Pandemonium by Lauren Oliver Read Free Book Online Page A

than having no friends is being pitied for having no friends. “To be honest, I’m having some trouble with the girls,” new Lena says. “I’m finding them a little bit … immature.” As I speak, I angle my head away slightly, so she can see the triangular scar just behind my left ear: the mark of the procedure, the mark of being cured.
    Instantly, her expression softens. “Well, yes, of course. Many of them are younger than you, after all. Not yet eighteen, uncured.”
    I spread my hands as if to say, Of course .
    But Mrs. Tulle isn’t done with me, although her voice has lost its edge. “Mrs. Fierstein says you fell asleep in class again. We’re worried, Lena. Do you feel the workload is too much for you? Are you having trouble sleeping at night?”
    “I have been a little stressed,” I admit. “It’s all this DFA stuff.”
    Mrs. Tulle raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you were in the DFA.”
    “Division A,” I say. “We’re having a big rally next Friday. Actually, there’s a planning meeting this afternoon in Manhattan. I don’t want to be late.”
    “Of course, of course. I know all about the rally.” Mrs. Tulle lifts her papers, jogs them against the desk to make sure their edges are aligned, and slides them into a drawer. I can tell I’m off the hook. The DFA is the magic word: Deliria -Free America. Open sesame. She is all kindness now. “It’s very impressive that you’re trying to balance your extracurricular involvements with your schoolwork, Lena. And we support the work the DFA is doing. Just be sure you can find a balance. I don’t want your board scores to suffer because of your social work, however important it is.”
    “I understand.” I duck my head and look penitent. The new Lena is a good actress.
    Mrs. Tulle smiles at me. “Now go on. We don’t want you to be late to your meeting.”
    I stand up, shoulder my tote bag. “Thanks.”
    She inclines her head toward the door, a signal that I can leave.
    I walk through the scrubbed linoleum halls: more white walls, more quiet. All the other students have gone home by now.
    Then it’s out through the double doors, into the dazzling white landscape: an unexpected March snow, hard, bright light, trees encased in thick black sheaths of ice. I pull my jacket tighter and stomp my way out of the iron gates, onto Eighth Avenue.
    This is the girl I am now. My future is here, in this city, full of icicles dangling like daggers getting ready to drop.
    There’s more traffic in the sister cities than I’ve ever seen in my life. Hardly anyone had working cars in Portland; in New York, people are richer and can afford the gas. When I first came to Brooklyn, I used to go to Times Square just to watch them, sometimes a dozen at a time, one right after the other.
    My bus gets stuck on 31st Street behind a garbage truck that has backed into a soot-colored snowbank, and by the time I get to the Javits Center, the DFA meeting has already begun. The steps are empty, as is the enormous entrance hall, and I can hear the distant, booming feed from a microphone, applause that sounds like a roar. I hurry to the metal detector and unload my bag, then stand with arms and legs splayed while a man sweeps impassively with the wand over my breasts and between my legs. I have long since outgrown being embarrassed by these procedures. Then it’s over to the folding table set just in front of two enormous double doors; behind them, I can hear another smattering of applause, and more microphone-voice, amplified, thunderous, passionate. The words are inaudible.
    “Identity card, please,” drones the woman behind the table, a volunteer. I wait while she scans my ID; then she waves me on with a jerk of her head.
    The auditorium is enormous. It must fit at least two thousand people and is, as always, almost entirely full. There are a few empty seats off to the very left, close to the stage, and I skirt the periphery of the room, trying to slip into a chair