The hairs on my neck rise. I’ve never had a girl sit this close to me on purpose. She smells like honey and lemons.
Calliope places the box on the cushion next to her right hip and retrieves a small square packet before ripping it open.
I lightly cup my hand over the sore spot on my arm. “What’s that?”
“It’s to clean the area, so I can get the stinger out.”
I shake my head, keeping the spot covered.
She lowers her fingers to her lap. “Fine, you want to have an arm full of puss, that’s your choice.”
Josiah lets out a short laugh, and I can’t tell if he’s laughing at her or me.
“Whatever, fine,” I say, trying to sound less nervous than I really am. I stick out my arm. “Just make it quick.”
She pulls a small pad from the packet and swipes it across the sore place on my arm. It’s all I can do not to flinch. Then she takes a pair of tweezers from the kit and, while twisting her face in concentration, pulls the stinger from my arm in one swift motion.
“See?” she says, placing the black stinger on the small pad. “Now you can heal.” She spreads a small dollop of ointment across the swelling spot before rifling through the Band-Aids—robots, Barbies, Care Bears—until she finds a Star Wars one. Like the ones Mom stuck on me when I was little. Calliope removes the paper from the Band-Aid and covers my sting with R2-D2.
I feel better already. “Thank you,” I say.
Calliope smiles and then shifts on the cushion. “Did you know the average person can withstand more than a thousand bee stings before they die?”
Correction: I did feel better.
“For a kid, it’s about five hundred.” She tilts her head. “Unless, of course, they’re allergic.”
“Calliope,” Josiah says. “I’m sure Rebel’s not really interested in those statistics at the moment.”
“Oh,” she says, rubbing her hands on her jeans.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a phone for you to call your dad,” Josiah says. “I never had one installed.”
“You don’t have a phone?” I ask, surprised. “What if you need help or something?”
“I have Calliope. In a pinch, she can roll my chair into the van and drive me into town.”
“You can drive?” I ask, totally impressed. I can barely ride a bike.
Calliope shrugs.
Josiah raises a finger. “In a pinch she can. But now that it’s summer break, we’re staying put more.” He smiles. “Besides, someone from the congregation usually stops by every few days to visit us.”
“I think you mean to check on us,” Calliope corrects.
“Wow,” I mumble to myself. I can only imagine how disconnected they must feel out here. “What about a cell phone?”
“Yeah, we’ve got those. But no service,” Calliope says like she’s just as annoyed about it as I am.
I nod in solidarity.
“If you like, I can drive you into town to call the campgrounds,” Josiah offers.
“You drive, too?” I ask and then bite my lip, wondering if it’s rude to ask.
“Of course,” Josiah says with a laugh to his voice. “My van has been adapted with hand controls.”
“It’s actually pretty cool if you want to see how it works,” Calliope adds.
I nod, curious about the mechanics of it all.
Josiah rolls backward. “I’m sure your dad is worried about you by now.”
Dad? Dread twists my insides. I can only imagine his reaction when he sees me with Josiah and Calliope. I guarantee it’s worse than a thousand bee stings.
I hop from the sofa.
“Are you okay?” Calliope asks.
“Maybe some other time.” I stumble toward the door. “Thank you.”
“Always running,” she says. “You can stay, you know.”
“It’s nice to have someone her age visit,” Josiah adds. “I think she gets a little lonely without her friends in the summer.”
She shakes her head abruptly, like she’s embarrassed.
“Thank you, but I can’t today.” My fingers wrap around the doorknob.
Calliope flips open the lock. “Did I say something wrong?” she whispers. “Sometimes I rattle off facts without thinking.” Her eyes are deep brown. They gently probe and make me want to spill the real reason I’m leaving.
But I can’t.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. “No,” I answer, a little too loud. “I just have to go.”
Josiah raises a hand. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
I really do want to stay. She smells so good. And they seem so nice. So normal.
And that’s exactly why I have to go.
Before I can change my mind, I yank open the door and run toward the trees.
THIRTEEN
The last few days, I’ve mostly unpacked and explored the woods on my own while Dad plays soldier with his new friends. He hasn’t asked me where I go on my walks. Dad hasn’t realized I’ve been stung by a bee. He hasn’t reminded me to take a shower or told me to brush my teeth. (I couldn’t stand it anymore; I did both.) Dad hasn’t talked about the new/old war scene on our kitchen table or explained why he thought it was a good idea to rob an armored car.
That’s why I was surprised when he nudged me awake this morning, announcing we’re going into a new town. I wanted to ask if he’s afraid of getting caught after he broke the law, but then I spotted the new license plate on his truck and decided to keep my mouth shut.
It’s only Dad and me inside his truck, speeding along the highway in the middle of a caravan of Flag Bearers. The trees cling to both sides of the road. The sky is overcast and gray; clouds race alongside us with the wind. Dad’s truck is now spotless, except for the intermittent spit-drops against the windshield from the gathering rain clouds.
We zip through a patch of road, where the trees have been sheared by loggers, who have left giant scars on the earth around us. An orange timber truck roars past, the long bed of the truck covered with fresh-cut logs. Followed by another truck and another.
