Brave New Love (23 page)

“I’ve been having dreams lately. The same dream. I hear a voice telling me to go north. And I wondered if anyone else has had that dream.”

Silence fills the kitchen, broken by the scuff of shoes and rasp of cloth.

“Tia Soledad has dreams like that,” Marisela says at last. Soledad is the Calaveras matriarch; a curandera, they say. I’ve only met her once, but I’m willing to believe
she’s a witch. “She says she dreams of a garden, a place of death.” She crosses herself, though she’s a Catholic the way Kayla used to be a Wiccan. “It makes her
afraid. And even if it didn’t—” she catches my eye for an instant “—‘north’ is too vague to go looking.”

Others nod, and I can’t argue. I can’t argue that in my dream, the garden isn’t a place of death, only of different life. A place of change. The way I’m changed. Maybe
the way Natalie is, too. I can’t say any of that, though, so I shut up and help clean up for dinner.

•  •  •

The Spooks and Las Calaveras spend the night, which is weird but nice. Weird to have strangers in the castle, people we don’t know and trust like our own skin. Nice to
hear laughter and new voices, to see a dozen people camped out downstairs as if it were a grade-school sleepover. Cat brought hot chocolate. The miniature marshmallows are fossilized, but no one
complains.

The warm fuzzies last until Marisela finds me in the kitchen, rinsing out the cups. Her company should be re assuring—she’s strong and smart, with a brusque competence that reminds
me of my mother. But after today’s meeting, I would rather face a zombie.

“I scared you today. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you.” The line doesn’t sound any better than when I said it to Nick. I set the last cup in the draining board and start wiping down the silverware.

Marisela snorts. She’s had twenty extra years to hear lame excuses. “I’d like you to come back with me. Not to get knocked up,” she adds as I fumble a handful of forks.
“Just to visit for a while. Tia Soledad would like to hear about your dreams.”

And I want to know about hers. If I dream of the garden because I’m tainted, does that mean Soledad is too? Or is there another cause? I don’t know how I’d ask her without
giving up my secret, but I’m almost willing to try.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’d have to ask Kayla.”

“I talked to Kayla already.” I duck my head so she can’t see my grimace—of course she did. “She says it’s your decision. I’d send someone to replace
you, of course, so the Orphans wouldn’t suffer.”

The Orphans are the smallest group, barely enough of us to keep ourselves safe and fed after Michelle died, and Jamie before her. But we like it here, like being together. Marisela’s
exchange-student program is a good idea, but I’m afraid it will lead to the Orphans finding new families.

“Thank you for the invitation,” I say, risking a glance at her face. If she has any ulterior motives, I can’t read them in her eyes. “Let me think about it.”

“Of course.”

•  •  •

Dawn is a peach-and-periwinkle glow behind the jagged lines of downtown when I leave my room. Dreams ache in the pit of my stomach—not the thunder dreams, but nightmares
about Nick and Michelle and red-eyed babies. I shove my first-aid kit under my jacket, guilt like a hot hand on the back of my neck.

Kayla has the morning watch, which is good and bad. She doesn’t need explanations when I tell her I want to go for a walk alone.

“You’ve been restless for a while, haven’t you?” she says. That’s the bad part. “Before yesterday.”

I hadn’t thought about it, but she’s right. The answer is obvious: ever since the dreams started.

“You want to go north.”

I shrug, shoulders hunched to hide the bulge under my jacket. “I know it’s stupid, but yeah. What if this is real? What if it’s important?”

“I don’t know. I guess you have to decide what’s most important to you.”

“Marisela thinks that Tia Soledad could help me understand the dreams.”

“Maybe she can. Do you want to go with her?”

“No,” I say, as honest as it gets. “But if you want me to . . .”

“I don’t want. But it might be a good idea. It would make Marisela happy, and you’d learn things. I don’t want things to get bad between the gangs again.”

No one would survive another war.

“Let me think about it. And let me go for a walk. Outside. I’ll be careful.”

Her forehead creases. “All right. But don’t go far, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Natalie is waiting for me in the same spot, crouching below the wall where no one in the castle could see.

“Hi,” she says. In the soft dawn light, her smile looks like a living girl’s.

I try to smile back, but it feels crooked and wrong. “If I come out of the fence, are you going to eat me?”

