Dedication

  For all the kids who asked,

  “What happened next?”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Zola’s entire room began to glow—the sign that it was ready.

  “Tahiti,” Zola mumbled from her cozy nest of blankets and pillows. Even though she’d been sound asleep a moment earlier, she bolted upright, her eyes open wide. When she was little, she’d been convinced that if she sat up fast enough, she’d catch the Picture Wall opposite her bed in its exact moment of change. She’d believed she might see pixies or elves scattering sand right up to the foot of her bed; she might see the ocean rolling in from the other side of the globe to lap gently at her toes.

  But Zola was twelve now, and sitting up quickly was only a habit. A silly one. She knew that the Picture Wall was only an illusion. She knew that the sensation of sand squishing between her toes and being washed away by sun-warmed water and gentle beach breezes was just as unreal. She’d even done a report at school once about the technology that made it all happen. She supposed it truly was amazing, that the Picture Wall worked so seamlessly with the tiny electrodes embedded in her comforter, to make her feel as though she were waking up in a tropical paradise.

  But it was hard to stay amazed by something that happened every morning.

  Zola slumped back against the throne of pillows behind her. For a moment, she regarded the glorious sunrise-over-water that the Picture Wall was showing her. It was so beautiful, the first rays of light reaching the peaks of the waves. Her Picture Wall request the day before had been beautiful, too: she’d watched the sun rising over the Alps. That one had included the sensation that she was drinking hot chocolate (which she knew was only from the odor of cocoa being piped into her room—but sometimes it was nice to have taste buds that were easily tricked). The day before that, she’d awakened in the midst of sequoia trees in California. Before that, she’d been on a savanna watching elephants meander by. And before that . . . she didn’t quite remember. Who cared? It had all been beautiful.

  Zola was supposed to lie in bed and watch the entire sunrise—that was supposed to grant her a peaceful waking, a peaceful day, a happy life. But somehow Zola didn’t have the patience for the Picture Wall’s whole glorious cycle of scenes today.

  “You know what, Sirilexagoogle?” she said aloud, addressing the artificial intelligence that governed her room’s scenes and sensations—as well as pretty much everything else around her. “Just make my wall normal again.”

  “By ‘normal,’ do you mean ‘typical’?” Sirilex’s disembodied voice echoed around her. “By my calculations, the scene you request most often is a Pacific beach. But would you prefer one in Hawaii instead? Jeju Island? Bora-Bora? The Philippines?”

  “I mean, just make the wall look like it really looks,” Zola said through gritted teeth. “Without any scene at all. Like nowhere.”

  Sirilex made a sound that would have been a harrumph, if it had been human.

  “Your house is a place, too,” the AI corrected in its usual know-it-all tone. “Even a bare wall is—”

  “Just do it,” Zola said. “Please!”

  Sirilex obeyed. The wall across from Zola’s bed instantly went blank. Without the imaginary sand, sun, water, and palm trees, Zola could see how empty her room really was. A plain desk stood against the wall to the left, unadorned for once by any Picture Wall–style transformation of its own. To the right was the floor-to-ceiling Insta-Closet where Zola could trade in her clothes any time she wanted.

  And beside the Insta-Closet was the door out into the rest of the house . . . a door that opened even as Zola glanced at it.

  Right on cue, Zola thought.

  “Good morning, you lucky girl, you!” Zola’s mom ex-claimed as she stepped into the room—her usual greeting. “What glorious scene shall we enjoy together today? Er—”

  Zola saw the confusion spread over her mother’s face. Mom’s usual cheery grin slipped, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. But when Mom dropped her hand again, her smile was back. It just seemed more fake than usual.

  Mom sank down gently onto the side of Zola’s bed, perching on the very edge as if she wasn’t sure if Zola wanted her there or not.

  “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” Mom asked, her voice unimaginably soft and kind. “Anything you’d like to share?”

  Oh no! Zola thought. What have I done?

  When Zola was younger, she’d loved the way Mom could seem to understand Zola’s every emotion, Zola’s every mood. She’d loved the way Mom lifted one eyebrow as she gazed at her, the way Mom’s blue eyes glowed with sympathy, the way Mom always wanted to help.

  More and more often lately, though, Zola just wanted some privacy.

  Was it weird that I had Sirilex shut down the Picture Wall? she wondered. Why did I do that?

  For an instant, Zola considered lying, and claiming the Picture Wall had broken somehow. But technology didn’t break. Not anymore. Perfect Tech had been around since at least the early 2100s—almost a full century.

  And anyhow, even if Mom couldn’t see through such a lie, Sirilex would tattle.

  The various mood sensors and monitors in her room were probably already measuring tiny changes in her expression, her temperature, her body language. She was probably only moments away from being sent to counseling that would simultaneously assure her that everything she felt and did was completely normal for someone her age—but also that she needed hours with the digital therapist to get through it.

  That had happened before.

