Downburst (14 page)

Lila and Holly plunge into the throng. I want to join them, to feel the drumbeat, but I don’t know how to dance like that, even if it is on the ground. So instead of dancing, I move to the edge of the room.

The dancers twirl and leap. Their glistening bodies surge together, and their legs thump with the drums. As I move along the wall, I see Rye. He’s dancing close to a girl, hands on her hips. Then he spins her away and turns to meet a different girl. He pulls her in then wheels her back out before grabbing yet another partner. I can see his grin, his white teeth.

Just then the drums cease their frenzy. A single drummer takes up a soft, rhythmic beat, and one of the musicians reaches for a flute. She plays a slow, stirring melody, and the dancing changes. The initiates merge into gently twirling couples, their swelling chests easing back to a normal rise and fall.

I turn to face the crowd, and I notice Rye again. He’s not dancing with anyone. Instead, he’s looking straight at me. And he’s walking in my direction. I look down at the floor as my pulse flickers through my veins. Is he really going to ask me to dance?

“Excuse me.”

I look up, heart fluttering. But the words came from behind me. I turn around—and see Jeremy.

“Hi,” I say, trying to hide the strain in my voice. I glance over my shoulder to see if Rye’s still there. He’s stopped walking and is watching us.
Go away, Jeremy!

Instead, he asks, “Would you like to dance?”

I search frantically for an excuse. “Are counselors allowed to dance with the initiates?”

He grabs my hand. “Why not?” As he leads me onto the floor, I watch Rye head toward a brunette.
I try not to glare at my counselor, but I’m not sure how well I succeed.

We step among the couples and into a deluge of heat. The sweat glands in my armpits prick, and I haven’t even started dancing yet. Jeremy takes my arms and places them around his neck while his own hands slide around my waist. Then he leads me in a rhythmic forward and back step, nothing at all like the confined, monotonous swaying I experienced at school dances. He spins me gracefully to the right then to the left before bringing me in close and looping my arm back over his head. I have no idea where to place my feet, but he steers me effortlessly through the complex moves.

When he brings me in from another spin, I catch a whiff of a crisp scent on his neck. Lemongrass. I look at his face. The bandana around his disheveled hair doesn’t quite keep the perspiration from dripping down his cheeks, and his skin glows a pale pink. His light facial hair hides the mole above his lip. The color of his eyes still eludes me, though. They’re even harder to see in here, where they reflect the carmine flames.

“Something wrong?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.

“No,” I stammer. “It’s just that you’re such a good dancer.”

“And you’re surprised?”

“I guess.”

He wheels me around then places a hand firmly on the small of my back. “I have an important question to ask you.”

“Okay … ” Something in his tone makes my stomach quiver. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s standing so close.

He tips his face toward mine and says in a serious voice, “Did you use the toothbrush?”

I stick out my tongue. “Yes.”

“That’s a relief.” He spins me back out. “I don’t like dancing with people who have bad breath.”

“Good thing you’re not dancing with yourself,” I retort.

“Your hair looks nice,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Much better than it usually does.”

“Gee, thanks.” I scowl at him then notice that the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“You’re too easy to tease,” he declares. “Probably because you’re so serious all the time.”

“I am not!”

“Trust me. You are. You need to lighten up, learn to have some fun, take a joke. Remember how you tried to stab me with a switchblade?”

“You said you were going to kill me!”

“Yeah, but you had to know I was kidding.”

“Well, I didn’t,” I mumble.

“Because you’re too serious,” he says, lowering his face so his eyes are level with mine. I look away, and we dance for a few moments in silence.

He’s the first to speak again. “So, are you scared?” he asks.

“About what?”

“Running.”

“What?” I stumble forward, and he catches me.

“Careful,” he says gently.

He continues to hold me as I look up at him. “I’m confused,” I say at last.

“Your race tomorrow.” He crooks his eyebrow. “Are you nervous?”

“Oh.” My heart beats normally again. “A little.”

“You’ll do great. I’ll come watch you.”
Could that be a threat, a warning that he’ll be following my every move?
I realize he’s still holding me closely, that we’re not dancing anymore. His sharp eyes drill into mine, and, somehow, I find it impossible to look away.

The song ends. There’s a lingering second of stillness—of Jeremy’s slight panting, of his lemongrass skin, of his ever-changing eyes—and then the music returns to a faster tempo.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says. He leans forward and whispers in my ear, so close his lips brush my cheek. “Don’t let me down, kid.” After that, he slips away and melts into the crowd.

I’m still standing right where he left me when Lila bounds over to my side. “Who was that?” she asks, nudging me with her shoulder. “He was hot!”

