Free Lauren Oliver - Delirium by Lauren Oliver Page A

for dinner? There's a leak in the roof. Blah blah blah. I think that for once they're going to mention the Wilds, and the Invalids. But then my uncle gives a minute shake of his head.

    "These kinds of mix-ups happen all the time," he says, staking a ravioli with his fork. "Just the other day, I asked Andrew to reorder three cases of Vik's orange juice. But he goes and gets the codes wrong and guess what shows up? Three cases of baby formula. I said to him, I said, `Andrew . . .'"

    I tune the conversation out again, grateful that my uncle is a talker, and happy that my aunt has taken my side. The one good thing about being kind of shy is that nobody bugs you when you want to be left alone. I lean forward and sneak a glance at the clock in the kitchen. Seven thirty, and we haven't even finished eating. And afterward I'll have to help clear and wash the dishes, which always takes forever; the dishwasher uses up too much electricity, so we have to do them by hand.

    Outside, the sun is streaked with filaments of gold and pink. It looks like the candy that gets spun at the Sugar Shack downtown, all gloss and stretch and color. It will be a beautiful sunset tonight. In that moment the urge to go is so strong, I have to squeeze the sides of my chair to keep from suddenly springing up and running out the door.

    Finally I decide to stop stressing and leave it to luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. If we finish eating and I'm done cleaning up the dishes in time to make it to Back Cove, I'll go. If not, I'll stay. I feel a million times better once I've made the decision, and even manage to shovel down a few more bites of ravioli before Jenny (miracle of miracles) has a sudden late burst of speed and cleans her plate, and my aunt announces I can clear the dishes whenever I'm ready. I stand up and start stacking everyone's plates. It's almost eight o'clock. Even if I can wash all the dishes in fifteen minutes--and that's a stretch--it will still be difficult to get to the beach by eight thirty. And forget about making it back by nine o'clock, when the city has a mandated curfew for uncureds.

    And if I got caught on the streets after curfew . . .

    The truth is, I don't know what would happen. I've never broken curfew.

    Just as I've finally accepted that there's no way to get to Back Cove and back in time, my aunt does the unthinkable. As I'm reaching forward to take her plate, she stops me. "You don't have to clean the dishes tonight, Lena. I'll do them."

    As she's speaking, she reaches out and puts a hand on my arm. Just like earlier, the touch is as fleeting and cool as wind.

    And before I can think about what this means, I'm blurting out, "Actually, I have to run to Hana's house really quick."

    "Now?" A look of alarm--or suspicion?--flickers across my aunt's face. "It's nearly eight o'clock."

    "I know. We--she--she has a study guide she was supposed to give me. I just remembered."

    Now the look of suspicion--it is suspicion, definitely--makes itself comfortable, drawing Carol's eyebrows together, cinching her lips. "You don't have any of the same classes. And your boards are over. How important can it be?"

    "It's not for class." I roll my eyes, trying to conjure up Hana's nonchalance, even though my palms are sweating and my heart is jerking around in my chest. "It's like a guide full of pointers. For the evaluations. She knows I need to prep more, since I almost choked yesterday."

    Again, my aunt directs a small glance at my uncle. "Curfew's in an hour," she says to me. "If you get caught out after curfew . . ."

    Nervousness makes my temper flare. "I know about curfew," I snap. "I've only been hearing about it for my whole life."

    I feel guilty the second that the words are out of my mouth, and I drop my eyes to avoid looking at Carol. I've never spoken back to her, have always tried to be as patient and obedient and good as possible--have always tried to be as invisible as possible, a nice girl who helps