  “I . . . I just wanted to see the regular wall,” Zola stammered. “I wanted to remind myself . . . what’s really there.”

  Mom froze, her eyebrow still cocked, her sympathetic gaze almost painfully intense. For a second, Zola felt like she had after shutting down the Picture Wall—as if she was seeing Mom’s real face for once, not the cheerful mask she always wore.

  Then Mom laughed and reached out to ruffle Zola’s hair.

  “Poor kid,” she said. “Forced to wake up in paradise every day. A paradise you get to choose.”

  “Yeah, but then I have to get up and go to school,” Zola groused half-heartedly.

  “You like school,” Mom said. “You are lucky.”

  It felt like Mom was groping her way back to their usual script, a typical morning conversation.

  That was fine with Zola. She really didn’t want some long, drawn-out interrogation about what was going on inside Zola’s head—or why she’d had such a strange impulse this morning, to want to see a blank wall.

  “I know, I know,” Zola said quickly. “I’m so much luckier than you were as a kid.” Mom still looked a little shaken, so Zola joked, “Didn’t you have to walk ten miles through blizzards to get to school? And it was uphill in both directions?”

  Mom didn’t laugh the way Zola expected.

  “Where’d you hear that line?” Mom asked, her voice gone stiff. When Zola glanced over at her, Mom’s artificially wrinkle-less face was completely taut. If Zola hadn’t known better, she would have said Mom looked scared. Terrified, even.

  But that wasn’t possible. It was 2193, and fear—like unreliable technology—was a thing of the past.

  “Relax, Mom.” Zola rolled her eyes as she scrambled out of bed. “I’m not accusing you of being a hundred years old. Or would it be two hundred? I heard that saying in school. In one of the history VRs. It’s something parents used to say to kids. I know that even when you were a kid, school was always virtual, too. You didn’t have to walk anywhere, except for exercise.”

  “Right,” Mom said, settling back more comfortably against the multiple pillows of Zola’s bed.

  “Anyway, if I was truly lucky, my Insta-Closet really would work instantly,” Zola muttered, tapping impatiently on the screen on the closet’s door. She’d actually ordered an outfit the night before. But she always thought of last-minute changes. The screen showed a countdown clock, and Zola groaned. “
Five minutes is way too long to have to wait for new clothes.”

  “Recycled,” Mom corrected. “The Insta-Closet recycles clothes.”

  Zola didn’t bother rolling her eyes again. It was so annoying how Mom always did that, constantly reminding Zola how wonderful the technology in their home was, how lucky they were to be living in 2193. But at least it was normal for Mom to be this annoying.

  Zola knew from the history VRs at school how it used to be for kids. A hundred years ago—or, well, two hundred years ago, anyway—kids getting ready for school in the morning didn’t have to deal with parents lolling around in their kids’ rooms, expecting to have “meaningful conversations.” Back then, the parents were also rushing around getting ready for work, fixing breakfast, taking care of younger kids (because people used to have bigger families). Parents back then had sometimes ignored their kids completely.

  Right now, that sounded wonderful to Zola.

  But Zola was, as Mom constantly reminded her, “the sun, the moon, and the stars” to her mother. Zola’s full name—Zola Luna Stellae Keyser—was supposed to reflect that. “Luna” did mean “moon,” and “Stellae” did mean “stars,” but “Zola” actually meant “earth,” not “sun.”

  “You might as well have named me ‘dirt’!” Zola had complained when she found out, during a school project about self-identity. “Why didn’t you and Dad just ask Sirilexagoogle before you put it on the birth certificate?”

  “We were young and in love and so excited about our new baby—we didn’t want to spare even a moment for research like that,” Mom had said.

  Zola could have continued the argument—because, how was it “research” to ask Sirilex a question? Everybody did that all the time. But the sad, dreamy look in Mom’s eye stopped her. Dad had died when Zola was only two days old.

  Now Zola truly was all Mom had.

  Zola really should be nicer and not so determined to argue with her mother all the time.

  The Insta-Closet gave a cheerful “Ding!” and spoke in its usual snobby-sounding voice. “The outfit you requested has now been prepared. It’s ready for your donning.”

  “Sirilex,” Zola said. “Reprogram the Insta-Closet voice. I want something slangier from now on. More fun.”

  “Your desire has been noted and that wish shall be granted,” Sirilex responded instantly.

  “Change yours, too!” Zola commanded.

  “Sure thing, kiddo!”

  Zola heard Mom sigh, but Zola tuned that out. The door of the Insta-Closet automatically clicked open. When Zola was little, she had asked Mom once, “What would happen if I was inside the Insta-Closet when it was making my clothes?” Disappointingly, Mom had said only, “That’s not possible. There are all sorts of safeguards to prevent that.” But as a small child, Zola had been a little obsessed. She’d had nightmares about being knit into her own clothes. She’d had nightmares about things climbing out of the Insta-Closet in the middle of the night. Things that weren’t clothes.