Hot? I’d never thought of Jeremy as hot, just officious and aggravating. But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about the pressure of his hand on my back or his breath against my cheek. “One of my counselors,” I tell her.

“Ooh, that’s lucky. That means you’re from the same area, so you can see him when you go home.”

Only it doesn’t, because I won’t be going back to Winnipeg. I ignore the sudden pinch in my chest.

Someone asks Lila to dance. They walk toward the middle of the floor, and she widens her eyes at me over her shoulder. Then they’re swallowed by the sweaty mass of whirling bodies. I look around for Rye. He’s dancing with a blonde girl, closely too.

As I turn around, I see someone else I know: Diva.
She narrows her eyes and mouths something, but the dancers spin between us before I can make it out.

The fiery dancers, the pulsing heat, Diva’s glower, Jeremy’s eyes, it all beats down on me to the frenzied cadence of the drums. I push through the crowd and escape into the glass tunnel. As soon as I get to the deck and the cool air, I climb down to the forest floor, and, on a whim, remove my shoes, walking barefoot through the soft dirt.

After several minutes, I find a log and sit down. I can faintly hear the drums back at the meetinghouse, but more immediately present are the calls of the birds and the buzzing of the flies.

Don’t let me down, Jeremy said. What is that supposed to mean? Is he betting on me again? Or does he suspect I’m going to leave?
Maybe neither. It probably has something to do with Aura. He thought she didn’t want to come to the camp. But what would she have done that would have disappointed him?

It doesn’t matter what Aura would have done. I
still don’t have a plan. I’ll be thrown into the Aerie where I won’t be able to windwalk, and then Jeremy will know what it is to be let down.

I rub my head, but the smell of the lemongrass stays with me. I’m too serious, he says. If only he knew.

I run my hands through my hair, and my fingers get caught in the braid. I drop my hand. I guess I did look good tonight, like Jeremy said. After all, wasn’t Rye going to ask me to dance? If Jeremy hadn’t been there, it might have been my body pressing close to his, instead of that other girl’s—but only because Lila worked her magic on my hair. He never would have noticed me otherwise.

Lila. I’ve known her scarcely three days, but I feel like it’s been much longer than that. What made her want to be my friend? I’m not talented or interesting, and I’ve never had a friend who was so pretty or popular. Actually, I’ve never really had friends at all, not that I ever wanted any. The kids at school were nice enough when my parents died; I just didn’t want to talk to anyone, and, eventually, people got used to the fact that I never spoke, so they stopped trying to make me. Instead, they invented another game—who can make Kit cry?

I kick the log with my heel. No one ever could, and then they started calling me a freak, a robot. And when you stay in the same school with the same people your whole life, there’s no changing your reputation.

I get up and keep walking. Jack and Maisy didn’t have the same problem. They were too young when it happened, and they don’t even remember our parents. By the time they went to school, they were just like the other children, and I think people forgot they weren’t actually Tom and Sue’s. They looked like they could be Johnsons, with their light brown hair and blue eyes. But not me.

My gut feels hollow. Do they miss me? Maybe, but they’ll get over it. Probably already have. They’re happy where they are, and I never knew how to take care of them anyway. My plan to send them money seems like a distant dream, but soon enough I’ll be back on-track. Far away from all this.

I pause halfway up the rope ladder and survey the starlit forest and softly glowing bunkhouses. Catch the sighing of the trees in the pine-drenched wind. If I were completely honest … but no, there isn’t any point in indulging idle fantasies. I climb the rest of the way up.

In the bathroom, I undo the braid and brush out my hair, clean my teeth, wash my face, and then walk back up the ramp. As I climb into bed, I try to forget about running away, leave it for the morning. Instead, my mind drifts to Diva. I remember she was mouthing something at me across the room. What was it?

I’m almost asleep when I figure it out.
My eyes fly open, and I sit up. Diva knows I’m not Aura.

Poser. That’s what she called me. I can see it now, every detail of her glare, the shape of her mouth as she formed the “p” and “o” sounds and then the final syllable.

How much time do I have—how long before she turns me in? Has she
already
turned me in? Are they on their way to get me right now, to chain me up in front of the entire camp and cut off my fingers, shred my skin?
I need to leave immediately!

I jump out of bed, snap my head back and forth, try to decide what to do.
Get dressed, leave the bunkhouse, walk as far and as fast as I can.

In the dark? With no compass? No food?
I don’t have a choice. It’s that or stay and be tortured.
I frantically pull on some pants, but then I pause as another thought strikes me: maybe I misread Diva’s lips. It was dark. She was far away. She could have said something entirely different.

I stand uncertainly beside my bunk, a shirt in one hand. Then I look out the nearest window at the black sky. Walking into the forest unprepared would be suicide. If I stay here, at least there’s the chance that I’m wrong about Diva. Slowly, I pull off the khakis and climb back into bed.

