll have to spend the rest of junior year and all of senior year at a new school with people she doesn’t know. Without the friends she’s relied on her entire life.
Because of me.
I gag over the bushes again, but nothing comes out. My hair falls into my face, and impatiently, I shove it back. Magically, the strands stay, as if caught by a barrette—or someone’s hand.
Oh. A person must be standing behind me, holding the hair off my face. But I’m too numb to be surprised. Too utterly wretched to care.
I hate myself. So much. If I could seep into this hard-packed ground, along with the vomit, I would. Then, I wouldn’t have to live with my betrayal.
The person who has a hold of my hair clumsily pulls it into a loose ponytail, securing it with some kind of band. I hear the zipper of a bag being pulled, and a few moments later, a hand shoves a crumpled napkin under my nose.
I take it, wiping my mouth, and turn to thank my helper.
Concern is etched on Bandit’s face, and his broad shoulders nearly block the crisp blue sky.
Perfect. The most obnoxious boy alive just watched me throw up. He held the hair off my face. Stab me now.
I reach for my hair and discover that he’s tied it back with one of his wide terry-cloth sweatbands.
His ponytail-tying abilities could use some work, but the gesture is kinda…sweet.
“Um, gross,” I say to cover up my confusion. “Is this sweatband still damp?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “My sweat can’t possibly be any grosser than your vomit.”
Okay, so he has a point. I’m pretty nauseating—literally. Spying a water hose at the side of the building, I squeeze past him. He turns sideways, but my shoulder still brushes against his chest. He really shouldn’t be so warm. That slight contact really shouldn’t make me shiver.
He’s not my friend. Not my ally. Instead, his labels are much less appealing. The potential secret admirer of my best friend. Someone I’m afraid is wrapped up in the devastating events of the future. I can’t forget those things. Not even for a moment.
I walk over to the faucet and aim the hose into my mouth. After I rinse as well as I can, Bandit hands me a bottle of sanitizer, which I pour into my hands.
“You’re prepared.” I give the sanitizer back. “I’m impressed.”
He grins, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Never, ever give the cockiest boy in school this kind of ammunition.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. “You should see my first aid kit. It’s very…thorough.”
My cheeks warm, which might be even more ridiculous than our conversation. Only Bandit could sound arrogant about a box of bandages. “You’re kidding,” I manage to say. “You don’t actually carry around a first aid kit.”
He holds my gaze, steady and unflinching. “Actually, I do.”
“Why?”
“Well, the sanitizer is because I know entirely too much about the germs that get passed between people.” As if to demonstrate, he douses his hands, rubbing the formula over each and every finger, so thoroughly that I wonder if I should feel insulted. “And what would-be doctor doesn’t carry around a first aid kit?”
Plenty, I want to say. A quarter of our class must be premed, and I don’t see anyone else with emergency supplies.
But I don’t. He’ll make a good doctor, with or without the advantages that his parents can buy him. He has the brilliance to pioneer medical breakthroughs, a superior but utterly engaging bedside manner. He’ll have legions of patients in love with him.
I can just picture it—maybe too clearly.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt before I can dwell on the image.
His lips sober. “I heard the news about Lalana. I was looking for her, to see if she was okay, when I saw you running past, your face as green as the frog I dissected in bio last year.”
I grimace. Yep, that’s me. An American tree frog, small and green and easily frightened. More to the point, why does he care so much about Lalana? Because they’re family friends? Or because…he’s the one sending her creepy love letters?
“You followed me because you thought I would lead you to Lalana?”
He blinks. “No, Alice,” he says slowly. “I followed you because you looked like you were going to throw up. And guess what? You did.”
He takes a flat white box out of his backpack. Aw, hell, he wasn’t kidding. He really does have a first aid kit. I watch, mesmerized, as he rips the corner of an alcohol wipe. And then he reaches for my collar and proceeds to rub at a stain.
I go perfectly still as my brain scrambles. Do I smell like vomit? I must. Does he notice?
Awareness snaps into the air. I register every motion, every nuance. The crease between his eyebrows. The way his fingertips scrape against my collarbone. The mere inches that separate us. He’s standing so close that if I lifted my mouth, we could be kissing.
As soon as the thought pops into my head, I have to force myself not to look up.
I clear my throat—almost desperately. “You, uh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I can’t have you walking around with these pathogens on you.” He continues to scrub at the spot. “You’re like a first-class incubator for germs.”
Right. Pathogens. Germs.
This is not a seduction of any sort. Wooing me is the furthest thing from this guy’s mind.
“Maybe I’ll just burn the shirt,” I say weakly. “Scorch these germs out of existence.”
He looks right into my eyes. “I don’t want you to get any sicker.”
