Page 73 of Flickerstate

He goes still. “For today?”

“I’ve been thinking…” I hesitate. Close my eyes. Make myself speak. “I mean, wearecompeting in the trials. I hoped it wouldn’t matter. But it does. We’re competitors. We should act like it.”

He lets go of my hands. “What happens after the competition?”

Once I’m inside the Archive, I don’t know how long finding the cure will take. Supposing Highwall did hide a cure there for opaque reasons of her own. Supposing I’m not a deluded moron, wasting my last months on a hunt for a nonexistent silver bullet. If my bite makes me a danger to others, I need to keep human contact to aminimum till I’ve healed. Or died. So. No more group dinners, no more blockmate movie nights. And no more Vik.

“After the competition, I’m going to be busy with the Archive,” I say.

He could respond so many ways. Demand to know why I kissed him in the first place if I was going to act like this. Point out his team might beat mine. Beg me to change my mind. I long for flickerstate, where I could hear every possible thing he might say. But now more than ever, I have no right to invade his privacy.

He breathes out. “All right. Can I walk you to the nurse’s office?”

All right.Like that, I’ve thrown away the thing that’s made me happiest since beasts swarmed my yard. Like that, he accepts it, no questions. I’m so angry—at myself, him, everything—that the dark air pulses red before my eyes. “I have first aid stuff in my room. Excuse me.”

I climb over the fallen branch and get my backpack. When I stomp back up the path, Vik stands where I left him, unmoving. Waiting for me? Lost in thought?Asleep?

I wish he were sobbing or furious. I wish he’d show me that I’ve hurt him half as much as I’ve hurt myself.

I’m so selfish.

I brush past him up the stony path. I ignore the ache in my chest. I ignore his eyes on my back as I leave.

Chapter Eighteen

I tiptoe into my single for Band-Aids and hydrogen peroxide. I tiptoe out to the bathroom, flip on the light, and survey the damage.My palms are hamburger meat, garnished with rock chips. Looking at them, I remember how gently Vik held my hands up with his own.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. My lapidary face, unlikable, alone.

Time to get it done.

***

The next day, I put my unavoidable-contact-only plan into action, not leaving my block except to attend class and raid the dining hall at off times like an antisocial dumpster raccoon. The one person I talk to at any length is Jo, on the phone, safely outside my danger zone. I tell her everything’s fine. I tell her I’m going to win.

I still spend every evening on nav with Candace and Bree, but the whole time, I’m glancing twitchily at the ceiling, terrified it’ll collapse and crush me, murdering my poor unsuspecting teammates in the bargain. I’m scatterbrained, nerve-wracked, missing half the things they say to me, failing to execute basic nav. As soon as practice ends, I flee to my single, turning down Candace and Bree’s offers ofHereditaryor gossip, citing my need for sleep.

Speaking of sleep…

After I x-ed early mornings with Vik from my schedule, I hoped I’d get more rest. Nope. Fear of bite-dreams keeps me tossing for hours every night. When I do fall asleep, I wake again in absolute blackness, heart slamming against my ribs so loudly I worry Candace and Bree will hear it through our walls. This happens two, three times a night. By the Thursday before the last trial, I’m praying for six hours of shut-eye.

***

I stare up into a bright light surrounded by brown roots. Classical music plays. Somehow, I know I can’t move.

Near the light, the air wrinkles. From the wrinkles poke legs, mandibles, fur, scales, chitin. Before I can occlude, the swarm bursts into reality. The teeth are coming. The music swells, all violins, and I scream—

***

Knocking wakes me. I jerk upright, sweating, and reach for my phone. The screen lights up.Thursday, November 18, 7:41 p.m.

The memory comes to me: After class, I told Candace and Bree I was going to lie down for a second before our final-trial strategy session.

Guess I lay down for more than a second.

I stumble out of bed. When I open my door, Candace and Bree stand on the other side. Candace’s arms are crossed tightly, and her neat eyebrows lower over her eyes. Bree, pressed against Candace’s shoulder, is chewing her thumbnail like she wants to nibble away her nervousness—but so far, it’s not working.

“We need to talk,” Candace says.