Revived (Cat Patrick)

was actually a spy for a foreign government trying to steal the formula for Revive. She said that “suburban housewife” would be the perfect cover.
    Two weeks after we arrived, Nora showed up on our front porch, undoubtedly shoved out the door by her mother, birthday party invitation in hand.
    “Hi,” she said. “I’m Nora.”
    “I remember from when you guys brought the cookies,” I said. “I’m Daisy.”
    “Yeah.”
    We stared at each other in silence, me thinking that she looked like a Skipper doll and wondering if she owned any outfits that didn’t match from her hair clips to her sandals, and her looking at me in my cutoff jean shorts and red-and-white-striped T-shirt like I was from an alien planet.
    “Here,” she said finally, offering me the tiny purple envelope. “It’s an invitation to my birthday party next weekend.”
    “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
    “Sure,” Nora said. “See ya.”
    The next weekend, I faked being sick and watched the partygoers arrive at Nora’s from the comfort of the window seat in my poster-filled bedroom. Looking back, that was probably the moment that defined Daisy Appleby. Those first weeks of school, Nora’s birthday was all anyone talked about: It was a boy/girl party, and if you weren’t there, you weren’t anybody. For the rest of the year, Nora was polite to me at block parties and in the halls at school. But by eighth grade, she was braces-less, in a B-cup, and on track to be queen of the school, and I was nothing but the weird neighbor who kept to herself. Unknowingly, I had dissed the most popular girl in school.
    It made me invisible.
    Not that I minded.
    The Revive program is built on secrecy, and being invisible at school is never a bad thing. Even if I make friends, it’s not like I can get close to them. My family life is a facade, and we could move at any time.
    Anyway, it’s not like I was lonely in Frozen Hills. I had an after-school study group and I hung out solo with one of the 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