While You Were Gone

Book 2: Duplexity

by Amy K. Nichols

Genres: YA Action & Adventure; YA Fantasy; YA Romance

Synopsis

An artist without a cause meets a rebel without a clue.
 
Eevee is a promising young artist and the governor’s daughter in a city where censorship is everywhere and security is everything. When a fire devastates her exhibition—years in the making—her dreams of attending an elite art institute are dashed. She’s struggling to find inspiration when she meets Danny, a boy from a different world. Literally.
 
Raised in a foster home, Danny has led a life full of hurt and hardship until a glitch in the universe changes everything. Suddenly Danny is living in a home he’s never seen, with parents who miraculously survived the car crash that should have killed them. It’s like he’s a new Danny. But this alternate self has secrets—ties to an underground anarchist group that have already landed him in hot water. When he starts to develop feelings for Eevee, he’s even more disturbed to learn that he might have started the fire that ruined her work.
 
As Danny sifts through clues from his past and Eevee attempts to piece together her future, they uncover a secret that’s bigger than both of them. . . . And together, they must correct the breach between the worlds before it’s too late.

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: Knopf Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 304

Sample

1
Eevee
I used to think the two scariest words in the English language were the and end. As in, finished. Over. Dead and gone.
I was wrong.
The two scariest words are what and if. As in, what if I’m not good enough? What if the answer is no? What if they’re watching? What if I get caught? What if everyone finds out? What if no one cares?
What if this is all there is?
What. If.

2
Danny
The slamming door sends a thousand sound-shards through my brain. I steady myself against the garbage can. Stupid hangover. When the ringing stops, I flip my hair out of my eyes and scuff across the yard, shoes kicking up dust and bits of dead grass. My hair falls back in my face, but I leave it. Sun’s too bright. Every step feels like metal scraping up the bones of my neck.
Behind me, the engine of Brent’s work truck growls to life. He revs a couple times before backing out of the driveway, but I just keep walking, eyes forward, putting one foot in front of the other. Every day, we play this game. Who flinches first? When the engine’s so loud my head’s gonna explode, I turn around to face him.
A roar of sound rushes at me. He lays on the horn. Tires take over the sidewalk.
Come on. Hit me. Mow me down.
But the truck swerves, bounces as it lumbers back into the street. The loose muffler swings, belching blue exhaust. Brent flips me off, guns the engine and speeds away. I watch until he’s out of sight, then listen until the engine is gone, too.
One day he’ll do it. But not today.
At the end of the street, I turn the corner and the sun hits me full in the face. I grope through my jacket pockets, but my sunglasses must be back at the house. No way I’m going there again until I have to. I take cover under a tree, pull out a pack of smokes instead and light one up. My head rushes with the first drag. I lean against the block wall and wait for the pain to go away.
A car drives by. A dog barks. I keep my eyes closed. Breathe. Wonder what would happen if I just disappeared.
It would get me out of school, for starters.
Suzy’s words whisper into my thoughts. If you ditch again, they’ll suspend you. And don’t think for a second he won’t find out.
Last time attendance called, Brent pinned me down and pressed that damn cigar into my arm. The others ran to their rooms. They knew better than to hang around. Later, Benny wouldn’t come near me. Said I scared him. That I sounded like an angry dog. It took two days for him to talk to me again, even though I told him over and over I wasn’t mad. Not at him, at least.
It’s bad enough us older fosters have to live in that place, but a little guy like Ben? That’s just not right. None of this is.
I suck down the last of the cigarette and flick the stub into the gravel. Better get a move on or I’ll have to face Brent again, and his cigar.

Class has already started by the time I get to school. Ms. Fischbach glares when I open the door, and everyone watches me walk to the only empty desk. Everyone except the dark-haired girl who sits next to me. My shoes squeak on the linoleum, so I make the trek long and drawn out. Squeak. Squeak. When I flop into my chair, the girl looks over, then back down at her notebook. She’s always drawing stuff.
“Turn to page 774 in your anthology.” Ms. Fischbach’s mouth is wide like a frog’s, and her voice makes my ears bleed. If I put my head on the desk and fold my arms around, I can almost block out the noise. There’s still the shuffle of backpacks and the thud of books landing on desks. That kid with the stutter starts reading. He’s like a car engine that won’t turn. I squeeze my arms tighter around. My breath sounds like ocean waves. I feel myself fading. . . .
Out of nowhere, cold grips my chest, freezing me from the inside, and a freight train roars through my ears. I can’t breathe. Stars swirl in my eyes. I try to lift my head, but I’m pinned. The floor shifts and is gone. With it the desk, the chair, the room. I claw and kick at the force pulling me down, but there’s nothing to fight against.
So I let go. Let my body fall. Give myself up to the dark.

