I can’t look at him. What have I done? While I was painting hate across a wall of lockers, he told this girl we were friends.
“Rebel?” Ajeet says, his voice wavy.
My stomach clenches at the sound. I instantly regret looking at him. I absorb the hurt in his eyes. I’m so sorry, I want to say. I don’t really mean it.
But the red words I’ve painted scream louder: GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM, AJEET!
My friend turns away, and the last thing I see is him wiping his tears before he vanishes.
My lower lip trembles.
“Mr. Mercer,” Mrs. Fuentes snaps, startling me. Her face pinches. Her usual smile is gone. “My office.” She turns to the girl and the man, her voice softer. “I’m so sorry. Will you please excuse me?” Then she faces me with a scowl.
I look down in shame. There’s red paint on my hands. On my T-shirt. My jeans. It looks like I’m bleeding to death. It feels like I am.
“Now, Mr. Mercer.” Mrs. Fuentes snags me by the elbow with a rough hand. My feet come unstuck as she drags me along the hall making me stumble.
“See you at Regionals,” the man calls behind us, and I realize he’s the girl’s teacher, and she’s the one who’s going to Regionals instead of me.
How did everything get so messed up?
When we reach her office, Mrs. Fuentes releases my arm. “Sit,” she orders, and I drop into one of the straight-backed, wooden chairs in front of her desk. “Don’t move.” She storms away, slamming the door behind her.
I don’t dare look over my shoulder, but I can hear her make the call. The clock on the wall shows it’s already after five. Aunt Birdie is probably home by now. I think of my red message again and shift in the chair, guilt wrapping around me like a tight blanket. What will my aunt think of me? Will she look totally disappointed like Mrs. Fuentes?
My gaze nervously jumps from the porcelain cats on my principal’s shelf to the stack of papers haphazardly thrown into a wire basket. Silver-framed pictures of Mrs. Fuentes’s husband and son sit on the credenza beneath the window. There’s one of her son in front of the NASA sign.
My heart sinks. My chances of living long enough to become an engineer are pretty much zero.
Through the slats in the blinds, I spot Aunt Birdie hurrying toward the building. For a second, I’m relieved it’s not Dad. But then I spy her worried face as she fidgets with her purse strap, trying to get it over her shoulder, before she slips out of sight.
Within seconds, I hear her. “Is he okay?” she asks.
Strange to ask if I’m okay. Mrs. Fuentes must not have told her what I’ve done.
“Please step inside,” my principal says. The door opens, and her rose perfume fills my nose.
“What happened?” Aunt Birdie asks as Mrs. Fuentes settles into the swivel chair behind her desk.
My knees bob as I wait for her to announce my crime. But she shakes her head and points to my aunt.
She wants me to tell her? “Um,” I say, but my voice comes out weird. I rub my paint-stained hands across my jeans.
Aunt Birdie sits in the chair next to me. Her Star Wars scrubs shift, exposing her mismatched socks. She sighs. “I already know what you did.”
My gaze moves away from her socks. “You do?” I ask, focusing on the silver cross around her neck, afraid to see the disappointment in her eyes.
“Rebel,” she says. Her face matches her voice: soft, not angry. Her blue eyes examine me, like she’s trying to understand this stranger sitting next to her. “Why, honey?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer because it’s the easiest thing to say when there’s not an easy answer. The reasons keep sliding around and changing places in my brain, like the colored squares on a Rubik’s Cube. I was confused. Dad didn’t get the job he deserved. I was angry. He was hurt. I was, too. I was angry. Ajeet took my parts. I wanted to win. I lost the competition. I was embarrassed. I thought Ajeet used me. I was angry. He didn’t come after me. I was hurt.
“You can talk to me,” Aunt Birdie says, her voice nudging but still soothing. It’s probably one of the things that makes her such a great nurse. She taps my stained hand. “I can tell you’re thinking over there.”
“What were you thinking?” Mrs. Fuentes says, her voice tight. “You have never done anything like this before.”
