Free One of Us by Jeannie Waudby

swallow the bits in my mouth.
    Greg leans farther forward, around Celestina. I look to see if he’s going to speak. His eyes gleamin the light from the screen, but he doesn’t say anything. I turn away to see Serafina looking up at Greg. Then at me. Her hand flies to her mouth. She covers my hand with hers and squeezes it.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Verity,” she whispers. “I forgot they show that. It must have been terrible for you, seeing it for the first time. We’ll go, if you want?”
    I shake my head. I don’t want to get up. I want to stay here, in the darkness. Serafina presses my hand again. She seems so concerned. I know she thinks I’m thinking of the bomb that killed my parents. And she’s right. But now there’s something else to think of too.
    All around us is the sound of popcorn. Then the screen flickers and the main film begins. I don’t really watch it. I make myself relax because Serafina is still holding my hand. What am I doing here? Now it feels wrong. I didn’t think this through. I need to see Oskar. But all of a sudden I can’t even remember what he looks like. His face has blurred into just his familiar gray eyes, smiling from behind his dirty-blond fringe. And I have to wait for a whole week before I can meet him.
    In the darkness, from the corner of my eye, I can see Greg’s and Celestina’s profiles lit in colored flashes from the screen. I’ve never felt so alone.
    After the film finishes, Greg waits at the end of our row, until I reach the steps. “Did you enjoy it, Verity?” he says. He looks at me as if he knows something, as if he’s caught me out.
    I can’t believe I almost thanked him for not telling anyone about my swim. “Um,” I begin.
    He looks right into my eyes. “They always showthat,” he says. “Before every film. We’ve all seen it hundreds of times.”
    I just nod.
    Greg’s eyebrows lift. “So we don’t forget.”
    You can’t forget something you never knew.

CHAPTER 9
    â€œV ERITY,” MS. COBANA says. “What’s wrong with your picture?” She pushes her black-framed glasses up her nose and taps the drawing board.
    I look at my sketch, pinned to the board. The whole class is waiting, gathered around Ms. Cobana’s desk while she dissects the week’s work. This is the first portrait that I’ve ever drawn. I wish she’d put my other picture up—fish in a colored-ink aquarium. I stare at the charcoal Greg. The real one is frowning at my drawing. His sketch was perfect, like all his other work. Ms. Cobana has just spent ten minutes praising it while Greg sat there looking pleased with himself.
    A girl called Melissa leans forward, but Greg speaks first. “My head’s too big!”
    You said it, Brother.
    Ms. Cobana makes Greg stand at the other end of the Art room, so that we can all hold up our pencils and measure how many times his head goes into his red-checked shirt. Not that many. Ha!
    â€œOK, then.” She hooks a wild strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear. “Your head goes about eight times into your body, less if you’re sitting down. Get back in your pairs and have another go.”
    So I have to go with Greg again and that means I’ll have that feeling that he’s watching me. He disappears into the supply closet, and comes out with two pieces of drawing paper and a box of charcoal. Even though I’ve been here a week, I still can’t believe that this is an actual school subject that people think is important. Or that they have a whole closet full of everything you could possibly need.
    â€œDrawing boards?” Greg says to me.
    I open my mouth to tell him what to do with his drawing boards, but stop myself just in time. I glance at the clock. Only five hours to go, and I’ll see Oskar.
    So I go into the closet to fetch the boards. The doorway darkens as Greg blocks