But it’s impossible to fall asleep now, and I toss and turn as I try unsuccessfully to push her out of my mind. An hour or two goes by, and gradually I hear other girls returning to the bunkhouse. More time passes, maybe another hour, before Lila sticks her head around the bend.

“There you are!” she exclaims. “Where did you go?”

“I had a headache, so I came back early.”

“That’s too bad. The dance was actually pretty cool.” She leans against the wall and intently examines her nails, clears her throat. “So, you know that guy from your van?”

Titan?
“Yeah…”

A sly grin tugs on her lips. “He’s a good kisser.” She laughs at my expression then declares, “Well, better go to bed. Got my race tomorrow.” She disappears down the pole, leaving me to a long, restless night alone with my thoughts.

The morning finally comes, and Lila and I drag ourselves to breakfast, neither of us eating anything. Lila obsessively recounts all the rules and strategies for her event while I struggle to listen. But as we head to the course and I take a seat on the stands, my stomach relaxes its self-mangling. No one’s come to take me, which means I probably misunderstood. Diva must have said something else.

Either that, or she’s just biding her time, hoping to make me sweat.

I tug hard on my ponytail. I can’t think about this anymore. It’s making me too jumpy, and I might slip up, give myself away. All I can do is stay alert and move forward with my plan.

I lower my hand to the bench, forcing myself not to tap my fingers against the metal. The
kohenrehi
track—a big loop built into the forest—is directly below me. But unlike the track I ran on at school, the starting line is not on the ground. It’s on a raised platform.

From what I recall from Lila’s explanation, the contestants begin on the platform and go around the loop three times. Each time, the course changes. Placed along the route are electronic signs displaying large arrows, and the racers go in the direction the arrows point—up, down, right, left—dodging whatever obstacles are in their way. Then, once the racers have passed the signs, the arrows change in preparation for the next lap. According to Lila, the trick is not just to go fast but also to pick the right air current. If you don’t choose well, you could end up going backward or falling a bone-breaking distance.

I look at the racers. They’re wearing helmets and kneepads, and I think I see mouth guards too. Among them are some faces I recognize: Gander, Bullseye, Dee, Buck … and Rye.

At the chirp of a whistle, the contestants take their marks, the counselor in charge sounds a gong, and the race begins. My stomach jumps as the initiates leap off the thirty-foot platform and soar toward the first arrow. It’s pointing up.

Suddenly, the ground opens beneath the sign, revealing five giant fans. Rye is the first to dive into one of the vertical currents, and he shoots into the sky. Lila isn’t far behind. Nor are Buck and Bullseye.

A broken tree trunk stretches across the course above them, blocking their path. The front racers somersault easily over it, but a girl in the middle of the pack rockets slightly to the right of the others and smacks into the thick bark. She hits her shoulder hard and tumbles out of the sky, crashing on the ground.

I look at her crumpled body lying in the dirt then over at the fans. And that’s when I see that the humming metal circles are pointed in slightly different directions.
So that’s what Lila meant about choosing the right current.
The racers have to look ahead, have to know which stream of wind will get them where they need to go. Otherwise they might smash into a tree.

The contestants keep moving, following the arrows that point them first one way and then another. They dodge pine trees, dip into ditches, twist to avoid tree stumps, and swerve through sprinkler systems, always looking for the right surf.

When the initiates speed around the turn, I look down at my Quil where their images appear on my screen, courtesy of cameras placed along the track. Lila’s doing well. Rye is still ahead of her, and Buck, but she’s in the top five.

Seconds later, they’re back in view. Rye is a streak of beige as he bursts around the bend, swerving left, following the next arrow. Lila is right on his heels. They zoom across the platform. On to lap two.

Suddenly, Lila catches a fast-moving current and shoots past Rye. But when the next arrow sends her into a stand of trees, her foot catches on a camouflaged net, and Rye and Buck zip past her again.

I see a glint of metal as Lila cuts herself free. In moments, she’s rejoined the others. She’s not a leader anymore, but she’s still ahead of most of the group. And she’s
fast. She overtakes two people before getting to the next arrow.

I lean to the side in order to see as much as possible, watching as her curls vanish around the bend, but I lean too far, and my Quil slips off my lap and skids across the metal floor. I have to crawl past several people before I find it. When I pick it up, I discover the screen has gone dark.
I hope that’s not a problem
.

I look up as the racers cross the platform and the final pass begins. Buck is the leader with Rye right behind him. Bullseye has the third spot. And fourth—it’s Lila!

