Delirium (Delirium 1)

Rachel! Im breathless for no reason, and I have trouble squeezing the words out. Im so happy to see her I feel like I could burst into tears. I dont though, obviously. You came.

Of course I came. She smiles at me. Youre my only sister, remember? She passes me a bouquet of daisies she has brought with her, loosely wrapped in brown paper. Congratulations, Lena.

I stick my face in the flowers and inhale, trying to fight down the urge to reach out and hug her. For a second we just stand there, blinking at each other, and then she reaches out to me. Im sure shes going to put her arms around me for old times sake, or at the very least give me a one-armed squeeze.

Instead she just flicks a bang off my forehead. Gross,

she says, still smiling. Youre all sweaty.

Its stupid and immature to feel disappointed, but I do.

Its the gown, I say, and realize that yes, that must be the problem: The gown is whats choking me, stifling me, making it hard to breathe.

Come on, she says. Aunt Carol will want to congratulate you.

Aunt Carol is standing at the fields periphery with my uncle, Grace, and Jenny, talking to Mrs. Springer, my history teacher. I fall into step beside Rachel. She is only a few inches taller than I am and we walk together, in sync, but separated by three feet of space. She is quiet. I can tell shes already wondering when she can go home and get on with her life.

I let myself look back once. I cant help it. I watch the girls circulating in their orange gowns like flames.

Everything seems to zoom back, recede away at once.

All the voices intermingle and become indistinguishable from one anotherlike the constant white noise of the ocean running underneath the rhythm of the Portland streets, so constant you hardly notice it. Everything looks stark and vivid and frozen, as though drawn precisely and outlined in ink parents smiles frozen, camera flashes blinding, mouths open and white teeth glistening, dark glossy hair and deep blue sky and unrelenting light, everyone drowning in light everything so clear and perfect Im sure it must already be a memory, or a dream.

Chapter Eight

His for hydrogen, a weight of one;

When fissions split, as brightly lit

As hot as any sun.

He is for helium, a weight of two;

The noble gas, the ghostly pass

That lifts the world anew.

Li is for lithium, a weight of three;

A funeral pyre, when touched with fire

And deadly sleep for me.

Be is for beryllium, a weight of four . . .

From the Elemental Prayers (Prayer and Study, The Book of Shhh)

During the summers I have to help my uncle at the Stop- N-Save on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, mostly stocking shelves and working behind the deli counter and occasionally helping with filing and accounting in the little office behind the cereal and dry goods aisle. Thankfully, in late June, Andrew Marcus gets cured and reassigned to a permanent position at another grocery store.

On the Fourth of July I head to Hanas house in the morning. Every year we go to see the fireworks at the Eastern Promenade. A band is always playing and vendors set up their carts, selling fried meat on skewers and corn on the cob and apple pie floating in a puddle of ice cream, served in little paper boats. The Fourth of Julythe day of our independence, the day we commemorate the closing of our nations border foreveris one of my favorite holidays. I love the music that pipes through the streets, love the way the steam rising thick from the grills makes the streets look cloudy, the people shadowy and unclear. I especially love the temporary extension of curfew: Instead of being home at nine oclock, all uncureds are allowed to stay out until eleven. In recent years Hana and I have made it a kind of game to stay out until the last possible second, cutting it closer and closer every year. Last year I stepped into the house at 10:58 exactly, heart hammering in my chest, shaking with exhaustionId had to sprint home. But as I lay in bed I couldnt stop grinning. I felt like Id gotten away with something.

I type in Hanas four-digit gate codeshe gave it to me in eighth grade, saying it was a sign of trust and also that shed slit me from the top of the head to the heels if I shared it with anyone else and slip in through the front door. I never bother knocking. Her parents are hardly ever home, and Hana never answers the door.

Im pretty much the only person who comes over to see her. Its weird. Hana was always really popular in schoolpeople looked up to her and wanted to be like herbut even though she was really friendly with everybody, she never really got close close with anyone besides me.

Sometimes I wonder whether she wishes shed been assigned a different desk partner in Mrs. Jablonskis second-grade class, which is how we first became friends. Hanas last name is Tate, and we were linked up by alphabetical order (by then I was already going by my aunts last name, Tiddle). I wonder whether she wishes shed been placed with Rebecca Tralawny, or Katie Scarp, or even Melissa Portofino. Sometimes I feel like she deserves a best friend who is just a little more special. Once Hana told me that she likes me because Im for real because I really feel things. But thats the whole problem: how much I feel things.

Hello? I call out, as soon as Im inside Hanas house.

