This Is Not a Test by Courtney Summers

Author:Courtney Summers [Summers, Courtney]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin’s Griffin
Published: 2012-06-19T17:25:27+00:00

And then it’s just me and my former English teacher.

The dinner trays are cleared from the table, the garbage is thrown away. The others decide to search for how Baxter got in. Cary’s going to give them the rundown on everything we’ve managed to piece together about what happened before Baxter got in and the possibility that he’s lying and then we’ll all be suspicious. I stayed behind because I feel sick and tired and Cary said it’s good if one of us stays because it will prevent Baxter from getting suspicious of our suspicion of him. Rhys said it might make him more suspicious and then suspicious stopped seeming like a real word. I can’t tell if Cary is enjoying this or not, but I feel like he might be. I know he’s worried about how Baxter got in but it’s like the rest of it, the paranoia, is just something to do so he can feel like he’s doing something.

“Do you think you could get me some water?” Baxter is still sitting at the table and I’m on my mat and I don’t know why he can’t do that for himself but I get him a bottle of water and bring it to him. He sets it on the table and then he grabs me and his fingers are as rough against my wrist as they were against my face. I swallow.

“You’re hurt,” he says. “The others aren’t. Did they do this to you?”

“They?” My stomach turns when I realize what he’s suggesting. “No.”

He holds my gaze and then he lets my wrist go. I exhale and resist the urge to rub it. I walk back to my mat and sit down on it instead.

“It’s good, then, that you’ve found people you can trust.”

“I guess,” I say.

“That’s a rare thing at a time like this.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” he says, and then he starts to ramble. “Panic reduces people to ruin. Cortege is gone and so are most of its residents. And the people who are left … won’t be … they won’t be good. That’s not how you survive, by being good … but—you all must be good and yet you made it this far.” I want to ask him about the man outside, if he was good. “But you must be the exception.”

He winces and leans forward a little, letting out a slow breath through his teeth and after a long moment, he straightens. His eyes are watery.

“Are you okay, Mr. Baxter?”

“Just tired,” he assures me. “You all address me like I’m still your teacher.”

“I’m sorry. We can—”

“I’m fine. I’m still your teacher…” He drums his fingers on the table. “If they hurt you, you can tell me. We can figure out what to do. You don’t have to pretend that they’re good.”

It is so strange to hear this question from someone in this context. I think of all the times I sat in Baxter’s class, long-sleeved sweaters on hot days, no one saying anything. I imagine how it would have sounded to me then.

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