Out of habit, I tap my front jeans pocket, the place where my phone should be. But ever since the war scene appeared on our table, I haven’t been able to find it. I take a deep breath and rapidly exhale, forcing myself to ask, “Have you seen my phone?”
Dad’s jaw clenches for a second and then relaxes; he doesn’t look at me. “Screen was broken. I got rid of it.”
“What?” I screech, sitting up, nearly strangling myself with the seat belt. “Why?”
“You were too attached to it,” he says, his voice gruff.
Seriously? “I’m a teenager. I’m supposed to be attached to my phone.”
“They were using it to spy on us.”
My fingers dig into the seat. “What are you talking about?”
Dad’s knuckles turn white. “The New World Order.”
Not this again.
We pass a giant WELCOME TO MERCY, OKLAHOMA, POPULATION 6950 marquee and take the first left, following Karl’s black truck. Dad points. “Do you see the street signs?”
I glance at the neighborhood signs as we pass each block—Johnson Street, 1st Street, Washington Avenue—and nod. “So?”
“So,” Dad says. “There’s numbers on the backs of those signs.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. What does that have to do with my phone?
“The New World Order put those there. FEMA has established numbered concentration camps on the East and West Coasts.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The Federal Emergency Management Agency.”
He’s not making any sense. Aren’t those the people who respond to natural disasters like the hurricanes in south Texas? “I thought they provided food and shelter and stuff.”
“It’s all a cover-up,” Dad says as he makes another turn behind Karl.
A cover-up? He can’t be serious. I open my mouth to tell him how crazy this all sounds.
Dad slows at a stop sign.
His expression is tight, serious. Everything bulging.
Maybe another time. I press my lips closed.
“The numbers on the backs of the signs correspond to which camp the government is preparing to take people. Each neighborhood has a number.” He gasses the engine.
I shake my head. “Who told you this?”
“What does it matter?” Dad asks. “It’s the truth.”
“But why would the government put people in concentration camps?”
“Because they want to eliminate the threat.”
“What threat?”
Dad shakes his head. “Jeez, Rebel. For someone who’s really smart, you sure ask a lot of dumb questions.”
I flinch.
He speeds through a stop sign. “The New World Order has spies everywhere, trying to take us down.” Our tires squeal with the next turn. “Where have you been going when you leave each day?”
Now he wants to know? I wasn’t fishing with him, that’s for sure. Even though that’s exactly what I’ve wanted to do since we got here. “You’ve been busy.”
He gives me a stern look.
I sigh. “I just go for walks, okay?”
“I don’t think so.” We pull into a parking lot and park in front of a beige metal canopy that covers a large concrete pad in the shape of a T. The longest part is about the length of three basketball courts. Beneath the canopy, people are setting up fruit stands, flower stands, and craft stands. The rectangular sign on the canopy signals we’ve arrived: MERCY FARMERS MARKET.
People are hanging out in the cars around us. I guess they’re waiting for the market to open.
Dad throws the gearshift into park. “Were you meeting with the FBI?”
I laugh, but then realize he’s not kidding.
“Wade says they’ve planted spies in the woods surrounding camp.”
I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“Then where did you get that?” he asks, pointing to my Star Wars Band-Aid.
I can’t believe how ridiculous he sounds. Does he really think I got an R2-D2 Band-Aid from an FBI agent? I shift under his stare. “I met someone in the woods, okay?”
“Who? A spy?”
“No,” I say louder than I mean to and shrug, lowering my voice. “Just a girl.”
“A girl?” he asks, full of disbelief.
And for some reason, it stings almost more. Is it really that hard to believe I could meet a girl? My gaze falls to my arm. The Band-Aid is curling along the edges. I press it down.
He nudges my arm, barely missing the sore spot. “So what’s this girl’s name?” he asks, his tone a little lighter. His eyes are suddenly smiling.
Good grief. Okay, I was wrong. I don’t know which is worse—accusing me of meeting spies or asking me about a girl.
He playfully nudges me again. This is getting more uncomfortable than the time Ajeet and I challenged each other in the second grade to a match of who could stuff more Legos up our noses. Answer: It was a draw. The third Lego sent me to the school nurse.
All of sudden, it feels like we’re being watched. Wade and his daughter, Morgan, stare at us from the other side of the windshield. They’re standing near our front bumper with their arms crossed.
“Dad,” I say, pointing to them. “They’re waiting.”
He shakes his head. “We’re not getting out of this truck until you tell me her name.”
This is agony. “Calliope, okay?” I say, throwing open the door. “Now, can we not talk about this anymore?”
“Yeah.” His smile widens. “Sure, Rebs. Conversation’s over. No problem.”
Something about how he says it makes me realize it’s anything but over. Ugh. I jump from the truck; a raindrop hits my shoulder, then my cheek.
“Let’s get under the cover before the storm comes,” Wade orders.
“Yes, sir,” Dad says and pulls a couple of boxes from the bed of his truck before following them.
Laughter and chitchat echo under the canopy. There’s a loud clap of thunder—a few people squeal—right before the sky opens up. Heavy raindrops drum against the metal roof. People escape their cars and run for cover, bumping into me as they rush to different stands.
