![]() ![]() I left her beyond a fence, behind a wall of smoke and flame.įire in my legs and lungs fire tearing through every nerve and cell in my body. She’s one of those people who makes the cure seem redundant-it’s impossible to imagine that she would ever be capable of loving, even without the procedure. She’s old, and mean, and looks like a cross between a frog and a pit bull. The old Lena would have been terrified of a teacher like Mrs. Fierstein gives me a final stare-meant to intimidate me, I guess-and turns back to the board, returning to her lecture on the divine energy of electrons. I’m pushing aside the memory of my nightmare, pushing aside thoughts of Alex, pushing aside thoughts of Hana and my old school, push, push, push, like Raven taught me to do. “It won’t happen again,” I say, trying to look obedient and contrite. “This is your final warning, Miss Jones,” Mrs. People avoid me like I have a disease-like I have the disease. I’ve been enrolled at Edwards since just after winter break-only a little more than two months-and already I’ve been labeled the Number-One Weirdo. “No!” I burst out, louder than I intended to, provoking a new round of giggles from the other girls in my class. “Since you seem to find the Creation of the Natural Order so exhausting,” she says, “might I suggest a trip to the principal’s office to wake you up?” This is the third time I’ve fallen asleep in her class this week. Fierstein, the twelfth-grade science teacher at Quincy Edwards High School for Girls in Brooklyn, Section 5, District 17, is glaring at me. I snap into awareness, to a muted chorus of giggles. “Alex,” I say, and then, a short scream: “Alex!” A hysterical feeling is building inside me, a shrieking voice saying wrong, wrong, wrong, and I sit up and place my hand on Alex’s chest, as cold as ice. “Look at me,” I say, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move at all. He is staring at the leaves without blinking. “I’m cold,” he parrots, from lips that barely move. I try to move into the space between his arm and his chest but his body is rigid, unyielding. “Give me your arm,” I say, but Alex doesn’t respond. My breath comes in clouds, and I press against him, trying to stay warm. And again I realize he’s right: It is snowing, thick flakes the color of ash swirling all around us. We are staring at the web of leaves above us, thick as a wall. There’s a basket at the foot of the blanket, filled with half-rotten fruit, swarmed by tiny black ants. ![]() “It probably wasn’t the best day for a picnic,” Alex says, and just then I realize that yes, of course, we haven’t eaten any of the food we brought. The leaves are almost black, knitted so tightly together they blot out the sky. The trees look larger and darker than usual. ![]() Oliver's not the most detailed world builder, so unlike Suzanne Collins, who provides a detailed explanation of Panem's 13 districts and inhabitants, we learn only a little more about the groups of uncureds, but not nearly enough to fully flesh out this dystopian world where love is a battlefield.Alex and I are lying together on a blanket in the backyard of 37 Brooks. Readers who expect Alex to miraculously pop up unscathed and continue his starry-eyed relationship with Lena will be disasppointed that Alex is only featured in Lena's memories and that she's eventually drawn to someone who's Alex's opposite.īecause the romance (Oliver's strong suit) in this book feels somewhat like a betrayal to the central one that started the series, there's an underlying sense of conflict and tension that readers will feel right along with Lena about her new relationship. Eventually it's clear that there are two time frames for the story - the immediate aftermath of Lena's escape and her life as part of the rebellion. At first, teens may be confused about why Lena is sitting in a Brooklyn high school, when the last time we saw her she was watching the love of her life bloodied and bruised. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |