“But Matt knows I’m alive,” I protest. “He knows about the program,” I acknowledge aloud.
“I know that, but the director doesn’t,” Mason says.
“You lied?”
“Of course I lied,” Mason says. “I was protecting you.”
“But Mason, Revive didn’t even bring me back,” I say. “I can go back to school and tell everyone that I was miraculously saved by normal modern medicine after a bee attack. Everyone will be so impressed.”
“That’s the director’s fear,” Mason says.
“What?”
“That this will draw attention to you,” he clarifies. “That if you go back and say you were saved from a bee attack, the news will report on you. People will look into your background. There’s potential for exposure.”
I’m quiet, unsure what to say. Mason looks at me with tired eyes.
“Daisy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s better this way.”
“What way?” I ask, anger rising in me.
“It’s better if we go quietly.”
“Better for who?” I ask, ready to burst. And then, with a few simple words, Mason changes everything.
“Matt,” he says. “It’s better for Matt.”
forty-three
The house in Omaha already feels foreign; I guess my brain knows when it’s time to go. This time, though, my heart wants to stay.
Mason gives me three hours to pack the critical items; the cleanup crew will ship the rest. I spend one hour halfheartedly tossing clothes and books into my suitcase, then I text Matt, asking him to pick me up down the block. I thump my suitcase down the stairs and leave it in the entryway for Mason to carry out to the car.
Mason’s in the basement when I leave. Maybe I’ll make it back before he surfaces; maybe I won’t. Either way, seeing Matt right now isn’t optional. I slip out the front door into the crisp afternoon air, then button my jacket, surprised by the wintery chill. I walk two blocks and stop on the corner, only long enough to blow on my hands once before Matt arrives.
The seconds after I climb into his car and shut the door are like the silence between songs on your most emotional playlist. It’s a break in the action; the world stops spinning for a few beats. But you know something’s coming.
And then it does.
Matt puts his hands on my cheeks, cupping my jawbones. His powerful eyes are more intense than I’ve ever seen them. Captivated, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. He holds my face for a moment, staring. And then…
“Don’t die,” he says lowly, his voice cracking a little.
“I won’t,” I promise, hoping I’m telling the truth.
“I mean it,” he says. “I can’t take anything happening to you.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing on to his forearms, holding him holding me.
“Take your damn EpiPen to school,” he says.
I laugh, a quick exhale. “I will.”
“And stay away from bees,” he continues. “In fact, just stay inside.”
“Okay,” I say, laughing again.
“And…” Matt moves closer; his face is inches from mine. “Stay.”
It’s like a punch to the chest; tears fill my eyes. Matt’s expression is so raw, so brutally honest, I want to find a reason to look away.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. I’m leaning sideways over the center console and the gearshift is digging into my hip and still, I’d stay like this for hours if I could. I’ve never been more comfortable. I’ve never been warmer. Here in Matt’s arms, I’m reminded again:
I’ve never belonged anywhere but here.
forty-four
Nomadic as I am, I try hard to see the positives about our new hometown of Alameda, California. A little island between Oakland and San Francisco, Alameda is the sort of homey place that a person could really love… if her heart wasn’t stuck somewhere in Middle America.
And yet, I try. Touring the city, I make mental lists of Alameda’s pros:
1. The weather.
2. The updated main street, boasting places like hip clothing stores, an indie bookseller, and a vintage ice-cream shop all on the same block.
3. The intimate beach with a clear view of San Francisco’s skyline that Matt would love…
It’s hard to keep my head in this state. But Mason does his best to help.
When we drive into town two days before I start tenth grade for what I hope is the last time, he pulls into a driveway I mistake for someone else’s.
“Are you lost?” I ask, looking at the Victorian that could be a movie set.
“Nope,” he says, smiling and craning his neck to see the top of the three-story dwelling.
“Mason, are you messing with me?” I ask, eyeing the wraparound porch skeptically.
“I’m not messing with you,” he says, laughing. “It’s bigger than we need, but it’s a historic home and I like it. Plus, you never know—our family might grow someday.”
Before I have time to ask more about that last statement, Mason jumps out and heads up the front steps. He waves at me to follow.
When I walk through the door, I’m awestruck. For what Mason reports is over a century, this home was clearly loved. And why not? There’s dark wood trim and paneling along the grand staircase. There are built-in library shelves that make me want to live right in the sitting room. The kitchen is bright and airy, with modern appliances; the living room is massive. And there are five bedrooms. “I get my own bathroom,” I say. “And look at this closet!”
“You like it?” Mason asks sheepishly, as if the house is a gift he’s giving me. I guess in a way, it is.
“It’s awesome,” I say before taking a moment to look out each of my three bedroom windows.
“Even though it’s not in Omaha?” Mason asks.
I take a deep breath of California air.
“Even though it’s not in Omaha.”
On the night before school starts, I knock on Mason’s bedroom door. He’s in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. He sets aside the novel he’s reading and gives me his full attention.
“I was just wondering how things are going with the investigation,” I say, lingering in the doorway.
“Oh, Daisy, there’s nothing new,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “They’re still thinking it’s going to take months to sort out. Apparently neither of them is being cooperative, and a lot is still unclear.”
“So the program’s on hold until they figure it out?” I ask.
“Unfortunately so,” Mason says. “All the files and lab equipment and the drug itself will remain under tight security until the director can determine whether anyone else was involved.”
“What do you think he’s going to do after that?” I ask. “Kill the program?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but not likely,” Mason says. “The director has a science background. My hunch is that he’ll take it under his wing and finish off the thirty-year commitment to tracking the bus kids. At that point, though, he might decide to bury it.”
“Why?” I ask, surprised. “Wouldn’t he want to move forward? Besides God going mental, the program’s been a success, at least so far.”
Mason swallows hard and looks away.
“Hasn’t it?” I ask.
“It has,” Mason says. “But you were right.”
I think back to what I just said, to what he could possibly be talking about. When I don’t say anything, Mason clarifies.
“Daisy, God caused both Nora’s death and the original bus crash that started the program. He actually bragged about giving Revive the push it needed. You were right. In fact, it appears from his program files that he was looking for another ‘bus.’ Another large group of people to be the second test group. He had schematics for places like amusement parks and movie theaters at his office.”
“Aquariums,” I say, remembering.
“Aquariums,” Mason says, realizing that I was probably right about the man under the ocean being God, too.