The Immortals Mary Hallberg (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

“Seems like that’s all I’m good for. I don’t sing or dance or any of that stuff. Guess I could never have been a pre-collapse celebrity. So what’s Matt doing?”

“I think he’s reading poetry.” He bit his lip. “Hey Kenzie, we’re getting a group of people together after the benefit. Maybe have dinner, watch a movie. You should join us. It’ll give you a chance to catch up with everyone.”

“Sure, that’d be fine.” But I was focused on the back door of the arena, where Elizabeth came dancing out in gold high heels and fresh highlights. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”

But Elizabeth wasn’t having it. “McKenzie!” she called after me. I turned around slowly.

“Yes?”

“McKenzie, I’m really glad you’re here! Niles wants me to pass out these brochures.” She stuffed a wad of papers into my hand. “Oh, and I wanted to talk to you in private some time soon. Are you staying with your brother?”

I blinked. “What? Yeah, just for tonight. Why?”

“Great! I’ll drop by tomorrow.” She laced her fingers through Gage’s. “See you then!”

“Can’t wait,” I mumbled. I didn’t know if she heard me and didn’t care.

I couldn’t find Jacey again, so I walked absentmindedly into the back of the auditorium, down a hallway with several closed doors. One of the doors at the end of the hall was cracked open and I heard a guitar. Was there a guitar player at the benefit? I pressed my ear to the door and listened carefully. There was singing too, but it wasn’t any voice I recognized. Then again, most people I knew in The Necropolis didn’t exactly burst into song and dance like they did in some of the old movies mom watched sometimes. I knocked on the door.

“Gage, is that you?”

It was Matt’s voice — speaking, not singing. I opened the door and there he was, seated on a black leather couch, a stereo on the coffee table in front of him and a wad of papers in his hand.

“Hey Kenzie,” he said. “Sorry, I like to listen to music when I’m nervous. Come in.”

I closed the door and sat on the couch beside him. “So...how’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess. Can’t complain. How have you been?”

“Good. Hey, I should really thank you for helping me in English this past semester.”

“Oh really? And how did I help you?”

I shrugged. “You made it interesting. So every time I went in and read a new poem, I could actually understand it and do good in the class without struggling. Guess you rubbed off on me.” He smiled and his cheeks turned another shade of pink.

I pointed to the papers in his hand. “Is that what you’re reading today?”

“Yeah, I was just looking over some stuff. I’m not too good at the whole speaking in front of people thing. I wish someone would have told me that before I decided to be a poet. Read your work out loud or forget about it.”

I patted his hand. “You’ll do fine, I promise.”

“Yeah, I just don’t want to do it. Probably never will.”

“You know Matt, this isn’t one of those dystopian books people used to read. You’re only 15. You can change your career.”

He looked up, directly into my eyes. “No, this is what I love.” My hand was still on his, I realized, and he gripped it gently, running his thumb over my fingers. This was only the second time we had been alone together — the first was at the barbecue back in October, and he had been unusually warm then too.

“Do you need anything?” I said. “Maybe water? I was just going to the break room.”

“No, I don’t think so. But I do have a folder in there on the table. Do you think you could bring it to me?”

The break room was freezing. I turned the coffee pot on and rubbed my hands together. It only took a few seconds for a single cup of coffee to brew, but I was insanely impatient. Someone should have invented a faster method by now.

I spotted a manila folder on the table; this must be what Matt was talking about. I picked it up and contemplated sneaking a peek, but resisted. Other than the reading at the coffee shop, Matt had never voluntarily showed me any of his work or even asked if I wanted to see it. So why would he be okay with me looking at it behind his back?

The coffeemaker dinged and I picked up the pot a little too eagerly. “Ow, damn.” The side stung my fingers and I reflexively dropped the folder. Papers scattered out and flew under the table. Oh crap. I hoped they weren’t in any specific order.

I picked up a piece of paper that had almost flown under the table. I wasn’t trying to look at the poem, of course, but some of the words caught my eye. It took me a second to realize it was that same sappy love poem Matt had read a few months earlier. The one about the girl with blue eyes. Only the title had been scratched out and replaced with a new one:

‘McKenzie.’

When I got back to the room, Matt was lying on the couch, his eyes closed. Guitar melodies still whispered from the stereo. I dropped the folder beside him and he must have felt it because he opened his eyes and sat up.

“Oh good, you found it. Thanks.”

“Tell me something, Matt.” I sat back on the couch, farther away. “How many people named McKenzie do you know?”

“At the moment? Just you.”

“And have you ever had a crush on a girl named McKenzie in the past?”

He raised his eyebrows. “No. Why?”

I nodded toward the folder where I’d moved the McKenzie poem to the top of the stack. He opened it and quickly folded the paper in half.

“Matt, who is that poem about?”

“What, are you looking through my things? Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. It just fell out! Now tell me…who is this poem