“No eating. I promise.” She traces an X over her left breast. “Cross my heart and hope to be pecked apart by buzzards.”

“Are you alone?”

Her smile fades. “Completely.” Loneliness on a dead girl’s face is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

I unlock the padlocked lesser gate, holding the chain carefully so the links don’t rattle. My skin crawls at the sudden vulnerability but I don’t feel anything but the familiar itch
of Natalie.

She keeps her distance as I creep down the slope, trying not to scare me. Or maybe she’s scared, too.

I duck low to keep out of sight of the castle, crossing the wide expanse of graffiti-scarred cement till we’re behind a broken wall.

“I’m leaving soon,” she says, jamming her hands into her pockets.

North? I
nearly ask, but I already know the answer. “Alone?” I say instead.

She shrugs. “I don’t have anyone else.”

“You could stay—” I know how stupid it sounds before I finish the sentence.

She lifts her eyebrows. “And wait to get shot? Besides, I heard your friend—you can’t keep pets.” I wince, and Natalie ducks her head. “Sorry,” she mutters.
“That wasn’t fair.”

I swallow a dozen replies that wouldn’t help anything. “Sit down,” I tell her instead, pointing to a chunk of concrete. “I’m going to fix your shoulder.”

“What?”

“It’s driving me crazy. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

That makes her laugh, and she sits. She laughs again when I rinse the cut with hydrogen peroxide, but I remember what she’d said about bugs. Nothing’s hiding in the wound now, thank
god.

The guilt is back, stronger than ever. I wouldn’t feel bad about giving her food, but these are medical supplies we might never replace.

“Tell me about the dreams,” I say as I thread the needle. Her skin is the same temperature as the air, dry and firm. She doesn’t smell dead, which is a nice surprise. A little
like dry leaves, but mostly like nothing at all.

“They started in the spring.” I hear the pop as the needle pierces skin. She sits very still, watching thread slide through meat.

“Does that hurt?”

“It feels weird. Like popping an earring through a closed hole.” Her hands twitch in her lap, as if she wants to gesture when she talks. “They come with the storms. The dreams,
I mean. I was finally getting used to . . . you know. Then they started. First the thunder told me to go north. Then I saw the garden.”

“Did you—” I concentrate very carefully on holding torn skin closed. “Did you see me?”

“Not at first. Not until I got close. I came from San Marcos.”

“On foot?”

Her shoulder shakes with her laugh, and I wait till she stops to keep sewing. “A zombie riding a bike would be a little ridiculous, don’t you think? And besides, I don’t get
tired anymore. Only—”

Hungry.
I’m glad she doesn’t say it, though. Her face is only inches from mine, inches from my throat and other soft bits. Adrenaline stings my cheeks, and my hands tingle on
the needle. Natalie turns her head away, and I appreciate that too.

I tug the last stitch through and tie off the thread. They’re not quite even, but it’s a lot nicer than looking at raw meat.

Natalie stretches, testing the thread. “That feels better. Thanks.” Her red eyes meet mine and she leans in.

I freeze. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, but I do have a long second to think
ohgodnostupididiotnottheface
. Then she kisses me.

Her lips are cool and dry. She tastes like storms. Her fingers brush my cheek, soft as a moth’s wing.

My pulse beats hard in my mouth when she pulls away; my stomach is floaty and too small.

She raises a hand, lowers it again. The sun clears the broken towers, rinsing her face with pale gold. Her eyes, at least, are alive; wide black pupils contract at the touch of light. “I
didn’t mean to do that,” she whispers.

“I—” I lick my lips. I’m not sorry, and that probably means I’m crazy. “It’s all right.”

We stare at each other in the rising dawn. I don’t know what to say, and for a moment it doesn’t matter. Then Natalie’s nostrils flare and her eyes move, tracking behind me,
and the moment is gone. Footsteps crunch broken stone.

I spin, clumsy and slow. The air is thick and sticky as honey, dragging at my limbs. I wait for the thunder of a gun, but it doesn’t come.

Nick stands on the terraced hill, one hand on his gun, the other sagging under the weight of a pack. It’s my pack, and that confuses me more than anything else. Then it clicks: he brought
my bag because he knew I was leaving. Kayla and Marisela must have thought I’d made up my mind.