They’re in the same positions as they disappear around the curve. The spectators are on their feet now, looking back and forth between their Quils and the track, waiting for the racers to come around the final bend. Since my Quil is still off, I stand up with them and strain to see through the trees.

They burst into view. Rye’s taken the lead, Buck is in second, and Lila is in third, Bullseye not far behind. There’s a sizeable gap between them and the rest of the contestants and only two more arrows before the finish line. The first one points up; the second, back to the finish platform. The four racers rise into the sky.

And then the fans turn off.

The crowd shouts as all four initiates plummet toward the ground. Rye and Buck find a natural breeze on their way down and stop falling ten feet above the earth. They whisk toward the finish.

But Bullseye and Lila keep dropping. Then Bullseye gets hold of a current, and as he scoots forward, he throws out a hand to grasp Lila’s arm. It slows her fall, but her feet slam into the dirt, and she pulls him down with her. The two of them tumble onto the ground.

The fans turn back on, but now the other contestants are within striking range. Bullseye shoots Lila a glance and then leaps into the sky. She staggers after him.

Up ahead, Buck gets a burst of speed and crosses the finish line milliseconds before Rye. Bullseye follows a few seconds later, claiming the third spot. Lila takes fourth. The rest of the pack is just moments behind.

The racers soar over the platform and drop to the ground on the other side where they stand, doubled over, panting. I run down to the course with some of the other spectators.

“Are you okay?” I ask Lila.

She shows her teeth. “I’m fine. A few bruises, nothing bad.”

“You did really well.”

She shrugs. “Fourth’s not terrible, I guess.”

I look at Bullseye. His forehead is damp, his nose crimson.
I wonder why he helped her.

I glance over to where Buck and Rye are leaning against a tree trunk, exchanging some winded banter. After a moment, they stand up and walk toward us.

“Nice racing,” Rye says to Lila and Bullseye.

“Yeah, that was some crazy surf today,” Buck adds. All of them shake hands.

Then Rye looks at me, his eyes scanning my face, and as he tips his head slightly to one side, my pulse speeds up. He opens his mouth to say something, but a whistle from the counselor cuts him off. It’s time for the awards.

Lila stands to the side with the rest of the contestants—I see Gander and Dee again—while Buck, Rye, and Bullseye receive their medals. She smiles and applauds with the others.

“At least
that’s
over,” she says when she joins me afterward. “Now I just have the battle this afternoon, and I can finally relax. But it’s almost time for your race.”

Right. My race.
“How do I turn this back on?” I ask, holding up my Quil.

“It’s not off. It’s just dormant.” She taps the screen three times, and the eagle with the tomahawk reappears, along with the box for my thumbprint.

“Thanks,” I say, selecting watch mode and slipping it back on my wrist.

We walk to the track. It’s not far from the windwalking course, about halfway between it and the lake, and when we arrive, I’m only faintly surprised to see it’s not paved. In fact, it looks almost the same as Lila’s course, only with no arrows and no loop. We’ll run straight through the forest to a designated spot and turn around. No lanes, no real path, just there and back.

I look at the other contestants and raise an eyebrow. All of them are girls. As I scan their faces, I catch sight of glossy blonde hair and my stomach clenches. Diva’s lips twist into a scowl, and I glare back, curling my fingers into a fist as I imagine pulling out her perfect ponytail. But the queasiness remains.
Does she know?

There’s only one other person in the group I recognize, and that’s Tornado.

“Watch your back,” Lila winks at me before she goes to find a seat.

Great.
I find a place in line that’s as far away from Diva as I can get and start stretching. It’s not a warm day, but I can feel the sweat dripping through my ponytail.
I’ll hang back
, I decide,
finish somewhere in the middle.
That will keep the spotlight away.

A male counselor steps onto a platform, and as I turn to look at him, I notice someone in the crowd watching me. My face grows warm when I see the familiar pair of green eyes, and I jerk my own eyes back to the counselor. But the entire time he’s speaking, I’m conscious only of Rye’s gaze on my blushing cheeks.

“All right, girls,” the counselor says, “looks like we’re ready to start. Remember there’s absolutely no windwalking allowed. You must stay on the ground at all times. Any questions?” No one says anything. “Okay, on my mark.” He raises an arm. “Get set … go!”

He brings his hand down, and I pound away at the dirt, forgetting all about my resolution to hold back. The first stretch is flat and clear, an easy distance to cover, and I whisk across the earth, vaulting quickly from the balls of my feet. A girl shoves her elbow into my side, trying to cut me off, but I push her back and hold my ground.
I guess this is what happens when there are no lanes.
As I run, I feel that heat in my blood, that drive to compete, and I have to admit that even if Rye weren’t watching, I probably wouldn’t have been able to make myself slow down.