Indelible. Dawn Metcalf

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      JOY COULDN’T TELL Dad or Stefan or Monica. She didn’t want any of them thinking that she was crazy, and she really didn’t want any of them ending up like Officer Gabriel Castrodad. She had to keep quiet. Act natural. Keep everyone safe. She was almost grateful that everyone else was too preoccupied with their own lives to notice anything wrong with hers.

      Almost.

      She felt eyes on her during the bus ride to school—kids turning to look at her just as she was looking at them. She glanced away quickly. Joy wondered if people always did that? She’d never noticed it before. Then again, it hadn’t creeped her out before.

      Could they see that her world had changed? Could they read it in her eyes?

      Flash! Flash!

      Joy hunched down in her seat and willed herself smaller.

      Ink’s people, whoever they were, knew where she went to school, where she lived, her locker, her phone number... What else? She was grateful that she’d listened to Monica and been extra careful with her online profile, but who knew where or when the next note would appear? She’d buried her phone in the bottom of her book bag and stuffed it beneath her seat. Pushing her hands in her pockets, she kept her back to the window and concentrated on the floor.

      Joy tried thinking about ways that she could make herself indispensable and yet stay as far away from the Scribes as possible. She figured any information she got she would hand over to Ink and then walk away, job done. Stay silent. Not one word. If they could keep things just business for a little while, then, Inq had said, the scrutiny would eventually go away. It grated on her that she had become some sort of secretary for the weird, but she could do that if it kept her family and friends safe. Be indispensable from a distance. She could do that.

      But she walked into school with a head full of worry about Stef and Dad and news blurbs and glowing girls and inky, all-black eyes.

      “Hey.”

      Joy jumped. Her shoulder bounced off her locker door. Monica frowned.

      “Try decaf,” Monica suggested as Joy dug inside her locker. “What happened to your neck?”

      Joy touched the redness at her throat and gave the same answer she’d given Dad: “Fashion accident.” She shut the metal door.

      “Touchy,” her friend said.

      “Sorry,” Joy apologized. “Really bad night.”

      “It’s more than that,” Monica said.

      Joy nodded, having a preplanned explanation handy. “Dad started dating somebody,” she said as they began walking. At least it wasn’t a lie.

      “Really?” Monica said, but—like a good friend—bit back the chirpy That’s great! which Joy appreciated. Instead she asked, “Know her name?”

      “Yes. Shelley.”

      “As in Shelley or Michelle?”

      “I don’t know,” Joy grumbled. “He doesn’t even know!”

      “Pfft. That’s criminal.”

      “I know!”

      Monica glanced at the hall crawlers as Joy regained some composure. Her hands felt hot. Her fingers twisted in her shirt. She suddenly missed the feel of powdered chalk, soothing and smooth on her skin. She wanted to take a running jump down the hall, kick over and fly, but instead hugged a textbook hard against her chest. Monica patted Joy’s shoulder in sympathy.

      “We’ll talk later, ’kay?” she promised. They shared a quick shoulder squeeze before splitting at Hall B. Joy watched her go. Monica was the best, and Joy resolved that she would do whatever she had to do to keep her friend safe. She checked her lucky tartan and black-and-white checkerboard socks as she headed off to precalc.

      She had almost forgotten about the weirdness until her calculator started speaking in tongues.

      Cubic runes danced across the tiny gray screen. They weren’t numbers or English letters or any language that she knew, but it was clearly a message. Grabbing her pencil, Joy copied the shapes as best she could. It looked like some old language written in liquid crystal lines. Joy gripped the pencil, turning her fingernails white.

      “Joy Malone,” a voice barked. She flipped her notebook over.

      “Sorry, Mr. Grossman.”

      “Something more interesting than proofs, Miss Malone?”

      She turned to the next blank page. “Um, no.”

      Her teacher smiled. “Somehow, СКАЧАТЬ