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At least Mr. Val doesn’t seem impressed.
I take copious notes after that, but it isn’t until the bell rings that I realize I’ve been clenching my fist so hard, my hand is shaking. I concentrate on uncurling my fingers one at a time until the pencil falls against the desk and rolls into my lap.
Mr. Val clears his throat and I look up to find the class empty. He stands behind his desk, staring at me.
“As much as I think more practice would benefit you, Miss Silby, I’m sure you don’t want to be late for your next class.”
I scramble to my feet, shove my books into my bag, and hit my hip on one of the desks as I go to leave. Just as I reach the door, Mr. Val calls me back.
“Miss Silby,” he hands me a slip of paper, but does not look at me as he speaks. “Whatever you did before you came here is irrelevant, but you cannot start anew if you do not change the behavior that got you here in the first place.” I open my mouth to speak, but I’m cut off. “You’re excused.”
I swallow hard and turn, leaving the room.
Once I’m outside, the wind runs long, slender fingers through my hair, cooling the back of my neck where sweat has gathered at the base of my scalp. The sun streams into my eyes and they sting. I blink rapidly.
Maybe Thane is right.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
But if not this, what?
How is it that my body parts are stitched together with tendon and muscle and ligament and thread? No amount of history or mythology has given me an inkling of hope that there are others like me. Mom isn’t like me. This isn’t DNA. This is something else—something other and unknown.
I don’t know what I am.
My fists tighten again—not to suppress the rebellious thread but to quash the thoughts running through my head. This isn’t about the thread. This isn’t about my DNA. This isn’t about being alone. This is about survival. I have to survive. Mom has to survive, I remind myself. That means playing the game—fitting into the mold—bending, twisting, breaking—until nothing’s left of the old Anora, the one I was supposed to leave behind before coming here.
I turn on my heels and march toward Hollingsworth—eyes focused on the trees where I’d confronted Vera yesterday. I’ll find that damned coin, lock it up tight, and never, ever turn another soul again.
If there’s no trail to follow, they can’t find me, right?
“Anora!”
I keep walking.
“Anora!” Lennon runs up beside me, her long blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail and still manages to spill over her shoulders. “Where are you going? Biology is the other direction.”
I halt and stare at her. Sometimes I feel like two completely different people. One Anora wants to admit to a mistake I know I didn’t make. Laugh a little, and say, “Oh, right” as I turn with Lennon and head to Biology. The other Anora wants to remain expressionless. Offer a monotone, “I know” and continue on my way. The first means appeasing my mother; the second means doing what I need to.
But I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit that I want Lennon to like me.
So I smile.
“Oh, right...I guess I forgot my schedule for a moment.”
Lennon smiles, but there’s a brief sharpness to her eyes—like a lightning strike against a lavender sky—that tells me she doesn’t really believe me.
I turn with her and head toward Kline. We walk for a few moments in silence. The air between us feels strained. Maybe it’s because I have words at the back of my throat, eager to come out, eager to explain my behavior.
But then Lennon speaks and I realize it’s because she’s been holding back.
“You’ll never believe what’s on Roundtable today.”
I swallow the words once and for all—they slither down my throat, sour and sharp.
“What?”
“Nothing about you,” she assures me. Just then, a girl walks toward us along the buckled sidewalk. Her head is down, her blond hair curtains her face and her books are pressed against her chest, fingers as white as snow. Students move out of her way but turn to stare as she passes—Lennon and I included. I hear whispers all around—whore and slut, words I hate.