Seconds pass, and the air between us thickens. If you ignited a flame, I swear it would spread like the fires devouring the Amazon. I don’t get this guy. Not in the slightest.
And I really don’t understand why my older self set him in my path. If it weren’t for her interference, he and I would’ve traveled down our separate roads, happily unaware of each other’s existence.
Why? Why throw me together with the most exasperating guy in school?
Think, Alice. Be smart. My older self made me confess to being in love with Bandit.
She said my mission is to stop the person who will one day decimate the world.
She believes that framing Lalana will help us with that goal.
Bandit might be in love with Lalana.
Therefore…what? What is the answer? I don’t know. Problem is, I have too few puzzle pieces—and none of them are adjoining.
One thing is clear, though. Until I have more answers, I need to stay away from him.
“Thanks for the sanitizer.” I step back, stumbling over my own feet. “I’ve gotta go. Errand, you know. Or a test. Something. See ya!”
With this incoherent bit of dialogue, I run away from Bandit. For the second time in two days.
Oh well. I can’t dwell on what he must think of me. I need to find out what happened to Lalana.
Chapter 13
My triumph at cutting short my interaction with Bandit lasts, oh, about three minutes—the time it takes me to leave him and get back to class. Everybody everywhere is gossiping about Lalana. She wasn’t the only student pulled out by the principal. The dogs also found contraband in the locker of Lee’s smoking buddy, Scotty Spellman. If there were ever a candidate for a world-ending villain, Scotty would be it. The curl of his lip, the way his eyes rake over my body, never fail to give me the heebie-jeebies.
In contrast, Lalana is…was…a model citizen. I should know. She’s only had one sip of alcohol ever, and that was a spiked punch at her parents’ Loi Krahtong party. One day, Lalana promised, we’ll celebrate this holiday in Thailand together. We’ll launch banana-leaf boats into the water on the full moon of the twelfth lunar month. She’ll pose, I’ll take photos—and we’ll publish the images in National Geographic.
Now it’s looking less and less likely that particular dream will ever come true.
“Did you know Lalana was smoking up?” Gabi asks as soon as I slide into my seat for history class, her eyes taking up half her face.
“It’s always the quiet ones.” Isabelle flips her frizzy hair over her shoulder.
Micah looks up from his notebook. “I heard she’s been covertly dealing for years.”
“Stop it.” All of a sudden, Zeke is next to me, his comforting hand on my shoulder. “She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so why don’t you leave her alone?”
Isabelle nudges Julie, who shoots a look at Trevor, who elbows Ethan. They all stare at Zeke’s hand on my shoulder. I can hear the whispers now: “Zeke likes Alice! Are they dating? I thought she loved Bandit! Drama!” Instead of commenting, however, they all back away and face the interactive whiteboard.
My hands shake as I pull out my notes. They have no idea. They think I’m upset because Lalana’s my best friend. They don’t know I’m responsible for her downfall.
For the rest of the day, I call and text my best friend, desperate to find out what her parents said.
Right before seventh period, I hear the ping of an incoming text. I promptly drop my armload of books and grapple for the phone. But the message isn’t from Lalana.
124.274.3567: Alice, this is Mrs. Bunyasarn. Lalana is grounded. Please stop reaching out to her. She will contact you when—and if—she is able.
My stomach sloshes uneasily, although the bushes could tell you there’s nothing left inside. If she is able? What does that mean? She wouldn’t go to California without saying goodbye, right?
My heart sinks to the vicinity of my toes. For the first time since I betrayed her, an unimaginable thought occurs to me.
What if I never see my best friend again?
…
A few hours—and ten thousand years—later, the dismissal bell rings, and I trudge outside. The air is cool, as though winter is digging in its nails for one last hurrah, but the bright sun takes the edge off.
Instead of feeling comforted by the rays, I shiver. How many times have I lifted my face to the sky and let the light caress my skin? In a decade, the sun will no longer be the source of sustenance and life but the origin of sickness and death. The virus will turn our most basic natural resource into a weapon.
And then what? How can the resulting scenario—most of the population dead, the rest stuffed into underground tunnels—be any way to live?
I wrap my arms around myself as my fellow students scurry about, oblivious to the future. As I’d like to be.
They don’t harass me about Lalana. Maybe word’s gotten out that I have nothing to say. More likely, my scowl is unusually effective at warning them off.
Ow.
Electricity. Brain. The Voice.
For once, I don’t even mind the quick zap of lightning. I’m dying for a conversation with my older self.
“Climb the tree,” she says without preamble.
I look at the intersecting branches and leaves of the elm tree above me. The first limb is a foot above my head. Perfect for climbing. “Okay.”
