Chapter 3 #3
She shakes her head, and a strand of dark hair falls from her bun into her face. She brushes it aside. “No. No. But you’re
lucky. We have a tech team that was scrubbing some of the local IP addresses, looking for possible recruits, and we found
that your IP address accessed Spindle years ago. From there, they found your username.”
I open my mouth to ask the next question, but she’s already guessed it.
“We cleared it. No one else knows.”
My shoulders relax. I look down at the pages in my hand. “It was just a story about a lonely girl with a crush.”
“That’s not what I saw,” Ms. Astor says evenly. “I saw your heart, Ripley. We need heart. We need you: someone who believes in stories, in hope. Someone who believes this isn’t the end of the world. Someone who can help us write a new beginning.”
I brush the pad of my thumb over the paper, loving the feel of it. “I’ll do it. But I want to do more. I want to make pamphlets.
I want to distribute them. I want to be part of this.”
Ms. Astor smiles. She nods. “Let’s get started, then,” she says.
“Can I keep this?” I blurt, lifting Fahrenheit 451.
She walks backward, a smirk slipping up her face.
“This is a library, Ms. Hart. You can borrow it.”
I can’t wait to read the book, holding my tablet’s flashlight up to read the pages. As I near my front door, I almost miss
the shadow rushing behind me.
Heavy footsteps crash through the brush behind the fence. I duck, falling into a crouch and hugging the book to my chest:
someone is there, and they’re climbing the tree behind me.
I hold my breath, listening to the sounds of twigs and bark and faint swearing. Two seconds later, there’s a crash, and the
sound of a familiar voice makes me shoot upright.
“Hux?” I ask, turning to look over the fence.
Sure enough, there he is, outlined by the low orange glow from my neighbor’s ancient porch light. At the sound of me calling his name he looks over his shoulder, arms still reaching into the tree branches as though he’s preparing to hoist himself up.
“Ripley,” he says, his voice smooth and guarded as he drops his arms and turns to lean on the tree, keeping his face mostly
shadowed.
I rest my hands on the fence. “You know the Hammers are looking to crack down on curfew breakers.”
“Good thing we’re both in bed right now,” he drawls.
I shouldn’t push. Asking him why he’s out opens the door to him asking why I’m out. But I remember today—the way his expression tightened when we were looking at the raw footage on the screen in the utility
room and he told me about Banks. This morning feels like six months ago. Another lifetime, really. But the memory of the pain
on his face brings me right back to the moment.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly. He stills. He wasn’t expecting that.
Without taking him out of my sight, I reach my foot back to the broken AC unit, yanking up on the fence so that I can sit
myself on the edge and look down at him. His head tilts—I can see that much in the dark, and I can only imagine his trademark
look of irritation that is flitting over his expression.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks finally. “I am, after all, currently in my bed, which I’ve been in for hours. Sleeping like a
baby.”
I’m tired of being fake. Of being beige and automatic. For once, I say something sincere to Hux: “If Nef turned eighteen, I wouldn’t be okay.”
I wish I could see his face, see the impact my words have had on him. If they have any impact at all. There’s a charge to
the air, like the heaviness before a lightning strike. If we were ever going to say something real to each other—ever going
to cross the boundary from peers and colleagues to something else like friends, this is it. I feel vulnerable, and fight the
urge to take it back.
“She’s my friend, Hux.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are too.”
Finally, he pushes off the tree. In a smooth, practiced motion, he turns and pulls himself up and onto the house’s back porch
overhang. He stops, then, turning to half look over his shoulder.
“I told you, Hart. We can’t be friends.”
At the sharpness of his words, anger burns up my throat. I reach in my pocket for something, anything. My hand falls on the
poker chip.
Asshole, I think. I muster all the strength I can and hurl the poker chip at him, aiming for his massive, idiotic head.
Clonk.
It strikes true, and Hux’s shoulders curl up toward his ears as he ducks.
Despite the hour, and the risk of Hammers and patrol drones, I allow myself a mirthless laugh. Yeah, I hope that hurt, I think.
My laugh stops short as Hux turns completely, stepping into a shaft of moonlight.
Blood streaks over his forehead, his mask—is it his? Is it someone else’s? I can’t decide which would be worse. But it’s not
the blood that freezes my blood. His eyes are rimmed with red. He’s been crying.
As he reaches for the poker chip, his eyes flick down to the book I’m pressing to my chest. “Let me know if you’d like to
borrow a match.”
His words spark something in me, but then he’s gone, and I’m breathing hard.
The book unfurls in my hands, slipping to the first page.
It was a pleasure to burn.