The Lofties (The Echelon Book 2) by Ramona Finn (ebook reader play store .TXT) 📗

“Seriously? You’re old?” I coughed out a burst of laughter. “That’s the best you can do?”

He drew himself up. His chest seemed to expand, and his suit fit again. “Fine. I’ll tell you. You’re, what, sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Then I was just a few years past your age when I met her.” He got to his feet, moving stiffly. “Elza, her name was. She was twenty. So was I. She was looking for a café, somewhere they’d serve toasted cheese. I’d never heard of such a thing, so I told her there weren’t any, and she just looked so crestfallen I said I’d make it for her.” A tiny smile caught at his lips, a private smile. Reyland turned away. “I must’ve gone through ten blocks of cheddar, trying to get it right. Every day after work, she’d come by and I’d make it, and she’d laugh at me—too dry. No, it’s not supposed to be chewy. Add some garlic salt, maybe. The day I mastered the recipe was the day she asked me to marry her.”

My brows shot up. “You’re married?” I couldn’t quite picture that, Reyland with anyone. He had a stale air about him, like a man going through the motions. He made a dying-animal sound, a sort of strangled grunt.

“We never married, no.” His shoulders twitched, and were still. “Elza was a Decemite. One day, she vanished, and I went looking. I knew she hadn’t left me. Knew she never would. I found what you found. The incinerator. The boxes.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lock. “We didn’t know—”

“I thought what everyone thinks, until I met Elza.” Reyland’s voice was thick, choked with shame. “I thought the Dirt was all criminals, scum. I didn’t care what went on down there, much less on the Outside. I was what you’re thinking, just some selfish Lofty. I don’t deserve your compassion, but Elza did, and so do your friends Outside. They’ll be dust in the wind, every one of them, if you can’t find those nanobots, and that’s not on me.”

I caught Lock’s shoulder, seized with the image of Ben’s home blowing away, wind singing through abandoned caverns. Reyland had slumped over, leaning on the windowsill.

“Please, Myla. For everyone’s sake.”

“He’s right,” said Lock. “If Lazrad was gone, my mom could come up here. Your mom, too. Everyone's mom.” He slid his hand over mine. “I’d die for that.”

“I won’t let you,” I said. Reyland shuddered.

“I’m begging you, Myla. Once Lazrad’s got her army—”

“I’ll find your bots. But no way I’m going in there and not searching for the cure.” I gripped Lock’s shoulder tight. “Take it or leave it. That’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll take it,” said Reyland. He glanced at his phone and cursed under his breath. “Looks like time’s slipped away from me. I have to go, but you’ll be infiltrating Lazrad’s office the night of the ball. I’ll need to see you before that to brief you on the plan.”

“Same place next week?”

“No. Don’t come here again.” Reyland tugged at his collar, suddenly nervous. “Too public. Too dangerous. I’ll get you a message when it’s time.”

“What kind of message?”

“Can’t say. But you’ll know it.” He paused in the doorway, eyes narrowed. “Wait ten minutes before you head out.”

The door slammed behind him, and Lock let out a chuckle. I scowled at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just…everyone we care about, everyone Lazrad hates—all their lives are hanging on us breaking into the most secure room in Echelon.”

I swatted the back of his head. “That’s not funny at all.”

“That’s why I’m laughing. So I won’t explode.”

I stared at him for a moment, just stood there and gawked. He looked stupid, big and messy, hair standing up where I'd smacked him. Then I was laughing, and we both were, and I thought we’d never stop.

Chapter Seventeen

Reyland’s summons never came.

Three days passed, then a week. Our new clothes came back from the tailor’s, perfectly sized and ready for the ball. Elli sent a dance instructor, and an elocution specialist, and a hairdresser. We spun with curlers in our hair and we practiced our Lofty accents, and we marched through our days to a three-four beat: brush-two-three, rinse-two-three, spit-two-three, smile. Ona came home with pierced ears. She bought a wedding dress and wanted to wear it to the ball, and only agreed to return it when Elli offered a tiara in exchange.

Lock came to find me on the eve of the ball. I woke before dawn to find him perched on my bed, tickling my feet with a duster.

“Get out.” I kicked at him, half-assed, and buried my face in my pillow.

“Come with me.” He flicked my right sole, then flicked the left one. “Come on. I can’t take this, all this one-two-three, rond-de-jambe—what’s a jambe, anyway? Some kind of—”

“Jambe.” I kicked out again, booting him square in the chest. Lock toppled with a squawk, dragging my covers down with him. I sat up and waited, and a moment later, Lock’s head reappeared. His hair was a mess, all static and tangles. He rubbed at his chest where I’d kicked him.

“What was that for?”

“Fun.” I stood and stretched, working the tension out of my back. “But I’m up for your prison break. Just get out while I change.”

Lock got out, and I changed, and we slipped out like fugitives. We raced to the station and caught the first train that came, not caring where it took us. Lock sprawled across the seats, arm thrown over his eyes. I watched out the window as we flew through the pre-dawn lull. Echelon lay below us, its parks like black slashes across a galaxy of lights. The waterfall shone silver, lit from behind. Its spray fogged the riverbanks and shrouded the quarantine district in white.

“I hate that it’s beautiful,” said Lock.

“What?”

“Sky.” He let his arm fall from his eyes. “It’s like your best dream times ten, so perfect it hurts, but it’s real, and we pay for it. We pay with our lives, so they can