Free Delirium: The Complete Collection by Lauren Oliver Page B

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 with the dishes and the little kids and does her homework and listens and keeps her head down. I know that I owe Carol for taking Rachel and me in after my mother died. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be wasting away in one of the orphanages, uneducated, unnoticed, destined for a job at a slaughterhouse, probably, cleaning up sheep guts or cow crap or something like that. Maybe—maybe!—if I was lucky, I’d get to work for a cleaning service.
    No foster parent will adopt a child whose past has been tainted by the disease.
    I wish I could read her mind. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but she seems to be analyzing me, attempting to read my face. I think, I’m not doing anything wrong, it’s harmless, I’m fine, over and over, and wipe my palms on the back of my jeans, positive I’m leaving a sweat mark.
    “Be quick,” she says finally, and as soon as the words are out of her mouth I’m off, jetting upstairs and switching my sandals for sneakers. Then I bang back down the stairs and fly out the door. My aunt has barely had time to take the dishes into the kitchen. She calls something to me as I blur past her, but I’m already pushing out the front door and don’t catch what she says. The ancient grandfather clock in the living room starts booming out just as the screen door swings shut behind me. Eight o’clock.
    I unlock my bike and pedal it down the front path and out into the street. The pedals creak and moan and shudder. This bike was owned by my cousin Marcia before me and must be at least fifteen years old, and leaving it outside all year isn’t doing anything to preserve it.
    I start cruising in the direction of Back Cove, which is downhill, fortunately. The streets are always pretty empty at this time of night. For the most part, the cureds are inside, sitting at dinner, or cleaning up, or preparing for bed and another night of dreamless sleep, and all the uncureds are home or on their way there, nervously watching the minutes swirl away toward nine o’clock curfew.
    My legs are still aching from my run earlier today. If I make it to Back Cove on time and Alex is there, I’m going to be a complete mess, sweaty and disgusting. But I keep going anyway. Now that I’m out of the house I push all my doubts and questions out of my mind and focus on hauling ass as fast as my cramping legs will allow me, spinning down through the vacant streets toward the