Natalie hisses, sharp teeth flashing. Nick’s gun clears his hip.

“No!” I twist in front of Natalie. It’s not the stupidest thing I’ve done today. “Don’t. Nick, please. She’s different.”

“Audra?” His voice is tiny and confused, but he doesn’t shoot.

“It’s all right. I’m not—” Not infected. But that’s not true. “She didn’t hurt me,” I say instead. “She won’t hurt
you.”

“What’s going on? Kayla said you might be leaving.”

“She was right.” I have made up my mind now, and the rush of knowing dizzies me. “But I’m not going with Las Calaveras.” Behind me, Natalie makes a small surprised
sound. I can’t go back to the Orphans now. Nick might keep my secret, but I won’t ask him to. I can’t stay with the Orphans, and I can’t go with Marisela.

“Where?” he asks. He lowers the gun, but doesn’t put it away.

I glance at Natalie. She nods, her hand brushing mine.

“North. Tell Kayla I went north. I need to know what’s there. I—I’ll come back if I can.”

Even if I do, how could the Orphans ever take me in again? I see the thought mirrored in Nick’s eyes. He nods, his face slack and sad. My bag drops to the ground with a thump. He twitches
as I get close.

“Thank you.” Kissing him goodbye seems like a bad idea.

“They’ll come looking soon,” he says, taking a step backward.

I shoulder my pack. Natalie’s hand is cool and dry in mine as we start down the hill.

D
IANA
P
ETERFREUND

The secret to accomplishing anything is to break down the process into a series of manageable steps. I’d tried explaining this to Emily before, but she always thinks with
her heart, not her head. My attempts to be rational were always deemed boring, until she got the positive. Then the fact that I could make a plan of action was suddenly the most fascinating thing
in the universe. More interesting even than Robbie, who promptly (and like the cowardly loser I always told her he was) vanished off the face of the earth.

The first step was tricking the P-sweepers, of course. This is where most girls get tripped up. The stalls at school notice if you don’t buzz in to go to the bathroom for nine months, and
though everyone knows how to get clean urine for a drug screen, it’s ridiculously expensive if you want a long-term supply.

We were covered there, though, because of me. Once you get used to peeing in an old peanut butter jar and saving it-mine to give to Emily, Emily’s to hide in her purse and then empty out
into the garden every night—it’s not as gross as you think.

We were lucky Emily didn’t get too sick, because my Step Two strategy for reading up on how bulimics handle vomit-concealment was not my finest moment.

Step Three was packing on the pounds. Emily’s weight gain would be far less noticeable if I matched hers with mine. It’s funny—we used to do whatever we could
not
to
look identical. Now, we fought to look the same.

It was the subsequent steps where things started to get a bit hazy. Neither of us knew what else to expect when she was expecting, and it wasn’t easy to do a search without setting off
WOMB alerts. We couldn’t even pretend it was school research. After all, they couldn’t argue that we were incapable of handling it if they taught us how to handle it, could they?

Emily got all hormonal and freaked out about the future from time to time, but whenever it happened I just reminded her to focus on the steps, not the future. The future would take care of
itself if we followed all the steps. Don’t worry about what happens at the end of nine months. Think about tomorrow. Think about how to get enough folic acid in every meal (Step Four) and
what to wear that will best hide your belly (Step Five). Let me sit and wonder if the people from the Foundlings (Step Six) were really WOMB agents in disguise, or if Robbie would rat her out. I
could handle it. I was the sensible one. I believed in the steps. We just had to follow them.

Seven months into the program, it all went to hell.

•  •  •

WOMB believed in steps too. They didn’t get here overnight, with their maternity centers and their P-sweeps and their school monitors in their trim red-and-gray uniforms.
Our mom once told us that when she was a girl it was just a bunch of concerned mothers. There’d been a rash of murders—crazy women so desperate for a child of their own that they would
kill pregnant moms and steal the fetus. Some would break into hospitals, dressed as nurses, and take newborns right out of the mothers’ rooms. Others would stalk neighborhoods, looking for
mailboxes with pastel balloons and “It’s a Boy/Girl” announcements. The Women’s Organization for Mothers and Babies was founded to protect newborns and their mothers from
those who’d harm them.