Feuds (11 page)

Mrs. Marrick's voice droned on about the dark period after the last of the ice caps melted, when floods and hurricanes devastated the United States economy; Kensington's alliance with India; the eventual treaties between Old Canada and the Old United States; the forming of the New Americas and its division into territories, including New Atlantic; blah blah, stuff that felt so irrelevant. Davis glanced at Emilie's empty chair.

Emilie's absence gave Davis a notch up on the victory scale—assuming Emilie missed a few days of practice, Davis would be at a huge advantage—yet she couldn't muster the excitement she knew she ought to feel. She just kept picturing how pale Emilie had looked on the bathroom floor, passed out … It had been so eerily similar to how Caitlyn had looked. And even though her parents had said Caitlyn was fine, she hadn't come back to school, either.

Could it have been a coincidence? And why did no one else seem to think there was anything wrong? Was she overreacting? It was possible. Davis knew she was more sensitive than she should be.

And somewhere mixed in with the huge whorl of stress was the image of Cole smirking slightly on the school steps yesterday. He had to have asked around to find out she went to Excelsior. Did that mean he was into her? She'd had the distinct impression he'd been about to open up to her, tell her something important, but then her dad had arrived and ruined the moment. But then … if he was into her, why hadn't he gotten her number or made plans to see her again? Was popping in and out of her life his MO? It was so frustrating, the way he seemed totally fine with leaving things up to chance. It was so hot and cold … maybe he wasn't that into her. Maybe it was just the same game he played on everyone. Davis hated the thought of it, but couldn't help wondering if it might be true—if Cole was just a player who was toying with her, seeing if she'd take the bait.

When the bell rang, she shot to her feet and folded her tablet, shoving it into her school tote, a rare leather number she'd found wedged in the back of the storage closet at home. It was probably worth a ton of money. She liked to imagine that her mom had once used it for the same purpose when she was in school, though there weren't any pictures left to confirm it. Not since Terri had taken over. Davis gathered her things and caught up with Vera near the front of the room. They always walked to lunch together, but today Davis wanted to check in with Chloe, Emilie's cousin.

“Can I catch up with you in there?” she asked Vera, who furrowed her brow in response. “I just need to call my dad really quick,” Davis clarified, feeling a pang of guilt over the lie.

“Yeah, totally,” Vera said. “But did you catch the way Reagan cut me off a minute ago? I swear,” she whispered, pulling Davis close, “she's
still
holding out for Oscar. It's driving me insane.” Davis nodded distractedly; Chloe was making her way out of the room, and she was in the later lunch period. It was now or never.

“She's the worst,” Davis agreed. “The living worst. Catch up with you in a second?” Vera nodded, frowning a little, but she perked up when Davis tugged her hair and smiled. “I'll spit on her vegan muffin for you,” she teased, giving her friend a wink. “I'll be right there.” Vera picked her way toward the cafeteria and Davis dashed down the hall in the opposite direction, barely catching up with Chloe. Chloe was wearing enormous wedge heels and yet somehow speed-walking in the direction of the swimming pool, shouldering unsuspecting victims out of her way as she went.

“Hey,” Davis said, breathless. “Chloe. Wait up.” Chloe stopped but didn't turn right away, instead cocking her head in a gesture of impatience as she waited for Davis to talk.

“Hey,” Davis said again.

“Yes?” She sighed and turned to face Davis. Chloe was nasty to everyone, but she was generally civil to Davis because of who Davis's dad was.

“How's Emilie?” Davis asked.

“What do you mean?” Chloe snapped, but Davis thought she saw a flicker of something—discomfort?—cross her face before it again turned impassive.

“Have you heard from her? At the PAs yesterday…” Davis trailed off, confused. She'd thought the news would have at least made its rounds, even if Chloe hadn't heard it straight from Emilie.

“We had a call from her mom,” Chloe said. “She said Emilie has been exhausted from practicing extra and that I should pass on her homework today. But she didn't mention anything else. Why? Did something happen?”

