Read Loud Awake and Lost for Free Online Page A

into it. My breath and body were shaking. I plugged in my earbuds and let Weregirl transport me. Okay. For real.
    After another minute, when I realized I wasn’t going to implode—that I was, in fact, fine—I reached into my backpack and withdrew some note cards for my Theory of Knowledge course paper, “Individual and Society,” which was due Monday. Might as well get a leg up. I used to love doing my homework on the subway—something about the motion, the quiet, the knowledge that I couldn’t get online…it had been better than the library.
    Course work was all a little bit loopy for me, since I’d started the year almost six weeks later than the rest of my class. I knew my teachers were grading me with a softer touch—so maybe that was why I’d been enjoying school more than I’d anticipated.
    I uncapped a pen and got cracking on my theory statement.
Creating a high-functioning society does not mean we should become robotic drones that serve only to aid productivity. It is every bit as important to be a thinking member of the majority while learning what makes group dynamics…
    The paper was so white. My concentration was melting into sleepiness. Lulled by my iPod and the motion, my eyes unfocused, I yawned and looked around at the colorful blur of Tupperware seats and tired faces. I relaxed, letting my muscles soften and the back of my head come to rest against the window. Slowly but surely, trancing out so deep that I woke with a jolt.
    Where was I?
    Panic set in. I couldn’t breathe. Because I’d waaaaay missed it—I was out in…Bushwick?
    That arty black business card stuck up in my bedroom mirror had a Bushwick address. Earlier this week I’d looked up Areacode online and found a site for some sceney club dance space. Obviously, I hadn’t been planning to come see it today. But if I doubled back on my route, I’d be at least twenty minutes late for therapy class.
    Skipping another class was not exactly the way to Dr. P’s—or my brand-new therapist’s—heart. But what if I just got out in Bushwick? What if, instead of therapy, I went to check out Areacode? Maybe something would click. After all, I’d grown up hitting dance performances and concerts all over the city. From Manhattan to the Bronx, from Alvin Ailey to Symphony Space and all the halls and theaters in between. Last year I’d even dragged Rachel out to a couple of clubs, too—not exactly her best environment.
    I’d been to Bushwick. I knew it. It was inside the memory pocket. What if I’d met Anthony Travolo out here? What if I started walking the streets and suddenly discovered all those days like easy treasure, a scattering of shells washed up on the beach?
    Yes. Do it. I ran up the subway stairs, my backpack knocking my side. There must have been a hundred steps. My breath petered out pretty quickly. Through the exit, I found my cell and made the call to Jenn Stoller, my new therapist, in a whisper.
    “Jenn? I’m really sorry, but I missed my stop on Lorimer and now I’m far out and I think it’ll take me—”
    “Ember, it’s fine, calm down,” Jenn interrupted. “No damage done. If you feel like this is too much activity in your weekday, let’s think about changing to Saturdays and Sundays, okay?”
    “Totally,” I wheezed. “That’s a good idea.”
    “Because the thing is, I’m only as committed as you.”
    “Right. I know. I’m sorry.” My chest was burning. I stopped and leaned against a building. My lungs were creaking for oxygen.
    “You were a dancer, right? So you know about scheduled practice.”
    Were.
That past tense made me feel strange—even if it was true. Of course I wasn’t a dancer anymore. Not in this body. “Yes. See you tomorrow, thanks, and I promise it won’t happen again.”
    “Cool. Okay, see you then.”
    I shut off my phone against Mom’s pinging texts (are you there safe? / how do you feel?) and slipped it into my backpack. Then let myself take stock of where I was. Did I