by Edward Bloor
Victoria looked at the orange, and then at my hand, and then at my face. Her own face turned white with shock. She gasped out loud, “¡Madre de Dios!” and made the sign of the cross.
I wanted to say something else, something comforting, but she pushed past me and hurried off, walking in a strange, tilting way, like she was about to fall on her face. I followed her away from the crowd. She finally stopped next to a thick oak tree, leaned against it, and started to pray, “Ave María, gratia plena…”
I waited until she finished the prayer to say, “I am so sorry, Victoria. I know this is a great shock.”
She kept staring at the ground. “Milagro. Es un milagro. It is a miracle.”
“I’m sorry to scare you. But I had to see you.”
“I prayed for this moment. And it has come true.”
“Yes.”
“I prayed that you would appear again.”
I answered softly, “And I have.”
Victoria closed her eyes. “Madre de Dios. When I was in the field that horrible night, I prayed and prayed to God. I said, ‘Tell me if she is hurt.’ When I heard nothing back, it gave me hope.”
She finally looked at me, her eyes flowing with tears, and whispered, “Oh, Miss.” She hugged me tightly to her for a long time. I melted away in her arms and cried, too, until she finally said, “I have never prayed so hard for guidance from God. From the Virgin Mary. From all the saints. I was so worried.”
“I was worried about you, too. What happened to you that night?”
“To me? Nothing.”
“You were so brave.”
She shook her head. “Me? Oh no.” She explained, “Ms. Meyers said not to give them the ransom until I saw you. But those men would not let me see you. So I was stuck. The only way out was to run. That way they could take the bag themselves, but I had not given it to them. See?”
“Yes. I see. So what did Mickie say when you got back?”
“She asked me what happened, and I told her the truth: ‘They took the bag.’ She said, ‘Where’s Charity?’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’ And that was that. She never asked anything else.”
I cast a quick look around and saw my father waiting by the stage. I whispered urgently, “I had to see you again. I wanted you to know I was all right. But I’m sorry, I can’t stay long and I can’t answer any questions.”
Victoria tried to follow my gaze. She wiped the tears from her eyes with two quick swipes. “Do you mean questions like, Are you well? Are you sleeping? Are you living life?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Yes. Like those.”
“I will try.”
“Okay. But would you answer some for me? Please? There are things I need to know.”
Victoria nodded. She leaned her back against the tree and took several deep breaths. When she spoke again, she was calm. She said, “Let me tell you this first: I tracked that boy down who tried to help you. That Dessi. It’s Dessi, right? With s?”
“Yes. How did you ever find him?”
“Through Patience Patterson. She told me about a boy who they met in Mangrove. He broke up a fight between Patience and Hopewell and some others. He sounded like the boy I saw in the door of the kidnappers’ truck that night.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes, very clearly.”
“I was right behind him!”
She shook her head sadly. “Oh, Miss, I am so sorry.”
“No. No, don’t be. Go on.”
Victoria pointed toward the town center. “The next day, I drove to Mangrove, to where that fight happened. I asked around. I figured that people who would never talk to Patience, or to Hopewell, or to you”—she smiled—“to the old you, would talk to me. And they did! A woman told me about a tall boy with dark skin who was working at a clinic. I found him that day, and I had a long talk with him.”
I snorted. “You mean, he had a long talk with you?”
“What?”
“Wasn’t he arrogant?”
“No. Not at all. He was very sad, and sorry, and frightened. He told me what happened that night. Everything that he could remember.” Victoria looked back toward the stage. “I told some of it to Ms. Meyers. And she made up the rest.”
“Yeah. I know. I heard the broadcast.”
“Dessi said you were still alive, but he didn’t know too much more. He said everything was on a need-to-know basis, and he only knew what that Albert creep told him, or something like that.”
Victoria looked around, as if contemplating spitting on the ground again. “I wanted to have Albert arrested, you know.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “But Ms. Meyers did not. I am not sure why, but Albert always said that she was stealing currency from your father.” She straightened up again and spoke aloud. “Anyway, when I finished hearing what Dessi said about you, and how he had tried to help you, you know who I thought of.”
“Ramiro Fortunato.”
“Yes! I told Ms. Meyers that part. And I told her about Dessi wanting to be a doctor. And that’s why he got the scholarship. It’s like the end of a Ramiro story.”
A band of revelers danced past us and aimed some water our way. They wet our legs and shoes, but Victoria just smiled at them. I reached into my other pocket. “Before I go, will you do me a favor? Por favor?”
“Sí.”
I pulled out two tornada dolls—one carved with a P; one carved with an H. “These are for friends I will see again someday—Patience and Hopewell. The dolls will speak for themselves. Patience will know what they mean. Hopewell will, too, I’m sure.”
