Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1) (2 page)

My body jolts forward as my hands race toward my back, desperately clawing at my skin, searching for the flesh wound that the dagger made its home. I pant uncontrollably; my hands feel nothing but cold sweat. My eyes, raw with hot tears scan the room.
I’m in my bed
.

I see a glimmer of light out of the left corner of my eye; it gently begins to bathe the room in a soft glow, but as I turn to focus, it disappears.  I blink a few times, trying to reactivate whatever it was that had begun just a moment ago but the room is dark now, quiet. I lay back and pull the covers up to my chin and tightly close my eyes, urging for morning to come and as I begin to drift off all I can think is,
why does this keep happening?

Chapter 3

My eyes are closed for what feels like mere seconds before I feel Mom’s hands shaking me awake. “Cate! It’s nearly twenty minutes to 9! You’re late; you’ve missed your bus. Hurry up and meet me down stairs, I’ll drop you off on the way to my first open house.”

Even in my exhausted state, I can hear the edge in her voice. Barely 9am and I have somehow managed to muck up her day. I throw on a navy polo and khakis and head down to the car. I stare at it there in the driveway, its fresh black paint shining in the morning rays. Riding in a car makes me feel uneasy. We were only gifted it from the council last year, as a token of gratitude for my father’s years of service. I feel awful having access to such luxury when most do not have access to showers. “I think I’ll just walk to class,” I say.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t have time for your silly fears. Get in.” My mother’s voice is rigid and stern and I suppose her coming from a Class 4 childhood has made having a personal vehicle feel natural.  My seatbelt is buckled for approximately 1.7 seconds before she shoves a banana in my face and exclaims, “Eat!” I’m not nearly awake enough to attempt the focus required to bite and chew but I know arguing with her about such things will prove useless. I begin to peel my commuter breakfast.

“Cate, I really need you to make sure you’re keeping track of your schedule now that I’m working full time again.” Mom recently began showing houses to incoming inhabitants after taking a 14-year real estate “sabbatical” to ensure that while the twins grew into functioning human beings, the house stayed in one piece.  “You know,” she continues. “This is really part of becoming an adult, being able to execute your responsibilities in a timely manner as well as being respectful of the time of those around you.”

I want to yell,
Well Mom, I would have loved to catch the bus this morning, but unfortunately I keep having these totally awesome dreams in which I am unexpectedly murdered over and over and over again.
But since she considers sarcasm to be excessively rude, and mostly because I know that she is quite possibly the most sensitive human alive, I simply say, “Mom, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Katie.” She smiles. “Oh, and before I forget, I have some new clients coming over for dinner so please make sure to come home straight away after school.” She glances at me with a smile and turns on the radio.

By the time I check in at the Attendance Office, second period is halfway over and rather than endure the humbling task of begging Mr. Pritchett to unlock the door, I opt to head to the off period study hall.

As I slink down the empty hallways, praying that some rogue authority figure doesn’t spot me, an image of the metal box sitting on my nightstand comes into mental focus. I don’t know where my fascination with it is stemming from. It did seem to be rather old and Dad did say it belonged to some long lost great, great, great something or other.  Before I realize it, my route has changed from study hall to library and I’m quietly opening the door. Perhaps I can find which time period it’s from. It’s not much but it’s more than I know now.

I slide into a chair in front of one of the empty computers and scan my palm, turning on the machine. At least when I’m marked absent from second period chemistry, I can truthfully tell my parents, “No, I wasn’t ditching, I was searching the interwebs for a time period correlating to a long lost, locked, and possibly glowing, family heirloom.” That will surely substitute any disappointment they might have with utter confusion.

Twenty minutes pass and though I’ve found multiple masonry sites who can build the box I’m looking for, I have come up completely empty handed on anything relating to the actual box itself. My Currency Class only gives me access to a limited section of the Internet archives and wherever this style of box came from, the information is out of my grasp. I lean back in my chair, tilting my head to the ceiling as if the answers I seek will miraculously fall out of the sky. Where is Asher at a time like this? I’m sure I could spout off, “metal box, pearl inlay, paranormal, freaky, midnight glowing” and within 35 seconds flat he would have pulled up its origin, reason for creation, purpose and original owner.

Rocking back onto the rear legs of the hard yellow plastic chair, I push my feet up off of the ground over and over just to the point where I am completely suspended in perfect balance like some Russian ballerina. Then gravity inevitably takes over and my feet touch down again. I repeat this motion over and over until I feel relaxed and content with my research failure and just as I pull my watch towards my eyes to check the time, the weight of my arm throws my entire dance with physics off balance and I crash to the ground. My back hits the floor and I cough a few times uncontrollably, trying desperately to persuade oxygen to re-enter my lungs. I clench my eyes shut and take a deep breath, finally winning the battle.

“Are you alright?” a voice cascades down from above me. I open my eyes and see a boy standing near me. Blinking a few times, I mutter, “Yeah, I’m fine, lost my balance,” and roll over onto my side and off of the chair. While attempting to stand up, his hands reach down and help me the rest of the way. As I raise my head to accept my humiliation, I see his face. Chestnut brown hair paired with sincere and familiar ocean blue eyes, a smile that permeates his clenched jaw.

Without thinking, the words, “You’re him,” fall from my mouth. As soon as they reach my ears I automatically wish I could take them back.

“What?” he replies, his eyebrows pull together in complete and understandable confusion.