I shrug, and Mrs. Fuentes leans back in her chair, her mouth forming a narrow line.
Aunt Birdie takes one of my hands. Normally, I’d pull away. But it actually feels nice she still wants to. She squeezes. “You are not this person, Rebel. Did your dad put you up to this?”
I chew my bottom lip. Did Dad put me up to this? I shake my head. No, not really.
“Then, what happened?”
I wish I could tell her: I want Dad to be proud of me. I get so angry sometimes. I don’t like some of the things he says. But I still want him to like me for who I am. I open my mouth to try.
Out of nowhere, heavy footsteps interrupt as Dad barges into my principal’s office. I yank my hand from Aunt Birdie’s.
She shakes her head. “Nathan, I told you I’d take care of this.”
My fingers clutch the sides of my seat.
“He’s my son,” Dad says, slapping his chest.
I want to slip under Mrs. Fuentes’s desk and hide.
His glare shifts to my principal. “If you’re done here—”
“We absolutely are not done.” Mrs. Fuentes rises from her chair. “Your son has defaced school property, not to mention the fact he’s used hate speech to do it.”
I cringe; Dad scoffs.
“Nathan, please,” Aunt Birdie says, rising from her chair.
They’re hovering over me. I really don’t want to be here.
Mrs. Fuentes presses her index finger against the desk. “We have a zero tolerance policy at this school for vandalism, especially when it includes hate speech.”
Dad folds his arms over his chest. “Is that what you’re calling the truth these days?”
I slump further in my chair.
My principal furrows her brow and looks to Aunt Birdie. “Miss Mercer, I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to expel Rebel.”
“What?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“Mrs. Fuentes, please,” my aunt says. “I think there’s a reason here and—”
“You don’t need to defend him to her,” Dad says, jabbing his finger in the air. “She’s clearly one of them. Look at her.”
Mrs. Fuentes’s hands curl into fists. Aunt Birdie’s face goes bright red. My heart races.
“Come on, Rebel,” Dad says. “We’re leaving.”
Without thinking, I jump to attention, following his order. As I leave the office, I can hear my aunt apologizing.
“My decision’s final,” Mrs. Fuentes says, her tone sharp.
I wince as I follow Dad. I’ve royally screwed up. I’ve disappointed my aunt, and now she’s going to worry about me, too. I’ve managed to lose the competition, my school, and, worst of all, my best friend.
In a span of a few hours, I’ve lost everything.
FIVE
“You don’t need to put up with that garbage,” Dad says as he marches toward his truck in the school parking lot.
It’s filled with suitcases and boxes. Crates crammed with my comic books and robotics stuff are in the bed of his truck. “Where?” I ask, unsteady. “Where are we going?”
The school door slams shut behind us. “I can’t believe you!” Aunt Birdie shouts.
“What?” Dad asks.
“Don’t give me that,” she says. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He waves his hand at the school. “That woman’s clearly biased.”
Aunt Birdie shoots him a pointed look. “And you clearly haven’t started therapy like you said you would.”
I hold my breath, picking at the dried red paint on my thumbnail.
Dad flings open the passenger-side door on his truck and unlocks the glove compartment,
snatching a piece of paper from inside. “Here,” he says, shoving the crumpled page in her hand.
“What’s this?” Aunt Birdie smooths the letter against her pant leg. There’s a government seal at the top.
He twists the ring on his left hand. “My disability rating was too low,” Dad says, his voice quieter. Like all the fight has left him. “My doctors don’t agree on my PTSD.”
I exhale. It’s the first time I’ve heard Dad say it out loud: He has PTSD.
Aunt Birdie holds up the letter. “I’m sure we can appeal.”
Dad shakes his head. “Look, I just want to get away for a while. Get out of the city. I think being out in nature where it’s peaceful will help clear my head.” He rubs a hand across his cheek. “I’d also like to spend some time with Rebel.”
Is he serious?