I held them waist high for her to see. “And, if you feel like having some fun, you could tell Patience that the H one is really for her. It stands for ‘hor.’” Victoria frowned. “It’s a joke. A private joke,” I assured her.
“It’s not so private, Miss. I know how you two joke around. Bad girls.”
“Sorry. Forget that part.”
Victoria took the dolls from me and slipped them into her coat pocket. “I’ll let las tornadas speak for themselves.”
I looked over at the stage. Patience, Hopewell, and the others were standing in a tight pack, surrounded by guards. Mickie and Dessi were talking to the mayor. Lena was behind them with an umbrella, trying to deflect the streams of water still being aimed at Mickie. I asked Victoria, “What did Mickie do when she got the instructions from the kidnappers? Did she consider calling the police?”
“No. She followed the instructions to the letter. Right from the beginning. Even after your father got killed, even after you disappeared, she still followed the instructions. After we switched to Plan B, she called the police and read a statement to them, word for word, just like it was written by the kidnappers. Then she shredded all of the instructions.”
“So…does she think I’m dead?”
“No. I told her that I think you’re alive. She believes that. She thinks your father is dead, of course.” Victoria paused to study my reaction. “And, of course, he is, officially. Right?”
I answered carefully, “Yes. He is officially dead,” and I changed the subject. “Is Mickie really going to look for me?”
Victoria kept staring at me for ten seconds. Then she answered, “Yes. In her way. She’s flying to Rio and Buenos Aires to shoot some video. She’s saying that you may have been sold to a wealthy family down there.”
“Yeah? As what? As their maid?”
Victoria smiled. “Yes, I suppose.” We both glanced over at Mickie. She was standing alone now on the center of the stage, with a blank expression on her face. Victoria told me kindly, “She doesn’t think too hard about things, Charity. Not like you and I do. This kidnapping was way too much for her.”
I liked hearing her say my name without the Miss, even if it was my old name, my past name. I answered, “Right. So what will you tell her about today?”
“That’s up to you. Do you want her to know that you’re okay?”
“No. Don’t ruin her show. I’ll be the missing child in
South America. It doesn’t really matter to me. Not anymore.”
Victoria nodded solemnly. “I have to ask you one thing, though: Are you having any bad dreams?”
“No. Not one. Not since I left The Highlands.”
“Really?”
“Not even when I was a prisoner.”
She seemed to look within herself. “That’s very interesting. I’m glad to hear it.”
I told her, “So now you can get some sleep.”
“Yeah. I’ll need it. Now that I’ve given my notice.”
“What?”
“I’ve quit RDS.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Why would I stay? The house is sold. There’s no one to take care of.”
“You mean, there’s no one to follow to school because she forgot her lunch?”
“Right. And what about that, Charity? What about school? Where will you go?”
“I’m set to go to a Catholic school. I can’t tell you where, though. Okay?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“I’ll go to high school there, too, and then I’ll go to college. Like you.”
“Yes. You should.”
“Do you know where you’ll be going?”
“I do. To Barry University. I have saved enough money for four years of college there, and then three years of law school, if I’m frugal.”
I smiled my old manipulative smile at her. “I see. And what name did you register under?”
Victoria sputtered and laughed. “Oh, you. Oh, Charity. You are too much.”
“Tell me.”
“No, you tell me. What name did you register at school under?”
“Cari. Caridad.”
“Ah. Sí. Bien.”
“But you, once you leave RDS, you are no longer Victoria. Therefore, you are…who?”
She shrugged, then finally answered, “Linda.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Linda Valdes.”
“That’s your name?”
“Yes. What do you think?”
“I love it. It’s a good professional name. A lawyer’s name.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Yes. Maybe I will pay a professional call on you someday.”
Victoria laughed. “I would like that.” Then she added seriously, “But for two more weeks, until my notice is up, I will remain Victoria. That’s what my contract stipulates.”
“Stipulates? That sounds very professional.”
“Yes. It does. And it’s the right thing to do, you know? It’s what Ramiro Fortunato would do.”
I answered like Dessi. “But Ramiro Fortunato is a character. He isn’t real.”
Victoria feigned shock. “Don’t say that. He is a hero!”
I leaned in front of her so she’d have to look me in the eye. “He never sat up all night next to a child, as her protector, and then worked all the next day for that child, as her maid. Without sleep. Every night. Every day. For three years.”
“No. It wasn’t three years.”
“It was almost three years.”
“Well, then, say ‘almost.’ Don’t exaggerate.”
“No one would have done that for me but you.”
Victoria held up a finger and pointed it at me. “Yes. Someone else would have done that. Your mother.”
“Really? You think she would have?”
“I know it. And I know that you will do that, too, for your child.”
