Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Invisible Things

Mya

I've never seen the Statue of Liberty.

The huge, green symbol of peace and friendship shines her light down on the sleeping ruins on New York City, not even a hundred miles from here.

I've never even seen pictures of her.

Yet, I've heard about her. My brother and I listen to podcasts about all kinds of topics- math, science, and history. The faceless voices serve as our teachers, and more than one has mentioned the statue.

So, even if I've never seen her, she has to be real.

Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it ceases to exist.

I believe in many invisible things- ghosts, Bigfoot, unicorns.

Mainly, though, I believe in myself- the girl hidden within the pale blue walls of this six room, two story building under the unnerving fluorescent lights. I'm the girl no one has ever seen.

But I exist.

Don't I?

I wonder sometimes.

Somewhere nearby, a horn blares. The sound reminds me of an alarm clock, echoing throughout our home at exactly seven o'clock every morning. It's high pitched, blending major piano keys with saxophone shrills.

The digital clock projected on the wall blinks red, strobing until I throw my feet off the side of the bed and lay them on the marble floor. I recoil at the touch, shivering.

Every morning, it's the same.

Wake up before the alarm, write in my diary, turn off the blinding clock, and then, wake up Finn.

It's not everyday, though, that he's sleeping on his stomach, head turned away from me, burritoed in his blanket.

I tiptoe over to his bed, holding my hands out like claws in front of me.

Finn sleeps like an anchor. A tornado tearing through the room couldn't wake him up, unless something hit him. That's what wakes him up.

Touch.

When I'm looming over him, looking at his angelic face, I smile.

"Finn! We're under attack!" I scream, jumping on him, hands diving for his ribcage. "President Ashford is coming for us! He's gonna kill us! Finn, help me!"

His body bucks under me, fists flying as he attempts to unroll himself from the paper thin blankets. His eyes go wide; eyebrows shoot up. Panic is written in the gaping mouth and frenzied hands that jerk my arms away from him.

Fear melts into annoyance, and his wide eyes narrow into slits.

"Mya. Jesus."

He growls the words, pushing me off him in one swift movement. I land on the marble, rolling away, laughing wildly.

"You know how much I hate being scared," he mumbles, throwing the covers back.

"Don't sleep on your stomach, then," I say, "It makes it too hard to resist."

"Or you could grow up."

"Or you could get a sense of humor."

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair until it stands up on end, giving him an extra six inches of height.