Free The Archived by Victoria Schwab Page A

“I’m sure you’ve got a ton of work to do.
     Why don’t you let me deliver those?”
    She pauses and looks up. “Really? Would you?” She says it like she’s surprised I’m
     capable of being nice. Yes, things have been rocky between us, and I’m offering to
     help because it helps me—but still.
    She tucks the last muffin into a basket and nudges it my way.
    “Sure thing,” I say, managing a smile, and her resulting one is so genuine that I
     almost feel bad. Right up until she wraps me in a hug and the high-pitched strings
     and slamming doors and crackling paper static of her life scratches against my bones.
     Then I just feel sick.
    “Thank you,” she says, tightening her grip. “That’s so sweet.” I can barely hear the
     words through the grating noise in my head.
    “It’s…really…nothing,” I say, trying to picture a wall between us, and failing. “Mom,”
     I say at last, “I can’t breathe.” And then she laughs and lets go, and I’m left dizzy
     but free.
    “All right, get going,” she says, turning back to her work. I’ve never been so happy
     to oblige.
    I start down the hall and peel the cellophane away from a muffin, hoping Mom hasn’t
     counted them out as I eat breakfast. The basket swings back and forth from the crook
     of my arm, each muffin individually wrapped and tagged. BISHOP’S , the tag announces in careful script. A basket of conversation starters.
    I focus on the task at hand. The Coronado has seven floors—one lobby and six levels
     of housing—with six apartments to a floor, A through F. That many rooms, odds are
     someone knows something.
    And maybe someone does, but nobody seems to be home. There’s the flaw in both my mother’s
     plans and in mine. Late morning on a weekday, and what do you get? A lot of locked
     doors. I slip out of 3F and head down the hall. 3E and 3D are both quiet, 3C is vacant
     (according to a small slip of paper stuck to the door), and though I can hear the
     muffled sounds of life in 3B, nobody answers. After several aggressive knocks on 3A,
     I’m getting frustrated. I drop muffins on each doorstep and move on.
    One floor up, it’s more of the same. I leave the baked goods at 4A, B, and C. But
     as I’m heading away from 4D, the door swings open.
    “Young lady,” comes a voice.
    I turn to see a vast woman filling the door frame like bread in a loaf pan, holding
     the small, cellophaned muffin.
    “What is your name? And what is this adorable little treat?” she asks. The muffin
     looks like an egg, nested in her palm.
    “Mackenzie,” I say, stepping forward. “Mackenzie Bishop. My family just moved in to
     3F, and we’re renovating the coffee shop on the ground floor.”
    “Well, lovely to meet you, Mackenzie,” she says, engulfing my hand with hers. She
     is made up of low tones and bells and the sound of ripping fabric. “My name is Ms.
     Angelli.”
    “Nice to meet you.” I slide my hand free as politely as possible.
    And then I hear it. A sound that makes my skin crawl. A faint meow behind the wall
     that is Ms. Angelli, just before a clearly desperate cat finds a crack somewhere near
     the woman’s feet and squeezes through, tumbling out into the hall. I jump back.
    “Jezzie,” scorns Ms. Angelli. “Jezzie, come back here.” The cat is small and black,
     and stands just out of reach, gauging its owner. And then it turns to look at me.
    I hate cats.
    Or really, I just hate touching them. I hate touching any animal, for that matter. Animals are like people but fifty
     times worse—all id, no ego; all emotion, no rational thought—which makes them a bomb
     of sensory input wrapped in fur.
    Ms. Angelli frees herself from the doorway and nearly stumbles forward onto Jezzie,
     who promptly flees toward me. I shrink back, putting the basket of muffins between
     us.
    “Bad kitty,” I growl.
    “Oh, she’s a lover, my Jezzie.” Ms. Angelli bends to fetch the cat, which is now pretending
     to be dead, or is