“She was just … sick.” Davis hesitated, stumbling over the word. It was completely unfamiliar on her tongue—but how else to put it? “At the PAs, I mean,” she clarified, shrugging off the squeamish sensation the word
sick
had produced.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she told her. “I know you and Emilie have your thing. Your dance rivalry and all. But if you're trying some weird mental tactic to freak her out, you're wasting your time. She's probably at home saving up her energy to kick your ass.”

Davis knew she should back off—it really wasn't her problem. If Chloe wasn't worried, then she didn't have reason to be, either. But then …

Davis thought back again to when Sofia was sick as a toddler. It was a fluke, a rare infection that had temporarily paralyzed Sofia's immune responses. Fia had always been small—they called her the runt of the litter because she was the youngest, but also because of her slight frame—and it had the effect of making them fawn over her all the more. Terri had brought her cold cloths and she'd even stayed one night in a hospital, one of only two that existed in Columbus, alone in the cavernous facility but for one other little girl who'd suffered a terrible burn. Their father's face had been creased with concern for three days straight, his eyebrows wrinkled and his expression set. The whole time, he never took his blue-gray eyes off Fia's own—but Fia's were bright and glassy with fever. Davis remembered Fia asking for Terri, and Davis wanting more than anything for her own mother to be there. She remembered feeling a pang of jealousy at the sight of Terri's thin frame cradling Fia's, their identical curly, dark hair blending into one enormous mass of waves. And she remembered being afraid her little sister was going to die—because that's what the sweat, the flush across her face, and the tears had implied. She'd never seen those things before.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not to Priors.

*   *   *

The TV was droning on when Davis walked into their flat later that day, its picture splayed across their living room wall. Parson Abel's unmistakable face filled up the screen: the broad grin that never seemed to reach his eyes, and the dimple that sank half an inch into his chin. Her stomach rolled at the sight of him. She was sure her father would win the election, but it would be a relief once it was over, that was for sure.

“Oh hi, honey!” Terri greeted her, looking up from the aquarium tank where she was feeding her fish. “How are you? How was school? Can I make you a snack?”

Behind her the face of a newscaster on the TV droned. “… was the daughter of Glen and Tatiana Brooks, esteemed professors at Columbus University. Both parents have declined to comment on the grim tragedy of their daughter's death, but neighbors have speculated that the young Ms. Brooks consorted freely with Gens…”

Davis inhaled sharply. Terri gave her a concerned look, and her brown eyes widened even more dramatically than usual. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked.

“I'm fine,” Davis choked out. The pictures that flashed across the news screen were of a couple walking briskly to the metro, the woman covering her face with her handbag, her husband's arm wrapped around her waist. And then they flashed a picture of the daughter. A beautiful redhead with a glowing smile.

It was the girl from the party. Caitlyn.

“The cause of death is as yet undetermined. According to a neighbor, the young Ms. Brooks may have been involved in illicit dealings in the Gen community.” Davis felt nauseous. So Caitlyn wasn't fine. Her parents had lied.
Cole
had lied. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd been fine and then worsened.
Or maybe …
The thought caused her stomach to turn …
Did Cole have something to do with it?

She couldn't, wouldn't believe he'd had something to do with it. He'd seemed so concerned, so gentle when he was taking care of her outside the party. Maybe Caitlyn had been on drugs, after all.

And then images of the Slants began to flash across the screen. There were mangy dogs with dust-flecked fur. There were children playing barefoot outside in filthy puddles. Their housing structures were flimsy and apparently made of tin—little shingled buildings on wheels with maybe one or two bedrooms. Some were so small that the entire house could fit inside Davis's bedroom, and they all looked like they could blow away if the wind picked up. These structures could house anywhere from two to six Imps, according to the newscaster.

She turned from the TV. Her stomach turned, giving way to something deeper and hot and intense. Davis gripped her hands into fists, feeling her nails digging half-moons in her palms.

