Wishing desperately that I was wrong but with the terrified, sinking knowledge that I wasn’t, I mouthed the answer: “The School.”
Fang’s eyes flared in recognition, and that was the only confirmation that I needed of this nightmare.
We were back at the School.
38
The School—the awful, terrifying place we had spent the past four years trying to get over, get away from. At the School, we’d been experimented on, tested, retested, trained. Because of this place, I would never be able to deal with people in long white coats and could never major in chemistry. Because of this place, when I saw a dog crate at a PetSmart, I broke into cold chills.
“Max?” Gazzy’s voice sounded dusty and dry.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said as quietly as I could.
“Where are we? What’s going on?”
I didn’t want to tell him, but while I was trying to come up with a convincing lie, the reality broke into his brain, and he stared at me, appalled. I saw him silently say, “The School,” and I had no choice but to nod. His head flopped back against his bed, and I saw that his once fluffy blond hair was a dusty, matted gray.
“Hey!” Total said with weak indignation. “I demand a lawyer.” But his characteristic belligerence was betrayed by the sad pain in his voice.
“Do we have a Plan B? Or C? Even Z?” Iggy’s voice had no life in it, no energy, and I got the impression that he’d given up and was only going through the motions.
I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Yes, of course,” I said, scrabbling for any shred of authority I could muster. “There’s always a plan. First, we get out of these straps.”
I felt Nudge awaken and looked over at her. Her large brown eyes were solemn, her mouth stiffly trying not to quiver. A purplish bruise mottled her cheek, and I saw more on her arms. I’d always thought of her as a little kid, like Gazzy and Angel, but all of a sudden she seemed ten years older.
Because she knew, and it showed in her eyes.
She knew we were way, way up a creek, and that I had no plan, and that we had no hope.
Which pretty much summed it up.
39
I don’t know how much later—after my arms had gone numb but before my ankles started burning with pins and needles—the door opened.
A little gray-haired woman in a white coat walked in, carrying a tray. Somebody’s evil grandma.
A new scent filled the air.
I tried not to breathe it in, but it was unavoidable.
The woman walked right up to me, a smile on her pleasant face.
Get it together, Max. That was me talking. I hadn’t heard the Voice since the melee in the desert.
I tried to look as unconcerned as a fourteen-year-old bird kid strapped to a hospital bed in hell could look.
“This is a first,” I said coolly. “Torture by chocolate-chip cookie. Was this all your idea?”
The woman looked disconcerted but tried to smooth out her expression.
“We thought you might be hungry,” she said. “These are hot out of the oven.”
She waved the tray a bit, to make sure the incredible vanilla-tinged aroma of fresh-baked cookies reached all of us.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Because all you mad, evil scientists sit around whipping up batches of Pillsbury’s finest during your coffee breaks. I mean, this is pathetic.”
She looked surprised, and I felt anger warming my blood.