Revived

by Cat Patrick

  If I was going to die again, I consider myself lucky that it happened in the summer before school started. Even luckier: Junior high in Frozen Hills was grades seven through nine, so I started with all the other brace-faced, zit-covered seventh graders. Days after I finished decorating my Juno-inspired bedroom, the school year began.

  “Thinking about the past few years?” Mason interrupts my thoughts, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. He’s familiar with my system.

  “Yes,” I admit. “I’m thinking about a birthday party.”

  “Ah,” he says, nodding. “For Nora…”

  “Fitzgerald,” Cassie and I say in unison.

  “Yep,” I say before retreating into my brain.

  Nora Fitzgerald.

  She lived down the street from us, in a sunny yellow house with dark green shutters and a WELCOME sign on the front door. Her mom was one of those overly cheerful types who showed up with freshly baked cookies the second your moving truck appeared. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s desire to worm into our world always unnerved Cassie. Paranoid, Cassie wondered aloud on several occasions if Mrs. Fitzgerald was actually a spy for a foreign government trying to steal the formula for Revive. She said that “suburban housewife” would be the perfect cover.

  Two weeks after we arrived, Nora showed up on our front porch, undoubtedly shoved out the door by her mother, birthday party invitation in hand.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Nora.”

  “I remember from when you guys brought the cookies,” I said. “I’m Daisy.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stared at each other in silence, me thinking that she looked like a Skipper doll and wondering if she owned any outfits that didn’t match from her hair clips to her sandals, and her looking at me in my cutoff jean shorts and red-and-white-striped T-shirt like I was from an alien planet.

  “Here,” she said finally, offering me the tiny purple envelope. “It’s an invitation to my birthday party next weekend.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” Nora said. “See ya.”

  The next weekend, I faked being sick and watched the partygoers arrive at Nora’s from the comfort of the window seat in my poster-filled bedroom. Looking back, that was probably the moment that defined Daisy Appleby. Those first weeks of school, Nora’s birthday was all anyone talked about: It was a boy/girl party, and if you weren’t there, you weren’t anybody. For the rest of the year, Nora was polite to me at block parties and in the halls at school. But by eighth grade, she was braces-less, in a B-cup, and on track to be queen of the school, and I was nothing but the weird neighbor who kept to herself. Unknowingly, I had dissed the most popular girl in school.

  It made me invisible.

  Not that I minded.

  The Revive program is built on secrecy, and being invisible at school is never a bad thing. Even if I make friends, it’s not like I can get close to them. My family life is a facade, and we could move at any time.

  Anyway, it’s not like I was lonely in Frozen Hills. I had an after-school study group and I hung out solo with one of the other members every once in a while. And I’m not one of those people who get all self-conscious about going to the movies or to see bands alone. I’m not sure when normal kids learn to be embarrassed about things like that, but thankfully, it never happened to me.

  I carefully catalog three years of memories and by nine o’clock, when we pull into our new hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, I have concluded that my time in Frozen Hills was a success. I navigated junior high without any major issues. I maintained cover and managed not to raise suspicions or get too close to anyone or anything that I had to leave.

  Ready to focus on the future, I tune in to the city outside the car windows.

  “It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” I say.

  “It’s the most populated city in Nebraska,” Mason answers.

  “How many people live here?” I ask, because I know he’ll know. Mason’s a walking Wiki.

  “Almost half a million,” he says. “There are actually several large corporations here….” he begins. That’s the danger of pressing Mason’s Search button: If he’s in the right mood, he’ll barf information.

  I can’t help but tune out, but I’m surprised when I find my thoughts floating back to Frozen Hills. Usually, I assess and move on. This time, something is bugging me.

  Was there a missed opportunity there?

  “Everything okay?” Mason asks, sensing my distraction.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. “I just think that maybe—if I get any party invitations in Omaha—I might actually accept.”

  four

  I take a break from decorating my new room when a text alert chimes on my phone. It’s Megan, one of the kids who died with me in Iowa eleven years ago; another of fourteen living “bus kids” that make up the Revive program test group. Megan lives in Seattle, but we keep in touch. Initially, we bonded over the program. Then we grew closer, like sisters who realize they’re actually friends, too.

  I tap my finger on the screen to read her message.

  Megan: You didn’t post…. Everything okay?

  Under the pseudonyms Flower Girl and Fabulous, Megan and I coauthor a blog called Anything Autopsy, where we dissect music, books, fashion, food, and whatever else we feel like. The format is she said/she said style—or she said/he-she said, since Megan is transgender—and if one of us doesn’t post, it’s not as cool.

  I type back:

  Daisy: Sorry, we had to move.

  There’s a pause, and I imagine Megan’s black-lined eyes bugging out of her head. The thought makes me laugh out loud.

  Megan: Again???!!!???

  “Unfortunately,” I say aloud, even though she can’t hear me. Then I type:

  Daisy: Again. Bees.

  Megan: I’m going to start calling you Honey.

  Daisy: Please don’t.

  Megan: I guess daisies attract bees, too, don’t they?

  Daisy: I promise to post twice this week. Setting up my new room. Chat later?

