Page 10 of The Last Love Story

I spin to see Ms. Astor standing in the hallway, the faint glow from outside illuminating half of her face.

I freeze, waiting for sirens or the splash of red-and-blue lights of the Hammers, and my mind spins off in a million different directions. If Ms. Astor is here, then I am screwed.Was this all a trap? A test? Whatever it is, I’ve failed.

I stare at Ms. Astor. She’s not old, but she isn’t exactly young, either. I could just make a run for it. That might give me long enough to call my parents and tell them to run—

“Don’t even think about it,” Ms. Astor says, her voice lilting with irritation as she starts walking toward me. I lurch backward, half expecting her to grab me, but she surprises me as she strolls right past me. I pivot, keeping my eyes on her.

“Don’t even think about what?” I press, my voice sounding squeaky and scared even to my own ears.

“Running,” Ms. Astor says. Her fingers linger on the door, a spray-painted Ionic column in black stark against the wood. Before I can ask, she yanks the door open, the hinges groaning. Beyond, pitch black, a yawning pit: a staircase down.

“You’re the one who messaged me?” I ask foolishly, hating how confused I sound. “What do you want?”

Ms. Astor dusts her hands on her pants like I’m boring her.

None of this makes sense. If she was going to turn me in, she would have done it in front of everyone at school. I am the biggest pain in her ass, and we all know it. Hux is probably a close second, but I know that at least his scores make up for half of his antics. I have nothing to redeem me.

When Ms. Astor still doesn’t answer, my ears fill instead with the uneven thump of my own heartbeat. My nervous system has been running on adrenaline for hours—since thatfirst text. The question comes out again, more desperate this time.

“What do you want?”My words echo.

Ms. Astor finally looks at me. There’s something in her expression I’ve never seen before. I’ve been under her watchful gaze for two years, and she’s always blended perfectly into our beige world. Low bun, flat looks, slow movements. But here, her eyes are bright, her mouth upturned a little, enough that a scar on her upper lip seems to appear. She has copper studs in her ears.

Out from under the harsh lighting of the training room, I can see her for real. She’s beautiful.

Finally, she clears her throat delicately. “What do I want? I want you to follow me and not ask any more questions until we’re somewhere where no patrol drones can hear you.”

“You’re not turning me in?” I ask, desperate.

She shakes her head. “No.”

I try to hide the fact that I’m reeling—it’s like I was about to walk the plank and someone just yanked me back to safety. And slowly a smirk slips up the side of my mouth. I rock back on my heels.

“You just lost your leverage, Ms. Astor,” I reply, keeping quiet because her point about the patrol drones is totally fair. “You’re not going to turn me in, so why would I follow you?”

Ms. Astor purses her lips and nods like she’s thinking it over. “Because, Ripley, I’ve taught you for two years. Youwant to know what’s down here.” And then she disappears into the darkness.

I stand alone for a moment, tonguing my cheek as I consider her words.

I should prove her wrong. I should spin around and march myself home. That would show her.

You want to know what’s down here.

Not if it’s going to get me killed. Not when I’ve spent the past hour certain I was marching to my death. All I have to do is fly under the radar. Refine data, watch my DopaMine feed, forget about the stories I used to write. Follow every rule. Become beige. I’ve got a chance to go live.

For another six months.

My heart stutters at the thought, and I’m following her before I can list the thousands of reasons why this is a terrible idea.

It’s hard to see in the stairwell, but I keep my eyes fixed on my feet and the strips of gently glowing treads along every step. I rush down the first two flights—we’re headed underground now—but can’t catch up to Ms. Astor. Only my ragged breathing accompanies me, but there’s only one way to go: down. Finally, the stairs flatten and lead me to an extinguished “Exit” sign near a rusted door.

I must be beyond the grounds of the Huntington by now. My hands push against one and then another metal door. As I take in the sight beyond, my breath catches in my throat.

Low lighting carves out a massive tunnel. My mother used to tell me stories about a half-finished subway system that Los Angeles was building when the earthquake hit. It’s not safe down there, she’d tell me. As I lean on the railing, my hands wrap tightly against the chipped yellow paint as an entire other world seems to open below me. Low light hangs from old work lamps tethered to the high tunnel ceilings, illuminating a stunning sight below: a maze of shelves. Every row is crammed in narrow vertical strips... books.

I’ve never seen so many books. They line the tunnel walls. Bookshelves packed with spines. Carts filled to the point of tipping, their wheels balanced on the half-finished tracks. Old wooden crates stuffed to the brim, overflowing. It makes me think of Nef. When we moved, when my parents went silent in the new After and I was alone and scared, she was the first friendly face, sometimes the only friendly face I’d see all day. We’d make up stories on the playground, pretending to be mermaids or witches or aliens. When those stories spilled over, we wrote them down, and she was the first person to read about Saffron and Orion.

She’d love this.