Free Lauren Oliver - Delirium by Lauren Oliver

up for even considering the idea.

    "Seven times eight?"

    Jenny pinches her lips together. "Fifty-six."

    "Nine times six?"

    "Fifty-two."

    On the other hand, there's no law that says you can't speak to a cured. Cureds are safe. They can be mentors or guides to the uncureds. Even though Alex is only a year older than I am, we're separated, irreparably and totally, by the procedure. He might as well be my grandfather.

    "Seven times eleven?"

    "Seventy-seven."

    "Lena." My aunt has squeezed out of the kitchen, past the dining room table, and is standing behind Jenny. I blink twice, trying to focus. Carol's face is tight with concern. "Is something the matter?" "No." I drop my eyes quickly. I hate it when my aunt looks at me like that, like she's reading all the bad parts from my soul. I feel guilty just for thinking about a boy, even a cured one. If she knew, she would say, Oh, Lena. Careful. Remember what happened to your mother. She would say, These diseases tend to run in the blood. "Why?"

    I keep my eyes trained on the worn carpet underneath me. Carol bends forward, swoops up Jenny's workbook from my knees, and says loudly in her clear, high voice, "Nine times six is fifty-four." She snaps the workbook closed. "Not fifty-two, Lena. I assume you know your multiplication tables?"

    Jenny sticks her tongue out at me.

    My cheeks start heating up as I realize my mistake. "Sorry. I guess I'm just kind of . . . distracted."

    There's a momentary pause. Carol's eyes never leave the back of my neck. I can sense them burning there. I feel like I'll scream, or cry, or confess, if she keeps staring at me.

    Finally she sighs. "You're still thinking about the evaluations, aren't you?"

    I blow the air out of my cheeks, feel a weight of anxiety ease off my chest. "Yeah. I guess so." I venture a glance up at her, and she smiles her little skittering smile.

    "I know you're disappointed you have to go through the process again. But think about it this way--this time you'll be even more prepared."

    I bob my head and try to look enthusiastic, even though a little, pinching feeling of guilt starts nipping at me. I haven't even thought about the evaluations since this morning, not since I found out the results would be discounted. "Yeah, you're right."

    "Come on, now. Dinnertime." My aunt reaches out and passes a finger over my forehead. Her finger is cool and reassuring, and gone as quickly as the lightest stirring of wind. It makes the guilt flare up full force, and in that moment I can't believe I was even considering going to Back Cove. It's the absolute, 100 percent wrong thing to do, and I stand up for dinner feeling clean and weightless and happy, like the first time you feel healthy after a long fever.

    But at dinner my curiosity--and with it, my doubts--return. I can barely follow the conversation. All I can think is: Go? Don't go? Go? Don't go? At one point my uncle is telling a story about one of his customers, and I notice everyone is laughing so I laugh too, but a little too loud and long. Everyone turns to look at me, even Gracie, who puckers her nose and tilts her head like a dog sniffing at something new.

    "Are you okay, Lena?" my uncle asks, adjusting his glasses as though hoping to bring me into clearer focus. "You seem a little strange."

    "I'm fine." I push around some ravioli on my plate. Normally I can put away half a box myself, especially after a long run (and still have room for dessert), but I've barely managed to choke down a few bites. "Just stressed."

    "Leave her alone," my aunt says. "She's upset about the evaluations. They didn't exactly turn out as planned."

    She lifts her eyes to my uncle, and they exchange a quick glance. I feel a rush of excitement. It's rare for my aunt and uncle to look at each other like that, a wordless glance, full of meaning. Most of the time their interactions are limited to the usual thing--my uncle tells stories about work, my aunt tells stories about the neighbors. What's