He sighs. “Ever since Jenny died, there really hasn’t been much of a chance for us to do stuff together, with me being gone and everything.”
I shift, surprised to hear him mention Mom.
“I don’t know,” Aunt Birdie says.
“I’ve missed so much already.”
Does he really want to spend time with me?
Dad nods, as if he can hear what I’m thinking. He steps closer, becoming the top point of our family’s acute triangle. “We could go fishing. Hiking. Maybe even ride some four-wheelers if you want?” It’s a question, not an order.
“And where would you go?” Aunt Birdie asks, sounding skeptical. “We have to figure out his school situation.”
“There’s the campground in Sipapu,” Dad says as he points northwest. “I thought it’d be fun for him to go since it was so special to his—”
“Mom,” I whisper to myself.
Dad nods with a smile.
Sometimes, Mom and I would go camping there when Dad was home on military leave—the times Mom would explain the reason only the two of us were going as: Angry Dad needs to stay home and work on his demons.
Aunt Birdie clutches her purse strap. “I don’t think running away is the right lesson here.”
“I really need this, Bird,” Dad says before turning to me. “What do you think? Would you like to come?”
What do I think? I think my life has spun out of control like QUEN-10.
Aunt Birdie touches my arm. “You don’t have to go. You’re welcome to stay right here with me.”
“And do what?” Dad asks. “The boy got expelled.”
I cringe, but he’s right. I’ve messed up everything.
Aunt Birdie wrings her hands. “I’m sure if you both go inside and apologize—”
“I thought you wanted me to get better,” Dad interrupts.
Her hands stop. “That’s unfair, and you know it.”
I can feel the tension rising between them again. Mrs. Fuentes is probably looking through her blinds, gathering even more evidence for why I should be expelled.
“It’s okay,” I say, hoping to extinguish the fight before it restarts. “I want to go.”
“You do?” My aunt doesn’t even try to hide the shock on her face.
Dad immediately puts his arm around me; I can smell his pine aftershave. I can’t remember the last time he wanted to be anywhere this close to me.
Aunt Birdie shakes her head. “What about school?”
“He’s my son,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder, almost too tight. “I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”
Aunt Birdie’s lip quivers, making me question my decision.
He loosens his grip. “You’ve been wonderful, sis.” Dad rounds the front of his truck. “But we need this. I need this. And we’ll get his schooling figured out soon enough.”
When he’s behind the wheel, my aunt edges closer and whispers, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I say. “I want to.” At least, part of me wants to go. There’s nothing left for me here. Besides, Dad may not give me another chance.
Without warning, Aunt Birdie hugs me so hard I think she’s going to snap my spine. Even she’s stronger than I am.
“Call me with your cell if you need anything,” she says. “Anything at all.” She releases me.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, tapping the phone in my pocket. I hate that she worries so much.
Before she has a chance to sense my doubt, I hop into the truck and shut the door. Dad slides two bug-out bags over and carefully places them in the back seat.
The engine roars to life. “We’re going to get our life back, Rebs.” Dad points to a piece of paper on the console between us—a letter that was covered by the bags until now.
But this letter doesn’t have a government seal at the top. It has the black sun and moon of the Flag Bearers.
A lump forms in my throat as I quickly read the invitation for my dad to train with the militia in Oklahoma.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice hopeful. “I know it’s not New Mexico, but I was hoping you’d still want to come with me.” He almost looks shy in asking. “We could still go fishing and hiking. I hear it’s really pretty there this time of year.”
Normally, I would think this was a bad idea. Way bad. Why would he tell Aunt Birdie we’re going to New Mexico when we’re really going to Oklahoma?
Of course, if there’s one thing I’ve figured out about Dad, it’s that I haven’t figured him out. Not even close. Maybe this trip can change that.
“Rebs?” Dad asks, his voice soft.
I’ve already managed to mess up my whole life in a single afternoon. Have I really got anything to lose? Besides, he’s not ordering me to go. He’s asking me.
