Revived (Cat Patrick) Read Free Page A

other members every once in a while. And I’m not one of those people who get all self-conscious about going to the movies or to see bands alone. I’m not sure when normal kids learn to be embarrassed about things like that, but thankfully, it never happened to me.
    I carefully catalog three years of memories and by nine o’clock, when we pull into our new hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, I have concluded that my time in Frozen Hills was a success. I navigated junior high without any major issues. I maintained cover and managed not to raise suspicions or get too close to anyone or anything that I had to leave.
    Ready to focus on the future, I tune in to the city outside the car windows.
    “It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” I say.
    “It’s the most populated city in Nebraska,” Mason answers.
    “How many people live here?” I ask, because I know he’ll know. Mason’s a walking Wiki.
    “Almost half a million,” he says. “There are actually several large corporations here….” he begins. That’s the danger of pressing Mason’s Search button: If he’s in the right mood, he’ll barf information.
    I can’t help but tune out, but I’m surprised when I find my thoughts floating back to Frozen Hills. Usually, I assess and move on. This time, something is bugging me.
    Was there a missed opportunity there?
    “Everything okay?” Mason asks, sensing my distraction.
    “Everything’s fine,” I say. “I just think that maybe—if I get any party invitations in Omaha—I might actually accept.”

four
    I take a break from decorating my new room when a text alert chimes on my phone. It’s Megan, one of the kids who died with me in Iowa eleven years ago; another of fourteen living “bus kids” that make up the Revive program test group. Megan lives in Seattle, but we keep in touch. Initially, we bonded over the program. Then we grew closer, like sisters who realize they’re actually friends, too.
    I tap my finger on the screen to read her message.
Megan: You didn’t post…. Everything okay?

    Under the pseudonyms Flower Girl and Fabulous, Megan and I coauthor a blog called Anything Autopsy, where we dissect music, books, fashion, food, and whatever else we feel like. The format is she said/she said style—or she said/he-she said, since Megan is transgender—and if one of us doesn’t post, it’s not as cool.
    I type back:
Daisy: Sorry, we had to move.

    There’s a pause, and I imagine Megan’s black-lined eyes bugging out of her head. The thought makes me laugh out loud.
Megan: Again???!!!???

    “Unfortunately,” I say aloud, even though she can’t hear me. Then I type:
Daisy: Again. Bees.

Megan: I’m going to start calling you Honey.

Daisy: Please don’t.

Megan: I guess daisies attract bees, too, don’t they?

Daisy: I promise to post twice this week. Setting up my new room. Chat later?

Megan: Love you madly

Daisy: Love you more

    I set aside the phone and pick up the paint roller.
    People might say it’s stupid to spend time decorating a space you’ll likely soon abandon, but to me, putting my stamp on each new bedroom is a crucial part of any move. I mean, seriously: I live with science-obsessed secret agents; my bedroom is my retreat. And more than that, it’s part of the cover. Assuming someday someone wants to see my room, it has to be in line with my personality. It has to look permanent.
    For the first three days in Omaha, when Mason and Cassie are setting up the lab in the basement, I pretend I’m the designer on a home makeover show and create my perfect space. Since my sixteenth birthday’s not for another month, I have to get Mason to drive me to Target, a crazy place called Nebraska Furniture Mart, and the paint store, but after that, it’s all me and my vision.
    In this house, I’m going for tranquil. I paint the walls a nice, mellow gray and cover as much of the wood floors, which are badly in need of refinishing, with a super-plush rug. On one full wall I install a