3
Eevee
Vivian’s words gnaw at me the entire ride.
I’m applying to Belford, too. Bosca says I stand a chance.
Nothing shakes them--not the music Jonas plays on the car radio, not the stop-and-go traffic, not even downtown rising into view. As he pulls into the Tower complex, they crowd around so close I actually raise my hand to swat them away. I wish I could swat her away, too.
Jonas leaves the engine running as he walks around to open my door. He reaches in to take my book bag.
I place a hand on it. “It’s okay. I’ve got this one.”
He nods and goes to the trunk for my suitcase. I step out of the car and bump the door with my hip, hoping I’ve shut Vivian’s voice inside.
Nope. You’re not the only artist at this school, you know.
What if she gets in and I don’t? What if we both end up in Edinburgh? What if they assign us to be roommates?
Jonas sets my suitcase on the curb. I shift the book bag strap on my shoulder. “Thanks.”
He doffs an imaginary cap and returns to the car. I walk inside and the door closes behind me, sealing me in the Sniffer. Three blasts of air move my skirt and mess up my hair. I exhale and wait through swishing and clicking sounds as the machine analyzes if I’m safe or not. Finally, I get the green light. The Sniffer chamber opens and I’m allowed into the elevator. I press 14 and face my reflection.
Of course I’ll get into Belford. I’m Eevee Solomon.
The girl staring back at me doesn’t look so sure. My bags fall to the floor and I turn around, holding on to the rail with both hands. The cameras are watching but I don’t care.
Does Vivian have to infringe on every part of my life? Ever since her dad challenged mine for the governorship, she’s been trying to outdo me at everything. She followed me to Kierland Academy, switched to fine arts, weaseled her way into Bosca’s master studio. Now she wants to apply for a Belford internship? I doubt she even knew where Scotland was before I mentioned it.
If only I hadn’t screwed everything up going down to the vaults. What was I thinking?
I take a deep breath and turn around to look at my reflection. Straighten my shoulders and smooth my hair. Rummage through my bag and apply a fresh coat of Stormy Pink.
I’ve got this. My jury exhibit will blow everyone away. The public will rave about my paintings. I’ll be Bosca’s star student again. Belford will beg me to apply. By this time next year, I’ll be shining so bright no one will even remember Vivian Hayes, that nobody girl who thought she could be me.
The elevator slows to a stop and the doors open. Smiling, I pick up my bags and walk down the hallway, passing paintings depicting Arizona’s history. Arrival of the first settlers. Migrant farmers in citrus groves. Native American tribesmen on horseback. The Battle of Cabeza Prieta. I slip into the East Room, set my bags down and close the doors behind me. The dull light of morning filters through open windows. A vase of spider mums sits on the baby grand. I check the clock on the mantel. Jonas arrived early this morning to pick me up. Twenty minutes to wait now, if Richard has everything running on schedule.
I sweep my fingers across the piano’s glossy finish before sitting on the bench and resting them on the keys. Mom used to play in college, but that was a long time ago. As far as I know, I’m the only person who ever touches this beauty. And that’s only on weekends when I’m staying here with my parents instead of on campus. They have pianos in the practice rooms at school, but good luck finding one empty. And the music students get angry when nonprogram students invade their space. Can’t blame them, I guess. I’d get pretty cranky if I found some trumpet player taking up residence in the art studio.
Winston’s “February Sea” begins with soft, slow arpeggios and a repeating low G. I always start quiet, afraid of breaking the silence. As if anyone will hear me. The bedrooms are on the opposite side of the Tower, with too many boardrooms between to count. Seven measures in, I press the keys harder, letting the melody fill the room. The notes run through my brain like miles of familiar road. Scenery I no longer see. My brain slips into autopilot and Vivian’s words whisper in the spaces between the notes. When I close my eyes, I see her gloating smile.
If only I could go back and change the night of Bosca’s exhibit. That was when the power shifted, when, like an idiot, I handed Vivian the ammo to use against me. I should have known better than to go down to see the Retrogressives. Mom always said my impulsiveness would be my downfall. I hate when she’s right.
My fingers pound the keys, sending shudders through the piano.
This is probably just one of Bosca’s wacky plans, encouraging her to apply for the internship and Belford. Promoting Vivian is his way of keeping me on track. Not because she’s actually his new prize student or anything. There’s just no way.
When my fingers begin to ache from the punishment, I switch gears, running quieter patterns in the upper registers while my brain runs through the day ahead. Richard will retrieve me and we’ll scurry off--not a minute to waste--to Conference Room B for debrief. Then, fashionably late, the governor will barge in with all the bluster of a tornado. Christine will follow, tablet and stylus at the ready. The governor will bark orders at Richard, then place both hands on the table before moving his gaze over to where I stand behind the second chair to his left. I’ll see wariness in his eyes, but then he’ll smile at me and I’ll kiss him on the cheek and say, “Hello, Daddy,” like a good daughter should.
The bridge races beneath my fingers, punctuated by accents and trills.
He’ll ask about school and I’ll tell him what he wants to hear. Both of us will ignore the uncomfortable stuff. Later today, he and Mom and I will travel together over to the stadium and make our appearance at the Patriot Day celebration. We’ll wave. We’ll smile. We’ll leave.
Approaching the coda, the music slows, and my fingers press the keys with care, each note growing quieter than the one before.
Will Vivian be at the celebration, too?
My shoulders slump. The arpeggios slow to a stop. My mind is blank. I stare at the vase’s reflection before starting six measures back, playing the low arpeggios leading into the transition. At the same spot, my fingers stop again.
I look at my hands like it’s their fault I can’t remember the next chord, let alone the next note. Suspended sixth? No. Repeat of the bridge? That isn’t right either.
The last, wrong chord hangs in the air, the keys pinned down by my fingers. The room is so still even the dust motes float motionless in the window’s light.
The floor trembles and the water in the vase ripples. I lift my hands and listen, fingers hovering just above the keys. Above me the chandelier sways.
The floor trembles again and this time the piano strings whisper a ghostly moan. Chills run up my arms. My foot slips from the sustain pedal. Far off, I hear sirens.
Then footsteps. Not Richard’s long strides, but hurried, staccato ones. Both doors bang open and two security guys swoop into the room.
“Miss Solomon,” the big one says, taking my elbow. The other speaks into his wrist: “Sparrow in the East Room.” In a rush of movement, I’m out the door, half carried down fourteen flights of stairs. Fluorescent lights and floor numbers blur past: 12, 10, 7, 4. By the time the basement bunker doors open, I’m dizzy and my heart pounds a fierce rhythm in my ears.

