The Summoning

I stopped myself, but it was too late. For a moment, Tori froze in mid-rise. Then, slowly, she crumpled back onto the bed.

"I didn't mean —"

"What do you want, Chloe?" She tried to put some bite in the words, but they came out quiet, weary.

"Liz's shirt," I said after a moment. "Rae says you borrowed a green hoodie from Liz."

She waved toward the dresser. "It's in there. Middle drawer. Mess it up and you can refold everything."

And that was it. No "Why do you want it?" or even "Did she call asking for it?" Her gaze had already gone distant. Doped up? Or beyond caring?

I found the shirt. An emerald green Gap hoodie. A personal effect.

I shut the drawer and straightened.

"You got what you came for," Tori said. "Now run along and play with your friends."

I walked to the door, grasped the handle, then turned to face her.

'Tori?"

"What?"

I wanted to wish her luck. I wanted to tell her I hoped she got what she was looking for, what she needed. I wanted to tell her I was sorry.

With everything that went on at Lyle House, and the discovery that at least three of us didn't belong here, it was easy to forget that some kids did. Tori had problems. Expecting her to behave like any normal teenage girl, then shu

I clutched Liz's shirt in my hands and tried to think of something to say, but anything I did say would come out wrong, condescending.

So I said the only thing I could. "Good-bye."

Thirty-nine

I STUFFED LIZ'S HOODIE INTO my bag. It took up more room than I could afford, but I needed it. It could answer a question I really needed to answer . . . just as soon as I worked up the courage to ask.

When Derek had a

I warned the others about Tori, but no one seemed concerned. It was like I told her —she was totally out of our minds. Insignificant. I wondered whether that hurt her most of all.

We spent the evening watching a movie. For once, I paid so little attention that if I was asked for a log line ten minutes after the credits rolled, I couldn't have given one.

Derek didn't join us. Simon said his brother was wiped from the night before and wanted to rest up so he'd be clearheaded for helping us tonight. I wondered whether his fever was coming back.

When Mrs. Talbot asked after Derek, Simon said he "wasn't feeling great." She tut-tutted and withdrew to play cards with Ms. Abdo, not even going upstairs to check on him. That's how it always was with Derek. The nurses seemed to leave him to his own devices, like his size made them forget he was still a kid. Or maybe, given his file and his diagnosis, they wanted as little contact with him as possible.

Did he notice how they treated him? I'm sure he did. Nothing escaped Derek, and I suspected it only reinforced that he needed to be in here.

As the movie droned on, I fretted about him. He'd been so careful not to let Simon know he'd been sick. If Simon could tell he "wasn't feeling great," that had to mean he was too sick to hide it.

I slipped from the media room, got four Tylenol and a glass of water, and took it upstairs.

I tapped on the door. No answer. Light shone under it, but he could have fallen asleep reading.

Or be too sick to answer.

I rapped again, a little louder.

"Derek? It's me. I brought water and Tylenol."

Still nothing. I touched the doorknob, cold under my fingertips. He was probably asleep. Or ignoring me.

"I'll leave it here."

As I bent to set the glass on the floor, the door opened, just enough for me to see Derek's bare foot. I straightened. He was in his boxers again, and my gaze shot to the safety of his face, but not before noticing the sheen of sweat on his chest. Sweat plastered his hair around his face, and his eyes were feverish, lips parted, breath coming hard, labored.

"Are y-you —?" I began.

"Be fine."

He ran his tongue over his parched lips and blinked hard, as if struggling to focus. When I held out the glass, he reached for it through the gap and took a long gulp.

'Thanks."

I handed him the Tylenol. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Good enough."

He braced the door with his foot and reached around his back, scratching.

"Maybe you should take a bath," I said. "A cold bath, for your fever. Baking soda would help the itching. I could get-"

"Nah, I'm okay."

"If you need anything . . ."

"Just rest. Go on back down before someone notices."

I headed for the stairs.

"Chloe?"

I glanced back. He was leaning out the door.

"Nothing to Simon, okay? About how bad I am?"

"He knows you're not feeling well. You really should tell —"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. He's going to figure that out —"

"He won't. I'll take care of it."

He withdrew and the door clicked shut.

That night in bed, Rae couldn't keep quiet. She wanted to talk about her backpack and what she'd packed and whether she'd made the right choices and should she take anything else . . .

I hated to shush her. She was as excited as a kid getting ready for her first overnight camp, which was weird because after what had happened to her friend, Rae should know that life on the street wasn't going to be some fabulous, unchaperoned adventure.

I suppose, to her, this wasn't the same thing. She was going with Simon and me, and there were few kids less likely to turn Bo

" 'Cause we're special." She gave a bubbling laugh. "That sounds so lame. But it's what everyone wants, isn't it? To be special."

Do they? There were a lot of things I wanted to be. Smart, sure. Talented, definitely. Pretty? Okay, I'll admit it. But special?

I'd spent too much of my life being special. The rich girl who lost her mother. The new kid in class. The drama major who didn't want to be an actor. For me, special meant different, and not in a good way. I'd wanted to be normal, and I guess the irony is that, the whole time I was dreaming of a normal life, I already had one . . . or a whole lot closer to it than I'd ever have again.

But now I watched Rae lying on her stomach, matches in hand, struggling to light one with her bare fingertips, the tip of her tongue sticking through her teeth, determination bordering on desperation, and I could see how badly she wanted a supernatural power. I had one, and I cared so little for it that I'd gladly give it to her.

It was like in school, when other girls drooled over designer jeans, counting the babysitting hours until they could buy a pair, and I sat there wearing mine, four other pairs in the closet at home, no more meaningful to me than a pair of no-names. I felt guilty for not appreciating what I had.

But necromancy wasn't a pair of expensive jeans, and I was pretty sure my life would be better without it. Definitely easier. And yet, if I woke tomorrow and couldn't talk to the dead, would I be disappointed?

"I think it's getting warm," she said, pinching the match head between her fingers.