And maybe if we’re away from all the normal life stress, he’ll get better. Maybe I won’t feel so angry all the time. And what if I can help him? Wouldn’t it be wrong to say no?
I clear my throat and nod. “Let’s go.”
SIX
A loud slam jolts me awake; I exhale a ring of fog onto the passenger-side window and rub my eyes. Through the clouded glass, I spot Dad sliding on his black jacket as he walks away from the truck into a convenience store. The parking lot and other pumps are empty. There’s a red-and-white sign on the front of the building: DAIRY MART & GAS.
I sit up. Where are we?
The last thing I remember is getting drowsy somewhere between the drive-through at the burger place in Middle-of-Nowhere, Oklahoma, and the turnoff of I-40. I run my tongue along my teeth and taste our greasy dinner all over again.
The smell of stale french fries and gasoline hovers in the air. My neck cracks as I turn my head and hear the glugging sound of fuel filling our tank. The clock on the truck’s dash reads almost three in the morning. The lights around me glow bright, like the ones on an alien ship, but the rest of the world is dark.
I unbuckle my seat belt and stretch when, from out of nowhere, a pair of headlights pierces the distant darkness. My arms drop as the orange truck speeds through a flashing traffic light. The truck’s tires screech, spinning and moving closer, until it comes to a stop. Right next to me.
A man with a tan baseball cap and reddish-brown mustache turns off his engine before snatching his assault rifle from the seat. My heart skips a beat; I immediately lock the door. Like that will keep him from shooting me.
But he’s not even looking at me. Not yet anyway. He nears the store.
I suddenly remember Dad and angle my neck so I can get a better view. Through the convenience store window, I spot him. Dad’s head is bent as he gets coffee from a machine. The man with the gun is almost to the door.
He’s going to rob the store. And my dad’s inside.
With one eye on the robber, I lean against the window, trying to get his license plate so I can memorize the number, but it’s no use. It’s covered in mud.
Think, think.
Suddenly, the man spins, revealing a wide scar running along his neck and up the side of his face. His eyes narrow when he spots me staring at him.
I drop to the floorboard, tucking myself beneath the glove compar
tment, and pull my phone from my pocket. My hand shakes as I swipe the screen.
No service. No!
What am I going to do?
From my hiding spot on the floor, my ears strain, listening for gunshots. But I only hear the low murmur of voices, followed by approaching footsteps. I curl my long legs against my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, desperate to figure out a way to save Dad.
Someone flips the door handle. My pulse races. Don’t shoot. Please. Don’t shoot. I draw my knees under my chin and spot Dad’s handgun, hidden under the driver’s seat.
Should I grab it? The thought makes my stomach clench.
There’s another click of a lock; I squeeze my eyelids shut and hear the door swing open. Cold air rushes in; goose bumps rise along my arms.
“Rebel?” Dad says.
My eyes fly open. He’s looking at me like he doesn’t recognize me. Like I’m a mutant porg instead of his son.
“Get in,” I say, frantic. “We have to get out of here!”
The man with the wide, pinkish scar leans inside our truck. My feet push against the floor mat, but there’s nowhere to go. He grasps the base of his gun. The skin on his hand is shiny, matching the side of his face and neck. Like the whole right side of his body has been burned.
I swallow hard. Why is Dad just standing there?
The man shakes his head. “This is the boy you’ve been describing?”
Under the bright lights, Dad’s face tightens. “Get up,” he barks.
Confusion clutters my mind.
As they ease away from the door, I nervously follow Dad’s order, sliding from the truck before landing between them. My numb legs fold beneath my weight. Dad yanks my T-shirt to prevent me from eating pavement. He doesn’t spill a drop of his coffee.
The man rubs a scarred hand across his chin as he looks down on me. “Not exactly what I’d pictured.” There’s a black sun and moon on the front of his cap.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment as Dad releases me. I grasp the edge of the door, my legs tingling as they slowly regain feeling.
The Inside Battle Page 4
