Field Investigations

Chapter 24:

I jogged to catch up, my brown hair swinging down into my face. I should've brought a hair tie with me. Hey, though, it's not my fault. I mean, I wasn't planning on coming to this place. At least, I didn't think I was.

I wondered how I got here. I was pretty sure I didn't choose to be here. From my few vague memories of the bus ride, it seemed clear that I was taken against my will. Why, then? And if I was taken here, were the other people here taken as well?

Really, for all I knew, there could be nobody else here. Right? Wait - no. That wouldn't make any sense. Hadn't she said that we were ten minutes late for lunch? If we were the only people here, then we couldn't possibly be late for anything.

Okay, so, I knew that there were other people here. The question was, how many other people? A few? Ten? Twenty? I finally caught up to her, panting as I slowed. Judging from the size of the hallways, probably more like two hundred or maybe two million.

"Tired?" she laughed when I caught up, speeding back up into a sprint. I tried to go faster. If I fell too far behind, I'd probably get lost. This hallway was so long with so many doors that I might never find my way to the cafeteria.

"Why are y-you... why are you running?" I breathed out, my throat hoarse.

"It's my hobby," she grinned, her tone even and relaxed as if she was lying down instead of giving Usain Bolt a run for his money in the hundred meter dash. "Competitive sprinter."

"Wait, really?"

"Nah, we're just late."

I was starting to think maybe I did like her.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of running, she slowed in front of a door on the left side of the hallway, apparently waiting for me. It took me a few seconds of huffing and puffing to catch back up, and when I did, she gave me no time to catch my breath, pushing the door open and jogging through. Ah, for a second I'd thought we were there. More running? I rested my hands on my knees, looking out at the hallway that seemed to extend out for miles in each direction. After a few seconds, I forced myself to keep going. I felt like I was being chased, my heart beating at a hundred times its normal pace.

I always wondered why anybody would take up running as a hobby. Sure, if there's some sort of zombie apocalypse they might be better off, but bicycles were invented for a reason. Could it really be that anyone enjoyed wheezing and gasping for breath?

And I would be just fine in a zombie apocalypse, runner or not. I already had a full, ten page plan I'd written out back in second grade hanging on my bulletin board with ideas for every possible scenario. I didn't believe in that stuff anymore, of course, but I respected my second grade self too much to throw my hard work in the trash.

Sentimental, my mom used to call me. I didn't know what that meant when I was younger, but her tone made me think it was something bad, like a liar or a bully. When it showed up on my fourth grade vocabulary quiz, though, and I learned what it actually meant, I didn't understand why she'd always said it like it was a shortcoming. I decided I was sentimental and proud of it, like the way the colonists I was learning about in history class changed Yankee Doodle Dandy from an insult into their anthem.

I saw the woman slow down by a set of two large doors. They looked like cafeteria doors to me, but maybe that was just wishful thinking, like when explorers stranded in deserts think they see an oasis but then realize it's just a mirage. When she pulled the door open, though, I was greeted with the sight of a long row of buffet tables swarmed by at least a hundred teenagers and adults.

I sighed, enjoying a brief moment of relief before anxiety took back over. I didn't know anyone in this place. I was reminded of the way I felt at Washington High: Lonely and too scared to change it. This situation was worse, though, because I didn't even know where I was or why. How could I hold a conversation with someone else if I didn't even know who I was?

If anything was clear from my time at Washington High, though, it was that there wasn't much danger of me getting into any conversations. I sighed. It was better for me not to talk too much anyway, at least until I got my bearings and really figured out where I was.

The woman turned to walk over to one of the tables.

"Oh, um, I just realized. I didn't ask you your name. I'm-"

"Isabel," she finished for me.

"Actually, it's-"

"Isa."

"Wait - how did you know that?"

She just laughed and turned away.

"Hold on," I said. "You still didn't tell me your name."

"Andrea," she replied quickly. Too quickly. Was that her real name, or did she make it up? She walked away before I could ask anything else, pulling out a chair next to a blond girl who looked like she was around my age and a boy with dark skin and long, curly, brown hair.

I figured she wouldn't appreciate it if I sat at the same table. Looking around the cafeteria, though, all the other tables were occupied. I weighed my options. I could sit at her table and hope she wouldn't mind, or I could go to one of the other tables and try and keep a low profile. I was pretty sure she'd mind. Maybe it was better to just go with the second option.

And now another decision: should I pick a table with a lot of people or only a few? An emptier table would make me more noticeable. Better to go with a more crowded one and try to blend in, I decided. These were the kind of seemingly insignificant decisions that held together the fabric of my life at Washington High, and they were even more important now that I'd woken up in this strange place.

I picked a table that looked alright: seven boys and three girls (well, four including myself) having an animated debate about the quality of the cafeteria pizza. Livelier discussions are better when you're trying to keep to yourself. Everyone's distracted by the mayhem, so nobody even realizes you're there.

Now, some people, when they're trying not to be noticed, make the mistake of sitting at the edge of the table, away from everyone else. I know better, though. Sitting in the middle of the table, you're less conspicuous. As long as you remember to nod every so often and throw in the occasional fake laugh, nobody gives you a second thought.

I slid down onto the bench between two boys who looked like they were a year or two older than me. For a moment, nobody seemed to notice me. I smiled to myself. Works every ti-

My thoughts froze as every pair of eyes at the table turned towards me. For a fraction of a second, I sank back into my seat. This was bad.