Revive by Tracey Martin Page B

down my cheek. The brush of his skin, so light yet so meaningful, is too much. I hold my breath.
    Forget my mission. This moment is so much more dangerous. We shouldn’t be out here alone. He shouldn’t be standing so close. I shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like if he were even closer, thinking about all those times I’ve seen him without his shirt on, wondering what it would be like to slide my hands under it now. Would his skin be silky or sweaty? Would the hard ridges of his muscles guide my hands up or down?
    Heat spreads throughout my body, and my heart beats faster.
    Why is One doing this? Is it a test? Not only is he failing to set the example, he’s pushing me to break one of the biggest rules we have.
    Unless I’m misreading him. But no. I’m good at reading faces. I’ve been trained to do it, and I really don’t think I’m wrong.
    Then the main door opens, and we jump apart. I can’t see the entrance from here, but that must be Fitzpatrick heading our way. A guilty expression sweeps over One’s face, just like I’m sure it does on mine. I was definitely not misreading him.
    Oh, shit.
    Kyle waves a hand in front of my face, and I shudder as I return to the present. “Soph?”
    Kyle. Kyle. Kyle.
    Focus on Kyle with the perfect cheekbones and shaggy bleached hair. Kyle, who I went to some dance with last night. Kyle, whose closeness to me now makes my skin tingle.
    But I can’t focus on the present, and I rest my forehead in my hands. Who is One? And what kind of name is that? Why did he call me Seven? I thought I was Sophia.
    Three. Six. Nine.
    What. The. Hell.
    Cole. Gabe. Summer. Jordan. That’s it. I almost scream with surprise. Those were the faces in that photo Audrey was looking at in our room. So why am I remembering them as numbers?
    I file the memory away, but instead of easing my confusion, it worsens it. My headache is back.
    â€œSophia?”
    Right. That’s supposed to be my name. I’ll worry about the rest later.
    Blinking, I force myself out of my stupor. “Here, sorry.”
    Kyle’s face is amused as he drains his coffee cup. “Get lost down memory lane?”
    â€œUm, yeah. Was thinking about the time Fitzpatrick came and broke up a dorm party at my old school.” Half my coffee plus most of my muffin remains, and I stall by drinking more. The coffee’s gotten cool, but I don’t mind. I’m plenty warm at last.
    Kyle points to the muffin with his coffee stirrer, as if reminding me to eat. “You’ve mentioned this Fitzpatrick before. She was your RA or something?”
    â€œYeah.” No. I don’t think that’s entirely correct, but I don’t know what is correct, so I don’t want to explain. Maybe that’s what I told Kyle, though. Maybe it was part of my cover story. Whichever, the fact that I lied to Kyle is a good reminder of why I shouldn’t be talking too much.
    I twirl my cup around on the table and check out the window. The street is busy. Pedestrians scurry by, bundled in their jackets, avoiding eye contact. Traffic backs up in the intersection, and horns wail. But no faces alarm me. No cars look familiar. How long do I have here?
    â€œI didn’t like her—Fitzpatrick,” I tell Kyle. “I called her Bitchpatrick.”
    He smirks. “Yeah, I know. You said your old school wasn’t much fun.”
    â€œWhat else did I say about it?”
    I spin the cup so fast it almost goes flying off the table. Kyle catches it then rests a hand on my hand. I’m trembling, but that might be in part from his touch. Or the caffeine jitters.
    I like his touch. The weight is comforting, and it makes me smile. At least until I remember One, er, Cole. Whatever his real name is. Then I wonder if I should be feeling guilty for liking the way Kyle touches me. This is so confusing.
    Kyle taps each of my fingers with one of his. “You