  Megan: Love you madly

  Daisy: Love you more

  I set aside the phone and pick up the paint roller.

  People might say it’s stupid to spend time decorating a space you’ll likely soon abandon, but to me, putting my stamp on each new bedroom is a crucial part of any move. I mean, seriously: I live with science-obsessed secret agents; my bedroom is my retreat. And more than that, it’s part of the cover. Assuming someday someone wants to see my room, it has to be in line with my personality. It has to look permanent.

  For the first three days in Omaha, when Mason and Cassie are setting up the lab in the basement, I pretend I’m the designer on a home makeover show and create my perfect space. Since my sixteenth birthday’s not for another month, I have to get Mason to drive me to Target, a crazy place called Nebraska Furniture Mart, and the paint store, but after that, it’s all me and my vision.

  In this house, I’m going for tranquil. I paint the walls a nice, mellow gray and cover as much of the wood floors, which are badly in need of refinishing, with a super-plush rug. On one full wall I install a new white open storage unit, then arrange my white nightstand and bed frame from Frozen Hills in the little nook part of the L-shaped room. I put the brown desk that I’ve had since I was ten under the largest window; when I find that it doesn’t look right, I paint it lavender.

  Then I add the little details that make all the difference. I sort my books by the color of their spines and stack them horizontally in the little storage-unit cubbies: a librarian’s worst nightmare. I frame and hang only black-and-white prints and posters; I reroll all the others and store them under the bed. I thrift-shop on Etsy and craigslist to find an oversized D wall decal, a mirror to hang over my new black dresser from Target, sheer white window coverings, and a gray-and-white-striped beanbag chair.

  “Where’s the electric staple gun?” I ask Mason on the morning of the day before I’ll start school at Omaha Victory High
School. Mason’s in the office waving motion commands at a massive computer screen tethered to one of the three tiny computers in the house.

  “What do you need it for?” he asks.

  “I’m re-covering my desk chair,” I explain. I don’t mention that I’m covering the seat with the fabric from my old comforter. Although, to be fair, I’m upcycling, so he should be proud.

  “Garage,” Mason says, rubbing his eye sockets. “Third drawer on the left. And be careful.”

  “I can’t kill myself with a staple gun.”

  “Probably not, but how do you feel about blindness?”

  “I’ll wear goggles,” I say.

  Mason shakes his head at me and goes back to his work.

  I head downstairs in search of power tools.

  When my room is finished, I sit and enjoy it for about five minutes; then I get antsy. I head down two flights of stairs to the lab in the basement to see how it’s coming along.

  “Holy, bright!” I say, squinting under the megawatt fluorescent bulbs covering every square inch of the ceiling.

  “We need to see what we’re doing,” Cassie replies.

  “Mission accomplished, and then some,” I say.

  Mason chuckles at me quietly.

  I scan the large room, taking it all in. It’s nothing compared to the main lab in Virginia, but it’s impressive anyway. There are two workstations, both with the same mini computers and massive monitors as the one in the office upstairs. There’s the PCR machine, used to amplify DNA, which looks like a fax machine crossed with a mini-fridge. There are spinners and shakers and rotators and the Homogenizer, aka the tissue blender. There’s a hot plate, and dry ice; a water bath and a scale. And, of course, there are dozens of squeaking rats.

  All of the Disciples have assignments, but not many of them need labs like ours in their homes. Duties range from monitoring other countries for breakthroughs similar to Revive to controlling the program’s technology to managing relocation and surveillance. Agents in the big lab focus on advancing Revive—testing new iterations—while agents like Mason and Cassie make sure those who got the original version are functioning normally. Inside the program, my guardians’ job is to conduct ongoing testing and analysis on the bus kids; to the rest of the world, Mason is a psychologist and Cassie is a stay-at-home mom.

  As always, I’m impressed by the pop-up, state-of-the-art lab in an otherwise pedestrian basement.

  “You guys are making good progress,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Mason says, smiling. “The space is larger than the one in Michigan, so that’s helpful.”

  “Yeah,” I say, giving it another look. Then my eyes fall back on Mason. “Well, my room’s done,” I say. “I feel like going out.”

  Mason raises his eyebrows, surprised. “What do you need?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I want to get a library card. See if Omaha has any good shoe stores. Maybe catch a movie. I need to do something to get acclimated. I start school tomorrow, and I know nothing about this town.”

  Mason tilts his head slightly, considering it. “Okay,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll take you.”

  Cassie shoots him a look: Mason leaving means she’ll have to finish setting up the lab alone.

  “Let’s all go,” Mason says to her. “Daisy’s right. It’ll be good for us to get to know Omaha, too.”

  Cassie stares for a few seconds, then relents. Mason is, after all, her boss.

  “At least let me change first,” she says.

  An hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the desert wondering how it would feel to be stranded without water.

  “Think Revive would work if I died of dehydration?” I ask Cassie quietly, staring up at the shell of the Desert Dome at the Omaha Zoo.

  “I think so, yes,” Cassie says without taking her eyes off of a cactus. “We’ve done dehydration testing on the rats. Seventy-two percent success.”