Terri abruptly shut off the TV. “Disgusting,” she said with a sigh, her long eyelashes fluttering as she blinked. “Isn't it?” She wrapped an arm around Davis, pulling her close. “Don't worry, sweetie,” she said. “When your dad's elected, he's going to make sure Priors never have exposure to any of that. We both love you and your sister so much. You'll never have to worry about anything like that.”

Davis couldn't answer. Without responding, she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door, flopping onto her bed. Her sunshade was settling into a deep green. It was meant to soothe her, but she couldn't get the news broadcast out of her mind. Terri's words had soothed her more than she could have known. Davis had nearly cried in front of her; the emotion she felt—gratitude and fear and relief combined—was overwhelming. She wanted to ask her dad what was happening, but she didn't want to bother him. As the election loomed, he was becoming increasingly stressed out. It was like his whole identity was consumed by what used to be just a job. Her questions would probably just weigh on him further. She didn't want to distract him when he was so close to achieving his dream; and besides, his dream was all for her and Fia. After he was elected, she hoped, there'd be more time for questions … for the kind of conversations they used to have.

But for now, if Davis was going to get any answers, she'd have to find them herself. She sat up and grabbed her tablet from her schoolbag. She powered it on and typed in the code that allowed it to connect to her flatscreen. Then she logged into her e-mail and settled back against the mountain of purple and green throw pillows that decorated her bed while a list of messages loaded up on the wall facing her. A couple of fashion adverts, nothing of interest. No personal e-mails, which was unusual, aside from an announcement from the studio regarding reduced Saturday hours. Next she switched to Community, the social site everyone posted on. Maybe Emilie would be online.

A newsfeed of her friends' video-streams greeted her, but she skipped the updates and went straight to Emilie's page. Emilie's smiling face shone out from her profile, but she hadn't posted a vid in days. Davis scrolled down, checking for information.

UserHunnyBea16 posted a message @ 2:15 p.m. yesterday.

Davis clicked the link, and Beatrice Castellin's face popped up, framed by curly auburn hair. “Feel better, lady!” she chirped from the screen, chewing a wad of gum as she spoke. Davis shuddered. She was making little chomping sounds as she spoke. “I'll come sneak you chocolate so you don't have to deal with that gross hospital food.” She made a gagging face before concluding her message with “Love you lots, Em! Muah!”

So Emilie was at the hospital. A surge of panic overwhelmed Davis. Caitlyn was dead, and Emilie was in the hospital, but no one was talking about the seriousness of it. She felt her fingers shaking as she typed the exit command and returned to her home screen, a picture of her and Fia on her sister's last birthday. In it, Fia's dark curls and skin pressed up against Davis's lighter, looser hair and creamy complexion. The two didn't even look like sisters in the picture, except for their shared noses: slim and straight and little. Button noses, their dad had always said. Davis made a sudden decision.

She'd go. She'd go see Emilie, and she'd get some answers. Davis threw on her jacket and shoes and was out the door before Fia or Terri could ask her any questions.

*   *   *

She could hear the chanting and shouting as she rounded the corner toward the hospital, only to find a hundred or so protestors holding signs and banners. She walked closer, morbidly curious to hear what it was they were saying. Her heart raced out of control as she thought about how angry her dad would be if he knew she was willingly approaching Imp rioters.

She walked up the sidewalk in the midst of the crowd, which was pushing and moving in a unified mass. “Higher wages, give us rights,” seemed to be the current chant.

She turned, trying to make her way toward the side entrance, but the crowd had grown and now there were protestors on every side. She felt her body being pushed in the mass, bumped back and forth until her feet were lifted from the ground and she couldn't see beyond the moving bodies around her. Then the shoving became more violent, and all the chanting whirred around her like dark music, and someone screamed. Davis became panicked; she needed to get to Emilie, but there was no way she could fight through this crowd.

She craned her neck and saw two men, one dressed in an expensive-looking tailored suit and the other in rumpled jeans and a T-shirt, shoving each other. Others in the crowd around her got involved until the person next to her punched the person next to him. Davis looked down and saw that her shirt was spattered with blood, and yet the two guys kept at it.