  But, even as a small child, Zola had known better than to ask Mom or Sirilex about that. They just would have sent her to more long, boring sessions with the kindergarten transition counselor.

  Zola gave a sigh of her own and stepped into the Insta-Closet, pulling the door shut behind her. Instantly, she felt better. As much as she’d feared the Insta-Closet when she was little, she loved it now. It was soundproof—Mom couldn’t keep yammering at her while she was getting dressed. And it was completely private—besides the bathroom, this was the only place Zola ever entered where there weren’t security or mood sensor cameras silently recording every moment of her life.

  Automatically, as she always did, Zola stuck out her tongue at the mirrored wall facing her.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall . . . , she thought, a line from an old fairy tale where kids took turns asking, “Who’s the bravest of them all?” “Who’s the kindest of them all?” “Who’s the hardest-working of them all?” etc. It was a dull, dull story, and illogical, too. Because a mirror couldn’t tell you any of that. A mirror could tell you that you had straight, light brown hair like your mom’s and that when you looked at a mirror, you preferred to make silly faces. And of course, until Zola had reprogrammed it to stay silent, this mirror had always said encouraging slogans every morning like, “You look ready for a great day!” and “I can tell just by looking that you are a wonderful person!”

  Why would anyone need to hear that every morning? Why would anyone trust a talking mirror?

  Zola rolled her eyes at the mirror and turned to take today’s newly refabricated outfit from the hanger beside her. She’d just detached the swingy purple top from the hanger when something fell to the floor.

  That was odd, because Zola hadn’t asked for any belts or beads or bows or other accessories. The clothing she’d requested shouldn’t have come with any tiny, fussy parts that could fall off.

  She bent down. The thing on the floor was a scrap of paper. Paper! Who even used that anymore except in obscure retro artwork?

  The paper was folded over twice. Zola’s experience with paper was almost all virtual—she’d had that one art history class about origami, which had given the illusion that they were working with real paper. Maybe that was why it felt instinctive to scoop up the paper and take it by its corners and pull them open, flattening the paper onto the palm of her hand.

  Now Zola could see writing, actual handwriting that must have been done with an actual old-fashioned pencil or pen. And she could make out words in one large scrawl:

  If you want to see things as they really are, come find me. And HELP us!

  2

  Zola blinked, not believing her own eyes. But this wasn’t like some dream or VR game, where things appeared and disappeared at will. The paper stayed in her hand; the words “And HELP us!” kept staring up at her, silently begging. Now she also noticed another line, much smaller, at the bottom of the page:

  But don’t let anyone see this note.

  What?

  For a moment, Zola felt a jolt of something like hope. Or excitement. Someone needed her help! She could make a difference! This wasn’t like being asked to be brave or heroic in some stupid history VR where the right choices were always so obvious, and already accomplished, anyway. (Oppose the Nazis, speak out against racism, stop the Spanish Inquisition . . . duh.)

  Then Zola’s brain kicked in. Of course this note couldn’t be real.

  Zola slammed her shoulder against the door of the Insta-Closet, bursting back out into her bedroom. She clutched the paper note in her hand and held it high over her head.

  “Mom, this isn’t fair!” she complained. “If school’s going to spring surprise ‘moral dilemma’ homework assignments on me even when I’m getting dressed in the morning—that’s wrong. We studied this in school. People have a right to their own leisure time outside of work or school, and—”

  Mom scrambled up from Zola’s bed as quickly as if the bed had burst into flames. Mom was middle-aged and (Zola had always thought) a little stodgy; Zola had never seen her move so fast.

  And Mom was laughing.

  “There’s some issue with the Insta-Closet, and you think it’s a moral dilemma test from school?” Mom asked, sounding all jolly and amused. “Don’t tell me you’re starting that kind of teenaged drama already!”

  “Mom, you know I’m not a teenager yet!” Zola protested. “And this isn’t drama! Don’t . . .” She had all sorts of indignant responses on the tip of her tongue: “Don’t assume I’m overreacting when you don’t even know what I’m talking about! Don’t belittle me and my experiences! Don’t laugh at me!”

  But it suddenly struck Zola that Mom’s laughter and words and tone didn’t match the way she was sprinting across the room. The way Mom was running—Mom! Who never ran anywhere!—you’d think Zola herself had just burst into flames, and Mom was desperate to tackle her and roll her on the floor and put the fire out, to save Zola’s life.

  And it wasn’t Mom who usually accused her of drama. It was Sirilex.

  Mom reached Zola’s side and grabbed first for Zola’s hand—the hand that clutched the paper. Mom’s hand covered Zola’s. Then Mom yanked Zola’s arm down and drew her close.

  “I do remember what it felt like to be a teenager—and preteen—and so filled with big emotions,” Mom said, patting Zola’s back. “Does somebody just need a hug?”

  No, now I just want to punch something, Zola thought.