  “That’s better than asphyxiation,” I say.

  “And drowning,” Mason adds.

  Thinking of water reminds me of an exhibit I want to see.

  “I’m going to the aquarium,” I say.

  “Meet us at the front gate at three,” Mason says before turning and heading toward the bat exhibit. Cassie seems stuck to the cactus, so I walk toward the underwater experience alone.

  “They’re older than dinosaurs, you know.”

  I move my eyes from the sharks to the man, smile politely, and then look back at the tank. I can see in my peripheral vision that the man’s eyes are back on the water, too.

  “Amazing creatures,” he adds with a hint of a disarming lisp. I feel free to answer back.

  “I like the sea turtles better,” I say, dreamlike, as I watch one swim by. My face is lit up by the shimmering sea.

  “Hmm,” the man murmurs. “You’re right…. They’re quite spectacular, too.”

  The man and I are two of maybe five people in a tunnel cutting through the aquarium itself. We are under the ocean, or at least a man-made version of it. It is sedative and beautiful: a claustrophobic’s hell on earth. For a blink, I wonder what would happen if the glass overhead sprung a leak. I imagine drowning. Again.

  “Is school out today?” the man asks evenly.

  “No,” I say. “We just moved here. I start school tomorrow.”

  “Moves can be difficult,” says the man in a quiet, soothing voice.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Tenth.”

  “Ah, high school,” the man says softly as another shark passes. “Well, good luck settling in.”

  I wait a beat, enjoying the patterns of the water reflecting across my face, then answer: “Thanks. Do you have any tips about the area?”

  “Who are you talking to?” Cassie asks from my left side. Startled, I peel my eyes from the underwater world and glance at her. Then I look right, to where the man had been standing. There’s no sign of him. Confused, I look back at Cassie.

  “I was talking to some dude, and then he disappeared,” I say.

  “What did he look like?” Cassie asks automatically. It’s a question I’m used to hearing. Mason and Cassie are always trying to teach me life lessons, like how to be a keen observer. Normally, I’m excellent at this game, but when I think of the man, only the word average comes to my mind. I try to remember his hair color or what his clothes looked like. I try to picture whether he wore a hat or distinctive shoes. Anything.

  “I don’t remember,” I say honestly.

  Cassie looks deep into my eyes for a moment, probably expecting the usual list of colors and textures and mannerisms. Finally, when she realizes that I’m not going to say more, she tugs at my arm.

  “Mason’s waiting. Let’s go.”

  On the way to the car, I remember something about the man: his barely distinguishable lisp when saying certain things, like the word creatures. Excitedly, I look over at Cassie, wanting to tell her about it.

  But like usual, she’s on the phone.

  five

  Omaha Victory High School is brand-new and modern, sharp angles and manicured grounds, high-tech and functional. School starts at 7:45, but Mason, Cassie, and I arrive at 7:00 to check in and pick up my class schedule and locker assignment. We follow signs through the new-smelling and nearly empty corridors. A surprisingly young-looking, dark-haired woman in jeans and a blazer is waiting for us at the reception area.

  “I’m Vice Principal Erin Waverly,” the woman says, hand outstretched.

  “Mason West,” Mason says with a smile, shaking Ms. Waverly’s hand.

  “I’m Cassie West,” Cassie says. “So nice to meet you.” Her voice is sugary sweet like a doughnut this morning.

  “And this must be Daisy,” Ms. Waverly says, looking at me with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Victory.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We follow Ms. Waverly back to her office. Mason, Cassie, and I sit on a smal
l couch across from Ms. Waverly’s desk while she reviews my real but slightly altered birth certificate, government-manufactured school transcripts, forged yet accurate immunization records, and totally falsified proof of residence.

  “You were in honors classes at your last school,” Ms. Waverly observes before setting aside the transcript.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “She’s a little smarty-pants,” Cassie teases as she smoothes back my hair.

  “Mom!” I protest quietly, rolling my eyes at her and feigning embarrassment.

  “I can see that Daisy’s a good student,” Ms. Waverly says to Cassie. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a larger than usual sophomore class this year due to some renovations at one of the magnet schools, and our honors classes are full.”

  Mason shifts in his seat. “But can’t you make room for one more?” he asks.

  Ms. Waverly holds up a hand. “Before you get too concerned, I think I have a solution.”

  “Oh?” Mason asks.

  “Yes. I think based on Daisy’s test scores, she’ll keep up fine in junior math, science, and English.”

  I get a funny feeling in my stomach: a tinge of nervousness. Victory is grades nine through twelve, so I’m already starting high school a year after everyone else my age; now I’m about to be thrust into junior classes, too? But at the same time, it’s better than the regular sophomore curriculum.

  That’s the equivalent of being held back.

  Everyone agrees to the compromise, and soon enough, we leave the office, all smiles and optimism. I part ways with Mason and Cassie at the main doors. When they’re gone, I set off for my assigned locker in the math wing, navigating multiplying students as I go. A professional new girl, I check out what kids are wearing and note that my hip-length red T-shirt and faded skinny jeans were the right choice this morning.