“You’re awfully accommodating all of a sudden,” she says.
“That’s what happens when you travel ten years into the future and meet your dying daughter.” I swallow hard. “I…don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to save her. That’s it. So tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“You weren’t supposed to meet her.” Genuine distress fractures her voice. “My goal is to save myself from pain, not cause it. But if it gets you up that tree so we can have a private conversation, then I’m not complaining.”
Sighing, I plan the spots to put my hands and feet. And then, I leap up and grab hold of the branch. The wood bites into my palms, and my feet scrabble against the bark. It’s been ages since I climbed a tree, but as muscle memory takes over, I slowly but surely pull myself up, my feet walking along the trunk. I’ve only done this a hundred times. Maybe even a thousand. I was taught by the best, after all.
“Alice is climbing trees again,” Archie had tattled to Mom when I was eight and he was nine. “She’s going to fall and break her neck, and then you’ll be left with one child instead of two.”
Instead of lecturing me, Mom just smiled. “Let’s make sure you do it properly, then.”
Every afternoon for the next week, she spent hours with me, observing my technique and offering suggestions. I memorized her every critique, my heart swelling with each word of praise.
She wasn’t like other mothers in the neighborhood. She didn’t cook or do laundry. Reading bedtime stories wasn’t her thing. Forget baking cookies. Once in a while, however, something we did would catch her attention. Tree climbing was one of them.
By the time I hoist myself up several branches and the budding coverage of leaves shields me from the passersby below, my eyes are dry but my soul is drenched. With the memory of my mother. With the tears I didn’t shed every night as I went to sleep.
This, too, is intentional, I realize with sudden and complete clarity. My older self doesn’t just want privacy. She wants me to remember Mom. To be thinking of her during this conversation. Why?
Older Alice might say she cares about me. I even believe her. And yet her motivations are a mystery. Her agenda her own. I have to remember that.
“Why did you make me screw up my best friend’s life?” I plant my feet on a thick branch. An occasional person walks by underneath, but no one looks up. From this vantage point, the tops of their heads look remarkably similar.
“Doesn’t matter because it didn’t work.” Her words bump into each other. “We’ve tried everything. And nothing’s worked.”
I brush away a scratchy leaf poking at my jaw. “What didn’t work?”
“Getting Lalana out of the Maker’s life!” she screeches. “We thought if they never got involved, we could alleviate the betrayal. This would be one less way for the Maker to lose touch with reality. But we were wrong. They don’t even have a relationship, not yet. But the Maker’s already betrayed. Already angry.”
I shake my head. Is she talking about Bandit? She must be. And yet…Bandit and Lalana do have a relationship. They’ve been friends forever. Does the Voice mean a romantic relationship? Or is she referring to someone else altogether?
“Are you talking about her secret admirer?” I ask.
“Yes.” She pauses. “I thought that was clear. Lalana’s secret admirer grows up to become the Virus Maker.”
Finally. A concrete piece of the puzzle. I open my mouth to ask her to explain, but she rushes on. “I already told you—I’m not going to reveal this person’s identity, so don’t ask.”
Damn. It’s like she can read my mind. Predict my every move. And maybe, disturbingly, she can.
“There’s a good reason I can’t tell you. Please trust me on that,” she continues. “For now, all you need to know is that framing Lalana didn’t accomplish what we intended. It didn’t stop the future. All those people still died.”
The half-formed demands leak from my mind. “So I betrayed my best friend for no reason,” I say dully. If only a branch would detach from the tree and impale me now.
“It wasn’t for no reason.” Her voice feels quieter. Before, I would’ve thought she was speaking more softly. Now, I know she’s simply thinking her words with less force. “Framing Lalana may not have taken us all the way to salvation, but it’s a step in the right direction. It can contribute to the future in ways you can’t understand. So don’t you dare try to undo your action!”
I blink. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Man, she’s good.
“We can’t have you fessing up that the weed was yours. Dad will ground you as quickly as Lalana’s parents, and we need you free and unencumbered for the rest of spring break. Got it?”
I lick my lips. I don’t like it, but for the sake of those suffering people, for the sake of my daughter, I can wait. “Okay. But if I don’t see a tangible effect of pinning the weed on Lalana by then, I’m going to the authorities.”
“She’s just one person,” the Voice says, exasperated. “With the kind of stakes we’re facing, the life of one person is an acceptable sacrifice.”
I close my eyes. She might be right, but damn. Why is it so hard to accept?
“How was the tree climb?” the Voice asks suddenly. “Did the technique come back to you?”
I tense, and the wood scrapes against my skin. She doesn’t fool me. My older self doesn’t ask idle questions; she has no time for small talk.
“Fine,” I say shortly.
