Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (28 page)

e walk a bit further on the path before Franco halts, a cringe on his face. “Hey, don’t kill me or anything. But I just remembered that I’ve got to be somewhere else right now.”

“What?” You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Yeah. I’ve got a meeting tonight.”

My stomach drops. “And you remembered this very moment?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll walk you back to the gates, and then I’ve got to go, okay?”

My shoulders slump. Maybe Franco really doesn’t want to spend time with me. It’s also quite possible the guy is nuts. I shake my head as we approach the gates.

Franco frowns. “I really am sorry, Sylvia.” Then he ditches me.

Once he’s gone, I hurry through the gates before nearly sprinting across town. That counts as running, right? It shouldn’t matter whether or not Franco’s comfortable being alone with me. It shouldn’t matter whether or not he likes me. That’s what I tell myself with every step I take.

“Mom, I’m home!” I call out once I reach the apartment.

She greets me in the narrow front hallway. “I’m so glad you’re here. I see you have another appointment with Citizen Reproductive Services tomorrow morning.” She holds out a card. “They’re more concerned about the time you’re spending with boys your age than I am.”

“Again?” I scan the writing.
Silvia Wood, 6:30 a.m.
“I’m so sick of that place. What do they want now?”

The next morning, I wait on an exam room sofa in Reproductive Services, this time without my mother. A nurse types with lightning speed into the computer at the desk.

“Pre-race jitters?” She glances over at me with a supportive smile.

“Not really.” She’s caught me off guard. How does she know about the race?

“That’s why you’re here, of course. You knew that, right? Every female contestant must have a pregnancy screening, among other things, before the race. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

“But I just had a pregnancy test not that long ago.”

She holds out a cup. “We have to be sure. It won’t take long, I promise. And our newest tests are so sensitive; they can detect a pregnancy only seven days along.”

“But, last I heard, a person actually has to have sex before they can get pregnant.”

She holds the cup closer. “Just pee in the cup. It will only take ten minutes, I swear.”

“Is this really necessary?”

She raises her eyebrows. “No pee. No race.”

I grab the cup. “Boys get off so easy.”

“Well, usually I’d agree with you, but they have to provide samples, too—not checking for pregnancy, of course. We just have to check to make sure no one cheats during the race.”

“How can you cheat in the race? Not that I intend to do it. I’m just curious.”

“There are ways. Certain drugs or blood doping. The New Order wants this contest to be clean.”

“Fine, I’ll go pee.” What a total waste of time.

Twenty minutes later, instead of the promised ten, the nurse comes back into the room.

“Guess what?” she says with yet another smile. “You’re not pregnant.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I mutter.

The nurse eyes me. “Don’t forget about all the benefits you receive for your participation in this race. It’s not that hard to comply with the few rules and regulations that go along with it.”

“I guess not, but since I’m not even sexually active,
and
you’ve already shot me up with this long-acting form of birth control”—I point to my upper arm—“whether or not it’s ‘standard procedure,’ this appointment still seems pointless. Can I go now?”

“Of course.” She turns back to her computer, her smile gone. “Good luck at the race.”

I’m still grumbling about the pregnancy test when I get to work. My duties today include processing all the implants—meaning a lot of tedious entering of names into the computer while the noisy machine grinds the hormone capsules to bits. Then I get the joyous task of dismantling all the microchips into pieces for recycling. Usually, I don’t mind either of these jobs, but, today, everything grates on my nerves.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gus asks. “You’re wearing the ugly scowl of an old, German woman, and I don’t like it one bit.”

I sigh. “I can’t believe how many times a virgin has to have a pregnancy test in order to run this damn race.”

He chuckles. “Which part is it that you’re mad about?”

I flush. “Good grief, Gus. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“It’s a fair question, I think.” Gus smiles. “You’ve got to declare yourself a homosexual if you want to get Reproductive Services off your back. Well, that’s not exactly true, either.”

“At least I wouldn’t have to keep peeing in a cup.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. There’s still lots of tests they want to put you through to determine if you’re genetically sound or, perhaps, even superior.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m guessing you were deemed ‘superior?’”

“You have to understand: with the fertility rates so low, sometimes Reproductive Services has to run tests to determine if someone’s egg or sperm is a better match or more viable.”

“Did you have to donate?” I ask. Now I’m the one getting overly personal.

He makes a face. “Sometimes, I wish you’d just take the hint without getting so inquisitive about things.”

“So, you have kids? You never mentioned any.”

“That’s because they weren’t ours to raise. You have to get permission to have children, whatever your preference, and, I guess, we never got around to it. I did wish afterward that we’d thought more on the subject, but then Ben got sick, and it was too late.”

“I’m sorry, Gus.” I touch his arm. “You would’ve been a great dad. And I’m sorry I never met Ben. Franco totally idolized him.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Gus clears his throat. “Are you still spending so much time with that boy? You know he’s too old for you.”

I turn back to entering in names, the machine growling and grinding next to me. “Yeah. Mom thinks so, too. But she
adores
Liam.”

“Everyone always has.” Gus turns away.

“Really? You think so, too? Franco says everyone always prefers Liam over him.”

“Then, for once, I agree with the man.”

I enter the gym through the sliding glass doors, dreading the thought of working out alone.

“Silvia Wood?” The front desk worker waves me down as I enter the sliding glass doors. “Liam Harman left a message for you.”

She turns the monitor toward me. I lean over the computer screen.

Hey, Silvia. Sorry I can’t train with you today. The good news is: I can walk now but with a cane (you were right). I came in earlier for an ice bath and some physical therapy. Not sure when I’ll be running again, but even if I have to limp along the sidelines, I’ll still cheer you on.

I smile and leave my electronic signature to prove I received his message.

“That poor guy,” the front desk worker clucks. “I hope they figure out whoever ran him over.”

“You’d think that with all the cameras—” I freeze and slam my mouth closed. Should not have said that.

She leans forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard that none of the cameras caught it. He’s like a ghost who can’t be seen on tape.”

I bite back the words that want to spill out about hiding from view, darting around cameras—everything my dad taught me. Instead, I go with, “I hope Liam gets better in time to run the race. It won’t be as fun without him.”

“Fun?” She shakes her head, laughing. “I’m sorry. I admire you all, but running 13.1 miles is
not
my idea of fun.”

The next three days spin by on robotic pilot: work, gym, home. Work, gym, home. Treadmill-racing those running next to me even though I’m supposed to be tapering, but running hard usually calms my mind. That and an hour of yoga after each run.

And yet, no matter how fast I push my legs or how long I hold each pose, my mind still jumps about like a bouncing ball.

On day four, I enter the gym to find Liam leaning against the front counter, chatting up the front desk worker.

“How was your ice bath?” I ask.

“Torture.” He scowls. “I hate them, but today was my last time. Look, my knee is back to normal size.”

“Bend it,” I command.

He winces as he bends his knee.

“You’ve got pretty good range of motion, but it obviously still hurts.”