Wonderful, he thinks I’m a mental patient.
I stand there for a moment, silent, trying to reel all of my thoughts together while simultaneously thinking of some way to salvage this terribly awkward moment. It’s him, I know it’s him, the tortured boy from my dreams, he’s here, he’s standing right here and I am acting like an uncoordinated lunatic. My mind clears, and one single thought remains;
he is real.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I think you may have knocked your head a bit.” He gestures towards me and helps me sit back down.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine really. I’m sorry, you’re right; I must have hit my head. I’ll be okay. I’m Cate, Cate Quill.”

“Hi Cate, Cate Quill.” He smirks, and I can’t help but let a chuckle escape. It’s louder than a reaction to that cheesy line should be, but it’s filled with nervous excitement and I can’t help it.  “I’m Abel.”

“Well, Abel, thanks for your help.” I turn and lift the yellow chair off of the ground. “You have great timing.”

“No problem,” he says, smiling.
That smile,
I think. “I’m supposed to be on a tour of the campus and somehow managed to stray from the Student Ambassador when I heard your crash.”

“Lucky me.” I say and find myself tracing every inch of his face with my eyes, trying to take in a clear view of what has until now been an image blurry with sleep and adrenaline.

“Abel? Abel! Abel, there you are!” I hear a whiny, high-pitched voice echo from around a bookcase. Chelsea Morris, Class 4. Of course Chelsea, the quintessential Upper Class, was assigned as his Student Ambassador. “Abel, I was looking everywhere for you!” she shrieks. Mrs. Eddelton, the 72-year-old librarian glares at us from behind a rack filled with encyclopedias. As if there’s any use for an encyclopedia anymore. Why they still exist is beyond me.

“Hey sorry, Chelsea. I must have gotten sidetracked in one of the aisles.” His excuse falls flat. She tilts her head to the side and stares at me, unimpressed.

“Hi Cate. Well come on, Abel. The rest of the group is already headed to the quad for the remainder of the tour.” She smiles at him and it makes my stomach clench.

As she walks away, he turns to me and bites his bottom lip nervously, “I’d better get going. That girl runs a tight ship,” he laughs. “It was nice meeting you, Cate.”

“Yeah, you too Abel.” I watch him walk away, unable to shift my focus and just as he reaches the library doors he turns and smiles at me. The boy, he is real.

Chapter 4

The remainder of my day pales in comparison to my meeting in the library. As the bus reaches my ward,  clutching my hands beneath the green seat is all I can do to keep myself from jumping out the window and sprinting to my front door like a madman. "Cate dear, is that you?" I hear my mother calling from the kitchen but my mind is miles away and I dash up the stairs to my bedroom. I throw my bag on the bed so violently that nearly all of its contents spill across the comforter and onto the floor. Grabbing my tablet, I jump onto the bean bag situated between my desk and closet. Having absolutely no idea what I hope to accomplish, I hurriedly press the ON button and tap my nails impatiently against the screen. As the chimes sing from the tablet’s speakers I am practically jumping out of my skin. "Come on, come on," I mutter out loud. My Currency Class symbol illuminates the screen and a blue flickering light projects from the bottom of the device. I trace it over my arm and my remaining online allotment shines on the screen. Forty-five minutes remaining.
Forty-five minutes? That’s plenty of time, what could I possibly do online for forty-five minutes?
I laugh to myself.

Tapping open the browser, I pause.
This is normal, right?
This entire situation is so beyond normal that attempting to find any and all information on a stranger via his “The Class” social media profile doesn’t really sound crazy at all. My fingers press the keys as if they have a mind of their own and then I see “ABEL” on the screen followed by a flashing vertical line signaling that there are more.
What is his last name?
How can I not remember such a crucial piece of life altering information? I scan my brain for a few minutes but come up empty handed. Releasing the tablet from my clutch, I toss it onto the floor and pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and resting my head against my knees. My entire life has been predictable but now I can’t help but feel like everything is about to change.

The box on my nightstand catches my eye and I walk over to pick it up. Cold to the touch, I grasp it with both hands. It’s heavier than it looks. From a distance the brassy material could be mistaken for wood, light and hollow. It’s not until I actually lift it that I feel how dense it is. If it really is a box, I can’t imagine the compartment inside to be very big at all. I trace the triangular lock on the front, though it feels as if it was once smooth, dents and age have corrupted its shape. With as much force as I can muster, I pull up on the triangle, hoping by some miracle it will cease its stubbornness and bend to my will. No such luck.
What are you hiding in there
? I bite my lip, feeling like I’ve hit a dead end when suddenly I recall Dad’s voice in my head, “I found it up in the attic.” There is bound to be something else up there, maybe even a key. I set the box back onto my nightstand and make for the attic.

“Cate? Katie, will you come down here, please?” Mom’s voice hits me like a wall and I remember that she mentioned clients were stopping by tonight. Dread overcomes me, partly because I can’t help but feel like I need to get to the attic and rummage through every single box as soon as possible and partly because I cannot bear sitting through dinner, faking a smile and asking strangers if they’ll pass the green beans.

“Sure Mom!” I shout down the staircase. There must be some way to get out of this. “You know, I just remembered, I promised Asher I'd study with him tonight for our Physics exam on Friday… I really want to make my grades a prio—” halfway down the stairs I glance up and the sight in front of me stops me dead in my tracks.