Page 169 of Under Story

“You were supposed to be home half an hour ago,” Clare says.

“I’m sorry. I lost track of time,” says Laurel. “We just have to run down to the basement.”

“You can do that in the morning.”

“It’s my fault, Ms. Salter,” Eli says. “I forgot something important.”

“Then I’m sure it will be there tomorrow. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, Laurel: missing curfew has consequences.”

Laurel shrieks with frustration.

“I know,” says Clare, sighing. “No one understands you.”

—

Eli drives back to the farmhouse early the next morning. Laurel waves him inside, still wearing pajamas, and they rush downstairs. Her double’s desk is woolly with dust.

“I knew there was a reason I kept this,” says Laurel, as they root through the drawers. “Ha!”

She clutches the placemaker, victorious.

So that he doesn’t wake her parents, Eli mimes his celebration: he slam-dunks an invisible ball and runs in silent circles. Afterward, he says, “How does this thing work again?”

“It’s supposed to send our coordinates to Nita.”

“Louis, too, right? We wired them together.”

“I know. It’s an imperfect system.” Laurel sighs. “Louis was pretty freaked out when I told him about Silas. If he comes, then at least I can explain the whole story.”

Eli nods, a signal. Laurel presses the placemaker’s only button. There is no indication that anything has happened.

“Maybe our screen is supposed to stay blank. It’s not like we need to know our own coordinates,” says Eli.

“Maybe,” Laurel says, discouraged. The placemaker looks more like a relic than ever.

She keeps it in her pocket. The screen remains vacant all day. Nothing appears in the week that follows, either. Laurel plays cards in Riordan’s basement and eats ice cream at the pool, but inside her is a heaviness, a helpless sense of dwindling.

Nights are her happiness. She pages Eli, and he meets her in the orchard. They roll under the Jonagolds and kiss with sticky sweetness. Sometimes, Laurel brings her plaid comforter, and they fall asleep outside. So long as they wake up early, she can sneak inside before her parents notice.

One morning in June, Laurel opens her eyes at dawn. From where they lie, uphill, she looks down into Lower Orchard. The weeping willow stands in bands of mist. Everything is dewy, verdant; during summer, the orchard grows so rapidly that Laurel can almost hear it. In a spasm of rebellion, she turns off Eli’s battery-powered alarm clock. She feels at peace, burrowed beside him; they shouldn’t have to leave each other.

Hours later, Eli jostles her awake. The sun is warm on her cheek, and early morning’s clear air has turned humid.

“Wake up,” says Eli. “Your mom is coming.”

Laurel moans. Her earlier resistance seems idiotic now. If Clare grounds her, she may not be able to see Eli for weeks. She scrambles into a seated position, but it’s too late to hide or flee. Instead, she grabs Eli’s hands. They cling like teenagers always cling: as though the world is ending.

Footsteps rustle through grass. Laurel sees legs move between the trees. But the mules and baggy jeans don’t belong to Clare. Their owner is a teenage girl with waist-length hair and a pendant necklace.

“You rang?” asks Nita.

Laurel gasps. Nita carries a purple JanSport backpack, and she isn’t alone. Three other people come to stand beside her.

“I had a friend visiting when your alert came in. This is Charlie,” Nita adds. “She was my roommate after you at McMurdo.”

In box braids, jean shorts, and a polo shirt, Charlie Two steps forward to wave.

“And I couldn’t break out of boarding school without my boyfriend,” says Louis.