Requiem by Lauren Oliver Page B

and creaking: a constant nonsense-babble.
    â€œCome on,” I say, and take Julian back toward the dead house.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    .....................................................................
    Hana
    E xplosions: a sudden shattering of the sky. First one, then another; then a dozen of them, rapid gunfire sounds, smoke and light and bursts of color against a pale-blue evening sky.
    Everyone applauds as the final round of fireworks blooms above the terrace. My ears are ringing, and the smell of smoke makes my nostrils burn, but I clap too.
    Fred is officially the mayor of Portland now.
    â€œHana!” Fred moves toward me, smiling, as cameras light up around him. During the fireworks, as everyone surged onto the terraces of the Harbor Golf and Country Club, we were separated. Now he seizes my hands.
    â€œCongratulations,” I say. More cameras go off— click, click, click —like another miniature volley of fireworks. Every time I blink, I see bursts of color behind my eyelids. “I’m so happy for you.”
    â€œHappy for us , you mean,” he says. His hair—which he gelled and combed so carefully—has over the course of the night become increasingly unruly, and migrated forward, so a stray lock of hair falls over his right eye. I feel a rush of pleasure. This is my life and my place: here, next to Fred Hargrove.
    â€œYour hair,” I whisper. He brings a hand automatically to his head, patting his hair into place again.
    â€œThank you,” he says. Just then a woman I recognize vaguely from the staff of the Portland Daily shoulders up to Fred.
    â€œMayor Hargrove,” she says, and it gives me a thrill to hear him referred to that way. “I’ve been trying to get a word with you all night. Do you have a minute—?”
    She doesn’t wait to hear his response but draws him away from me. He turns his head over his shoulder and mouths, Sorry . I give him a small wave to show that I understand.
    Now that the fireworks are done, people flow back into the ballroom, where the reception will continue. Everyone is laughing and chattering. This is a good night, a time of celebration and hope. In his speech, Fred promised to restore order and stability to our city and to root out the sympathizers and resisters who have nested among us—like termites, he said, slowly eroding the basic structure of our society and our values.
    No more, he said, and everyone applauded.
    This is what the future looks like: happy pairs, bright lights and pretty music, tasteful draped linens and pleasant conversation. Willow Marks and Grace, the rotting houses of Deering Highlands, and the guilt that compelled me out of the house and onto my bike yesterday—all of it seems like a bad dream.
    I think of the way Willow looked at me, so sadly: They got you, too .
    They didn’t get me , I should have said. They saved me.
    The last, wispy fingers of smoke have dispersed. The green hills of the golf course are swallowed in purple shadow.
    For a second I stand on the balcony, enjoying the order of it all: the trimmed grass and carefully plotted landscape, the pattern of day into night into day again, a predictable future, a life without pain.
    As the crowd on the terrace thins, I catch the eye of a boy standing at the opposite side of the deck. He smiles at me. He looks familiar, although for a moment I can’t place him. But as he begins moving toward me, I feel a jolt of recognition.
    Steve Hilt. I almost don’t believe it.
    â€œHana Tate,” he says. “I guess I can’t call you Hargrove yet, can I?”
    â€œSteven.” Last summer I called him Steve. Now it seems inappropriate. He is changed; that must be why I didn’t recognize him at first. As he inclines his head toward a waitress, depositing his empty wineglass on a tray, I see he has been cured.
    But it is more than that: He is heavier, his stomach