4
Danny
The darkness spits me out, hurtling me through a rush of light and sound. The ground breaks my fall and I shatter in an explosion of pain.
And silence.
Fingers press against my neck. I squint open my eyes.
A cop kneels over me. His lips move, but I can’t hear him. Can’t hear anything. My hands claw the pavement. Where am I? He talks into a radio and motions for me to stay. Faces move in and out of view. More hands reach under me, lifting me up from the ground. Gray sky and swirling ash fill my eyes before everything bleeds away to white.

5
Eevee
My hands won’t stop moving. My fingers wring around each other, curl into fists, press flat against my jeans and curl into fists again. Mom stills them with her own firm hand and gives a quick shake of her head. Stop. I look over at Dad, sitting on the other couch. His face is serious but composed.
Some moments are bigger than others. They weigh more. They stop you in your tracks. When you’re in one, somehow you know: This is going to matter, so pay attention.
Like when Dad was sworn in as governor. Watching him raise his hand and repeat the oath, I had this feeling, this knowing, that nothing would ever be the same again.
It’s the feeling I have now.
Images flash on the wall of monitors. Ash and smoke. A tattered Arizona flag. Soldiers and security and everyday people helping each other sort through the chaos. Three screens broadcast the latest news reports, a bank of black-and-whites displays live Spectrum security feeds from the site of the attack, two monitors wait on standby for incoming communications, and one shows Barcelona winning three to zip.
“Another,” Richard says, swiping a finger across his tablet. “Death toll at four.”
“Wearing a hole in the carpet won’t change that,” Dad says. “Sit down.”
Richard sits on the arm of the couch because he does what Dad tells him to do. It doesn’t stop him from checking for updates, though. His hair is turning gray at the temples. It’ll be white by the time he’s done serving as Dad’s chief of staff. “Christine sent the draft of your public statement."