Annabel: A Delirium Short Story by Lauren Oliver Read Free Book Online

of almost every street and every corner. But these, too, seem distant now, safely submerged in the past. A lifetime ago I used to sit on those picnic benches with Lena, luring seagulls with bread crumbs. We talked about flying. We talked about escape. It was kid stuff, like believing in unicorns and magic.
    I never thought she would actually do it.
    My stomach cramps. I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I must be hungry.
    “Busy week,” my mother says.
    “Yeah.”
    “And don’t forget, the Post wants to interview you this afternoon.”
    “I haven’t forgotten.”
    “Now we just need to find you a dress for Fred’s inauguration, and we’ll be all set. Or did you decide to go with the yellow one we saw in Lava last week?”
    “I’m not sure yet,” I say.
    “What do you mean, you’re not sure? The inauguration’s in five days , Hana. Everyone will be looking at you.” /p>
    “The yellow one, then.”
    “Of course, I have no idea what I’ll wear. . . .”
    We’ve passed into the West End, our old neighborhood. Historically, the West End has been home to many of the higher-ups in the church and the medical field: priests of the Church of the New Order, government officials, doctors and researchers at the labs. That’s no doubt why it was targeted so heavily during the riots following the Incidents.
    The riots were quelled quickly; there’s still much debate about whether the riots represented an actual movement or whether they were a result of misdirected anger and the passions we’re trying so hard to eradicate. Still, many people felt that the West End was too close to downtown, too close to some of the more troubled neighborhoods, where sympathizers and resisters are concealed. Many families, like ours, have moved off-peninsula now.
    “Don’t forget, Hana, we’re supposed to speak with the caterers on Monday.”
    “I know, I know.”
    We take Danforth to Vaughan, our old street. I lean forward slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of our old house, but the Andersons’ evergreen conceals it almost entirely from view, and all I get is a flash of the green-gabled roof.
    Our house, like the Andersons’ beside it and the Richards’ opposite, is empty and will probably remain so. Still, we see not a single for sale sign. No one can afford to buy. Fred says that the economic freeze will remain in place for at least a few years, until things begin to stabilize. For now, the government needs to reassert control. People need to be reminded of their place.
    I wonder if the mice are already finding their way into my old room, leaving droppings on the polished wood floors, and whether spiders have started webbing up the corners. Soon the house will look like 37 Brooks, barren, almost chewed -looking, collapsing slowly from termite rot.
    Another change: I can think about 37 Brooks now, and Lena, and Alex, without the old strangled feeling.
    “And I’ll bet you never reviewed the guest list I left in your room?”
    “I haven’t had time,” I say absently, keeping my eyes on the landscape skating by our window.
    We maneuver onto Congress, and the neighborhood changes quickly. Soon we pass one of Portland’s two gas stations, around which a group of regulators stands guard, guns pointing toward the sky; then dollar stores and a Laundromat with a faded orange awning; a dingy-looking deli.
    Suddenly my mom ddes aleans forward, putting one hand on the back of Tony’s seat. “Turn this up,” she says sharply.
    He adjusts a dial on the dashboard. The radio voice gets louder.
    “Following the recent outbreak in Waterbury, Connecticut—”
    “God,” my mother says. “Not another one.”
    “—all citizens, particularly those in the southeast quadrants, have been strongly encouraged to evacuate to temporary housing in neighboring Bethlehem. Bill Ardury, chief of Special Forces, offered reassurances to worried citizens. ‘The situation is under control,’ he said during his seven-minute address.