Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (10 page)

“Is this my homework?” I ask.

Franco raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were averse to learning.”

“I’m not!” I flush even hotter. Now, he’ll think I’m lazy. “That’s not what I meant at all. I
want
to read it.” I hug the book close, struggling with embarrassment as we exit the park.

“It’s a copy I made of the original. But I’d appreciate it if you took good care of it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Where? When?” I flinch, hoping he doesn’t notice the desperate tone in my voice.

He stops to think. “You belong to the 37th Street Gym, right?”

I nod.

“Then I’ll meet you there at eight.” Franco’s gaze lingers on a group of people gathered together at the far end of the street. How I wish he thought I was that interesting. “Bring your bike.”

“Um… I don’t have a bike. I’m within walking distance of work, so—”

Franco frowns slightly. “You do know how to ride one, right?”

“Yes.” Of course I do. Everyone gets taught in grade school. But I haven’t ridden anything except a stationary bike for years now.

“Good. Because the monorail only goes so far. My station is ten miles past the last stop.”

My heart sinks. Oh, no. This is going to be like treadmill versus road running. I am going to look like an idiot. And I might die, riding a bike that far.

Not sure which is worse.

“Okay. I’ll meet you in front of the gym tomorrow at eight,” I say and stretch my tired arms over my head, still clutching the plant book in my sweaty hand. “It’s going to feel so good to sleep in my own bed tonight. I haven’t been home in two days.”

Liam snickers.

I flinch. “Wait—that sounded bad. I wasn’t—”

Franco lifts up his hands in mock surrender. “Listen, it’s really none of our business.”

“Actually,” Liam interjects, “I wouldn’t mind hearing about fancy Silvia’s nighttime activities.”

Franco shakes his head at his cousin.

I’m blushing so hard; it’s giving me a hot flash. “It’s nothing like that. Seriously, you two, I was
working.
And Liam, don’t act so suspicious. I already
told you
that I helped Gus bring the bodies to the Incinerator last night.”

“Really?” Franco pauses. “I work in the Plant Production building right next door.”

My stomach sinks.
That’s
where we’re biking to? “The roads out there are crummy.”

“Does this mean you’re backing out?” Franco asks.

I cross my arms. “No. I can do it.”

“Don’t worry, cuz.” Liam smirks. “She’ll probably kick your butt.”

I seriously doubt this. Biking out there is not going to be easy. The only ass getting kicked will be mine.

leave the guys, clean up, and hurry home. At the apartment, my mouth waters at the smell of lasagna coming from the kitchen. Mom must’ve really missed me.

“I’m home!” I drop my gym bag near the front door and head for the kitchen counter.

“Good.” Mom hands me a plate.

I detect a faint scent of something unpleasant. My nose crinkles as I poke the lasagna with a fork.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” Mom says. “You can’t even taste them in there. I swear you can’t.”

“I knew it!” My fork stabs a pink gelatinous protein cube. It jiggles as I hold it in the air. I sigh and shake my head. “Such a disappointment. It’s an insult to tomato sauce and cheese to hide these in there.”

“You’re too fussy for your own good. They’re perfectly nutritious. And you need your protein if you’re going to train for that race.”

“They’re perfectly disgusting.” I remove the blobs and shove them to the side of my plate.

“Well, you can’t blame a mother for trying.” She takes a seat and starts eating without complaint.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t stand the feel of them. They’re squishy and sticky. It’s like eating glue. So gross.” After my systematic dissection, I take my first bite of supper. “But, otherwise, this is really good. Thanks.”

She sighs, and I feel bad for a moment. It’s not her fault, but swallowing down those plant protein cubes always makes me gag. She’s tried everything. She’s fried them, breaded them, and hidden them in hot dishes like this one. But it’s no good. I can always find them.

“You know”—Mom holds a flier of race info, the bag open and perched at the feet of her chair—“It says in here that if you log enough miles on one of their running watches, you’ll earn extra protein rations.”

“What
kind
of protein?” I point my fork at the limp pink globules. “I don’t want any more of this crap.”

“It says
alternative
sources of protein.” She shrugs. “Whatever that means.”

“You’ve been through that whole race bag, haven’t you?”

“Of course. You didn’t tell me anything.”

“That’s ‘cause I haven’t had a chance to read half that stuff, yet.”

“Well, it was quiet here without you last night, so I had some time on my hands.” Mom brushes imaginary crumbs off her lap. “Want to go shopping with me tomorrow morning? The cupboards are bare. I slapped this dinner together with scraps.”

“I can’t…” I pause, not sure she’ll be happy or upset about my news. “I’m getting a tour of Plant Production tomorrow.”

“Really?” Mom smiles, and I realize at once that she’s gotten the wrong idea. “Are they considering you for a job?”

“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not it. I met someone today who works there.”

“Are they an intern like you?”

“No, he’s older.” I avoid her penetrating gaze. “He’s a relative of Liam’s.”

“Is Liam going, too?”

“No.” The thought makes me smile. “He’s not interested in plants or dirt. He likes business.”

Mom dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Are you taking a tour with Liam’s uncle, then? That’s nice of him to take the time to do this.”

“No. Franco’s his cousin.”

Mom raises her eyebrows. I should’ve known I couldn’t con her.

“How old is he?” she asks.

I clear my throat. “Maybe twenty-five.” Give or take a few years.

“Behave yourself then. Maybe you can make a good impression. It would be good for you to get out of—”

“Don’t say it. You know I like my job. Stop worrying about me so much.”

She frowns. “I’ll worry about you if I want to. You like that creepy job more than you should.”

“It’s not creepy. It’s fascinating.” I stuff a big bite of lasagna into my mouth to stop myself from arguing the point any further. I’m tired of fighting about my job.

That night I can’t sleep. Even exploring Franco’s book on plants doesn’t calm my mind. All I can do is think about the strange way he dresses and the odd things he said. My stomach flips topsy-turvy at the thought of spending time with him—alone—tomorrow. I really should get some rest. I’m running on empty after half my normal sleep last night, and that outdoor run today really took a lot out of me.

But it’s no use. I roll to my side and fret some more. If I don’t sleep, that bike ride is
really
going to kill me. I shake my head. Positive thoughts. I need some positive thoughts here.

Nope. Not coming up with any.

My tired gaze lands on my father’s photo across the room. The moonlight hides his expression, and if I didn’t have the picture memorized, I couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad. The memory trunk below his face is shrouded in dark shadows, but it calls to me just the same.

If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something.

I throw off the sheets, flick on a light, then go sit cross-legged beside the trunk. With a creak, the lid opens. I line the items across the floor, one after the other. First to come out is Dad’s old sweater, then his favorite childhood books, and a picture of his parents. Sometimes, I think I have to check everything to make sure something else hasn’t gotten lost—or taken away, perhaps.

With a longing sigh, I hold up the red dress I so loved as a child. Dad never got a chance to return it. He died a week after that summer concert. Then when The Suits went through our belongings, asking me and my mother a million questions, they found the dress. Dad had forgotten to give it back which was strange. He was usually more careful than that.

When one of the Suits tried to confiscate it, Mom went ballistic, screaming and hitting him. “Leave her alone! You can’t take all her memories! How could you be so heartless?”

My eyes water as her tearful cries echo in my ears. I hold the dress close to my heart, wishing it still smelled like summer, popcorn, and my father. But only the recollection of a scent remains. The past is all we’re left with now. Living in the past while we’re half-asleep in the present.

I’d like for today to be more important than yesterday. Not that I want to forget my father, I’d just like someone—or something—else to make me as happy as he did.

It’s time for some new memories to be made.

Starting tomorrow.