Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) by Ann M. Noser

respect for the Citizens of Panopticus?” Franco gestures toward the smoke trailing out of the Incinerator tower. “Don’t you care about the health of your family? Everyone eats what I grow. Do you want to give them cancer?”
    The Incinerator workers walk away, shaking their heads and ignoring him.
    I back into the fence, worried Franco’s going to scream at me next for helping incinerate the bodies with Gus. But I told him that yesterday, and he didn’t say a thing. Why is he giving these guys such a hard time, then?
    Franco continues to rant. “Do you want your wife, your sister, or your daughter to get sick from the chemicals you’re spreading through the air?”
    When the workers continue to ignore him, he swings back toward the greenhouses, covers the dirt lot in a few steps, and greets me with a warm smile. “Ready for your tour?”
    I fight the urge to jump back on the bike and pedal away. “Okay.” I follow him, wondering when Franco will turn into Mr. Hyde again. Is it possible he’s even crazier than I am?
    Franco leads me to his office, which is just a table piled with both old and new books. He gestures toward a few hooks on the closest wall. “You can hang up your stuff over there.” He takes down a long white lab coat and hangs his jean jacket on one of the hooks. On the collar of his jacket, someone has scrawled:
Property of Franco Harman.
    Talk about multiple personalities. Now, he’s a third grader, and his mom put that label on his clothes. Or else he’s afraid someone will take it. What a weirdo.
    I hang up my windbreaker and trail after Franco’s quick steps into the bright lights of the greenhouse. The walls are made of a light green, glassy material, and the air smells sweet and earthy, like flowers mixed with soil. Like home. The ceiling is formed of clear rectangles connected with metal brackets. Ceiling fans hang down every few feet, twirling lazily in the humid air. A million different plants surround me, and my spirits soar. I can’t even identify most of them. My Dad would’ve loved to see this
.
    The humidity hits me, and I push up my sleeves, but when Franco glances back at me, I force them back down. I don’t want him to see my scars.
    He leads me to a table surrounded by interns. In front of each intern is a tray of biodegradable planting pots, organic soil mixed with worm compost, and seedlings.
    Franco turns to me with a question in his eyes. “Have at it.”
    No need to ask me twice. Dad taught me everything I needed to know about writing, reading, and repotting plants. I slip on gloves and dig in, putting just the right amount of each soil product in each pot, gently transplanting the seedlings and then watering to encourage growth.
    Someone whispers, “Isn’t she going to wait for instructions?”
    Franco watches me with arms crossed. “I don’t think she needs them.”
    I don’t look up until after I’ve finished the entire tray. My eyes widen when I realize none of the other students have even started. They all stare at me. Except for one. A skinny girl at the far end struggles to straighten a freshly potted seedling. With one wrong move, her whole tray goes crashing to the ground.
    I flinch, expecting Franco to scream at her. Instead, he gently pats her shoulder as her eyes glisten with tears of humiliation.
    “I’m so s-sorry…” she wails.
    “There’s no need to cry.” Franco helps her clean up. “You’ll get the hang of it in time.”
    A gangly guy next to me stifles a laugh as I puzzle over how Franco can be screaming one second and gentle the next.
    “And for the rest of you,” Franco’s voice carries over the table, “Ask Silvia what to do. She appears to have the exercise down pat.”
    I flush and clear my throat then begin to teach the others. As we finish, I feel Franco watching me again. When I glance up, our eyes lock. He’s studying me, but I can’t figure out why. His gaze travels down my arms and pauses on my partially exposed