The front hall is dark and cool as always. Goose bumps prick up over my arms. No matter how many times I come to Hanas house Im always shocked by the power of the air- conditioning, which hums somewhere deep inside the walls. For a moment I just stand there, inhaling the clean smells of furniture polish and Windex and fresh- cut flowers. Music is pulsing from Hanas room upstairs. I try to identify the song but cant make out any words, just bass throbbing through the floorboards.

At the top of the stairs I pause. Hanas bedroom door is closed. I definitely dont recognize the song shes playingor blasting, really, so loud I have to remind myself that Hanas house is shielded on four sides by trees and lawn, and no one will sic the regulators on her.

Its not like any music Ive ever heard. Its a shrieky, shrill, fierce kind of music: I cant even tell whether the singer is male or female. Little fingers of electricity creep up my spine, a feeling I used to have when I was a tiny child, when I would creep into the kitchen and try to sneak an extra cookie from the pantrythe feeling right before the creak and squeak of my moms footsteps in the kitchen behind me, when I would whirl around, my hands and face coated in crumbs, guilty.

I shake off the feeling and push open Hanas door. Shes sitting at her computer, feet propped up on her desk, bobbing her head and tapping out a rhythm on her thighs. As soon as she sees me she swings forward and hits a key on her keyboard. The music cuts off instantly.

Strangely, the silence that follows seems just as loud.

She flips her hair over one shoulder and scoots away from the desk. Something flickers over her face, an expression that passes too quickly for me to identify it.

Hi, she chirrups, a little too cheerfully. Didnt hear you come in.

I doubt you would have heard me break in. I go over to her bed and collapse on top of it. Hana has a queen-size bed, with three down pillows. Its like heaven. What was that?

What was what? She lifts her knees to her chest and swivels a full circle in her chair. I sit up on my elbows and watch her. Hana only acts this dumb when shes hiding something.

The music. She still stares at me blankly. The song you were blasting when I came in. The one that almost burst my eardrums.

Oh that . Hana blows her bangs out of her face. This is another one of her tells. Whenever shes bluffing in poker she wont stop fussing with her bangs. Just some new band I found online.

On LAMM? I press. Hanas music-obsessed and used to spend hours surfing LAMM, the Library of Authorized Music and Movies, when we were in middle school.

Hana looks away. Not exactly.

What do you mean, not exactly? The intranet, like everything else in the United States, is controlled and monitored for our protection. All the websites, all the content, is written by government agencies, including the List of Authorized Entertainment, which gets updated biannually. Digital books go into the LAB, the Library of Approved Books, movies and music go into LAMM, and for a small fee you can download them to your computer. If you have one, that is. I dont.

Hana sighs, keeping her eyes averted. Finally she looks at me. Can you keep a secret?

Now I sit up all the way, scooting to the edge of the bed. I dont like the way shes looking at me. I dont trust it.

What is this about, Hana?

Can you keep a secret? she repeats.

I think of standing with her in front of the labs on Evaluation Day, the sun beating down on us, the way she forced her mouth close to my ear to whisper about happiness, and unhappiness. Im suddenly afraid for her, of her. But I nod and say, Yeah, of course.

Okay. She looks down, fiddles with the hem of her shorts for a second, takes a deep breath. So last week I met this guy

What? I nearly fall off the bed.

Relax. She holds up a hand. Hes cured, okay? He works for the city. Hes a censor, actually.

My heartbeat slows and I settle back against her pillows again. Okay. So?

So , Hana says, drawing the word out, he was waiting at the doctors with me. When I went to have my PT, you know? Hana sprained her ankle in the fall and still has to do physical therapy once a week, to keep it strong.

And we started talking.

She pauses. I dont really see where the story is going, or how it relates to the music she was playing, so I just wait for her to go on.

Finally she does. Anyway, I was telling him about boards, and how I really want to go to USM, and he was telling me about his jobwhat he does, you know, day to day. He codes the online access restrictions, so people cant just write whatever, or post things themselves, or write up false information or inflammatory opinions she puts this in quotes, rolling her eyesand other stuff like that. Hes, like, an intranet security guard.

Okay, I say again. I want to tell Hana to get to the pointI know all about online security restrictions, everybody doesbut that would just make her clam up.

She sucks in a deep breath. But he doesnt just code the security. He checks for lapseslike, break-ins. Hackers, basically, who jump through all the security hoops and manage to post their own stuff. The government calls them floaters websites that might be up for an hour, or a day, or two days before theyre discovered, websites full of unauthorized stuffopinions and message boards and video clips and music.