Marigold by Heather Manheim (best books for 8th graders .TXT) 📕

Davis sat there and blankly stared for at least ten minutes. Many things were going through her mind, and she wasn’t sure she had heard Ringo correctly. She couldn’t believe she heard him right, because it was so absurd. Davis certainly didn’t know what to say, but murdering someone was not something she would or could do. For sure, she knew now, helping these people was not a part of her future. Finally, Davis spoke, “I can’t do what you’re asking. And while you have given me some compelling information, you’re also asking me to murder someone: The President! A very popular and much-loved President. I can’t. There is no way I can murder anyone! You guys are truly insane for even asking it. I just…I just, the idea of it makes me sick. I can’t help even a little bit. I need to go back to my old life now.”

“Okay, we understand,” said Ringo. “But, honestly, nobody would know you did it. We know that it is asking a lot to take a life, even a vile one; it is a huge ask. Beyond any request we should ask of you. But nobody would know it was you. The President is highly allergic to bee venom. All you have to do is slip it into his food or drink. He’ll go into anaphylactic shock quickly. They’re not prepared for it because they’ve eliminated the possibility of bees even being at the Palace. There are no flowers; they fumigate regularly; they won’t be able to handle it. Even if someone figures out you slipped him the venom, the Security Patrol would not want it publicized that they failed to protect him. The news headlines the next day will blame a rogue bee, or they’ll come up with a complete lie, but it won’t be that you murdered him.”

“Still no,” Davis said flatly and curtly before an exasperated chuckle, “No, never in a million years can I or will I murder President Everett for you guys or anyone.”

“One last thing,” Namaguchi said as he slid a folder across to Davis. “You need to know, Davis, that your mom is alive. Ruby is alive.”

September 2, 2056 –

Depression

Davis found herself back in her room, lying on her bed. She wasn’t even quite sure how she got there, not knowing if she had passed out. She didn’t even know what day it was or if any time had passed at all. Her stomach was knotted and twisted; between hearing her mom was alive and being asked to murder someone, she felt tormented and disgusted. Her head pounded, she thought, even worse than when she was getting the brain control drugs out of her system. The folder was on her bedside table. She opened it quickly to make sure the words Namaguchi had said about her mom were not just in her head. Inside was a photo showing a woman older than Davis. Yes, she was older, but she thought, She looks so much like me. Davis traced her finger along this lady’s jawline as hot tears streaked down her face. She couldn’t read the report right now; she couldn’t even keep looking at the picture. She laid her head back down and fell into a troubled slumber.

The nightmares she was accustomed to haunting her dreams returned. But instead of the boy screaming and being dragged into the blackness, Davis herself snatched the boy and laughed maniacally. She awoke many times in the night, and she would blink, realize where she was, and then turn over as if in denial of her life, only to fall asleep and have the dream again.

Several days passed. Davis refused to look at the file. She only left the room to wash her face in the morning and go to the restroom a few times a day. She had even ceased to shower or change her clothes. Nobody seemed to be around or bothering her. If they saw her in the hallway, they would give her a small, shy smile and then look away. A few times a day, Quinn would knock lightly and speak through the door, asking her how she was doing. Davis never answered. She would open the door and find a tray. There would be a pitcher of water, a glass, a plate of food, a napkin, and utensils. She never ate the food, except maybe a bite or two, and she had a few glasses of water a day, but she mostly took the plate and scraped the leftovers into her trash can.

A few days in, she realized the trash can was starting to smell. She was, too; it disgusted her, but she also liked it for some reason. Finally, the rotten stench around her matched the rottenness in her mind. One day when Quinn brought lunch, she had also placed a pretty yellow flower in a jaunty red vase on the tray. Davis put the vase on top of the folder that still sat untouched, save for the first time she glanced at it all those days ago. She scraped the food in the trash can, on top of the other junk, and wished she could crawl in there and cover herself with the waste.

Davis lost all track of time, but she thought maybe another two or three days had passed. She had finally had it with her stench. But she waited until it was very early in the morning. A bit past 2:00 a.m. by the clock on her table, she crept out as quietly as she could and took her trash can to the kitchen. She then took out the bag, tied it off, and threw it down the main trash chute that went to, she believed, an incinerator. Then she got a clean bag from the stock that was pointed out to her when she first settled in there. She then laughed to herself at the idea that she had ever been settling in there. Nothing could be