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

has gone.
    Tony is leaning against the car. I wonder if he has been standing in that position for all three hours we’ve been in Mrs. Killegan’s. He straightens up as we approach, and opens the door for my mother.
    “Thank you, Tony,” she says. “Was there any trouble?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Good.” She gets into the backseat, and I slide in after her. We’ve had this car for only two months—a replacement for the one that was vandalized—and just a few days after it arrived, my mom came out of the grocery store to find that someone had keyed the word PIG into the paint. Secretly, I think that my mom’s real motivation for hiring Tony was to protect the new car.
    After Tony shuts the door, the world outside the tinted windows gets tinged a dark blue. He turns the radio to the NNS, the National News Service. The commentators’ voices are familiar and reassuring.
    I lean my head back and watch the world begin to move. I have lived in Portland all my life and have memories 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.”
    “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