I thought about her words, and I chose my own words carefully. “Well, maybe I would have grown up to be like her, like my mother, but I didn’t get the chance.” I looked into Victoria’s black eyes with my brown ones. “Instead, I grew up to be like you.”
We stayed in that moment for a long time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father walking over with his old-man gait, and I knew I had to go. I leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and managed to say “Adiós.”
She whispered, “Don’t become like that old man over there. Don’t forget to live your life. Don’t miss out on the adventure, on the thrill of it all.”
“I won’t. Te amo, Victoria. Te amo, Linda.”
“Te amo, Cari.” She kissed me back, turned me by my shoulders, and gave me a soft push, sending me toward my father on a pair of unsteady legs.
One look at my face told him not to say a word. Instead, he took my arm and started to lead me away, slowly and silently, through the raucous crowd. I twisted my head around occasionally to look back, but I kept my legs moving straight ahead, straight toward our car and our new life down south.
I caught sight of Mickie and Dessi, still standing on the stage. I saw the Highlands kids, still hiding behind their guards. Soon, however, all those people from my past life were only tiny figures in the distance, no bigger than tornadas.
When we arrived at La Iglesia de la Natividad, my father paused for a moment to rest. I stood and admired the outdoor crèche. It was a rough, wood-carved barn packed full of delicate characters—angels, shepherds, kings, a baby Jesus. It was a beautiful sight.
I’d have admired it longer, but a gang of revelers, laughing and singing, ran up and squirted us with water. I jumped in fright, and then I laughed. I shook the cold water out of my hair and turned to face them. I wished I had my own pistol to squirt them back, but when I looked at my father, he was clearly not up to a challenge. His face showed nothing but weariness and impatience and worry. He took my arm again and, with a disapproving look at the revelers, moved us along.
I followed my father’s lead past food booths and game stands and clothing stalls. He did not pause at any of them. He led us on an inexorable march (a Mrs. Veck word) back toward our parking space. Just as we reached the red-and-white banner, though, I pulled my arm away and forced him to stop. I turned around, stood tall in my clogs, and scanned the stage area, trying to spot Victoria.
And there she was! A tiny figure, still standing by the oak tree. She was watching me. I waved to her but, to my surprise, she did not wave back. Not exactly. Instead, she raised her arm and pointed energetically to her right, and then her left, and then in front. She kept pointing at things until I understood what she meant: she was pointing at everything. Everything around us. She was telling me to open my eyes, damn it, and see it all. To become part of it all.
I gave my father a sideways glance. He had his car keys out, and he was fingering them nervously. I took one step forward. I looked him full in the face, shook my head, and mouthed the word “no.”
He asked, “¿Qué, Cari? What is it? Can we go?”
“No. We cannot. I am not ready to leave.”
I watched his lips rub together under his white mustache. He whispered, “But our work…”
“Our work can wait for just a few hours. Can’t it, Papi?”
He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “¿Por qué?”
“Por living life.”
“Living life?”
“Sí.”
He thought for a moment—very, very hard—and then he started to change before my eyes. Suddenly all the impatience and worry seemed to pass from his face like a swift cloud. His brow lost its wrinkles; his back lost its hunch. He answered me, with true contrition, “Sí, Cari. Of course. Of course it can. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
“Then we can stay?”
“Yes. We must stay. We must stay and do some living. Forgive me, please.”
I told him, “I forgive you,” and I stared at him until he managed a sheepish smile. I walked behind him and gently turned his shoulders until he was facing the distant stage. Then I leaned closer and shouted in his ear, “Ahora! Atención, Papi!” His head snapped up and his eyes snapped open wider. I left him standing there at attention, positively beaming, like a silly wooden soldier.
Now my own time had come.
I drew a deep breath, straightened my corte, and finger-combed my hair. I walked quickly back toward La Iglesia de la Natividad, stopping at the first booth I saw to purchase a plastic wate
r gun. I negotiated the sale in perfect Spanish, thinking about that gang of water squirters with vengeance on my mind.
Once I was armed and loaded, I plunged back into the sea of colorful costumes, swirling dancers, and pulsing rhythms. Then, for the rest of that bright and sunny afternoon, under the watchful eyes of my father at one end and Victoria at the other, I started living my new life. Slowly at first, but then with mounting confidence, I let myself be swept away by the fun and the adventure and the exitement—by the wondrous thrill of it all.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Edward Bloor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bloor, Edward.
Taken/Edward Bloor.—1st ed.
p. cm.
SUMMARY: In 2036 kidnapping rich children has become an industry, but when thirteen-year-old Charity Meyers is taken and held for ransom, she soon discovers that this particular kidnapping is not what it seems.
[1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Social classes—Fiction. 3. Gated communities—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.B6236Tak 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006035561
eISBN: 978-0-375-89075-8
v3.0