“Let’s set up,” Wade instructs as we reach a folding table. Dwight and Justin are already there. Seeing Justin next to Dwight, both with their overbites, I finally see the resemblance. Except Justin doesn’t have all the body hair. Not yet, anyway. They’re securing a Flag Bearers banner with the black sun and moon to the front of the table.
Dad drops the boxes there.
“What are we selling?” I ask.
Morgan rolls her eyes before ripping a small packet from one of the boxes Dad carried. “MREs,” she says, waving it before my eyes like I’m supposed to know what that is.
I look to Dad for help.
“Meals Ready to Eat,” he says. “Created by the U.S. Military.”
I pull a package from the box, reading the label: PASTA MARINA WITH VEGGIE MEAT CRUMBLES. My stomach turns. I think I’d rather starve. “Who eats this stuff?”
“Lots of people,” Justin says, throwing a catalog at me.
I catch it against my chest, crumpling the pages. I flip through and discover all kinds of survival kits: freeze-dried food, drinking-water packets, glow sticks, whistles, blankets, and more. I drop it onto the table next to the Multigrain Snack Bread, fortified with calcium, iron, and other nutrients. My mouth twists in disgust. “Why would anybody want to eat this stuff?”
“It’s what’s inside our bug-out bags,” Dad says. “Trust me, you’ll want to eat it when the time comes.”
Morgan nods in agreement. “The New World Order is going to shut off our food and water supply. And we’ll be ready.” She pulls a pamphlet from the other box. “Here,” she says, pushing it at me. “Read and learn.”
I eye the pamphlet. On the front, there’s a picture of Wade and Dwight holding an American flag with Morgan and Justin standing proudly in front of them. At the bottom is the tagline: Who Watches the Watchmen?
“Good picture, huh?” Justin says, picking at the acne on his chin.
I’m already opening the pamphlet, reading about how “no one’s safe” and “white culture is under attack” and “gun control proves the feds intend to disarm Americans in preparation for a communist-style takeover by the New World Order.”
I’ve read enough. I toss the pamphlet to Morgan as a woman with a baby propped on her hip approaches. “Thank you for getting the truth out,” the woman says under the heavy patter of rain. Her baby flaps his arms and feet, babbling.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Wade says. “Would you like to take a look at our catalog?”
“My husband’s out of work,” she says, shaking her head. “Lost his job because a colored guy would do the same work for less.”
Dad stiffens next to me.
I point at the fruit stands, ready to get away. “Can we—”
His face twists in annoyance. He pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and stuffs it inside my hand. “You go without me.”
Wade and Dwight are nodding sympathetically toward the woman, while Morgan and Justin hand her the same pamphlet I tossed. The baby tries to grab it.
My insides squirm at the thought of him being exposed to that.
“What line of work was your husband in?” Dad asks, sounding like he’s ready to do some recruiting for the Flag Bearers.
My neck tightens. “I’m going to look around,” I say, frustrated. But, of course, Dad is too busy to notice.
I move down a few stands, ranting in my head and not paying attention when I accidentally knock into a metal bucket that’s collecting rainwater from the leaky roof. A splat of water from the ceiling hits my face. Heat creeps into my hands. Frustrated, I kick the bucket, making it clatter against the concrete.
“Hey,” a lady says, barely dodging it. “Watch it. You could hurt someone.”
I spin away and stomp toward the crowd of shoppers moving
along the center aisle. Several adults pull red wagons, full of little kids and the fruits and vegetables they’ve bought, reminding me they aren’t all here to talk about government conspiracies.
I force myself to slow down and take a breath. And then another. One more deep breath before I push Dad’s money inside my front pocket and turn to the right, weaving between the people and stands of clay pots, feathered dream catchers, and T-shirts. There’s a black shirt on display with bold, Star Wars lettering: MAY THE MASS TIMES ACCELERATION BE WITH YOU. I snort a laugh; my shoulders relax a bit.
The rain slows as I continue to meander between the sellers. Birds flap across the market, roosting in the rust-colored rafters overhead.
At the end of the row, I spot a comic book stand with a banner—MICK’S VINTAGE COMICS & SUCH—hanging across the front table. An old guy with a long gray beard in a Willie Nelson T-shirt is manning the booth. Dad would call him a “hippie.” It’s probably Mick.
I can’t resist: I pass the vinyl records and near the comics section.
“Can I help you find something?” Mick asks.
“Just looking,” I say.
He gives me a genuine smile. “Have fun, kid.” Then, he turns to talk to another customer about the weather.
The rain has slowed to a steady patter as my fingers walk across the tops of the comics, flipping them one by one. I stop when I spot one issued by Marvel in the 1980s: THE ’NAM. On the cover, there’s a huddle of soldiers colored in a strange blue, apparently preparing for a helicopter rescue in the rain. I flip through the pages and spy the explosions and bloody bodies. It makes me think of Josiah’s missing legs.
I immediately return it to the table, flipping past until I spot a Classic Star Wars comic. I smile. Han Solo is on the front cover, floating over the moon and fighting a bad guy.
“How’s the arm?”
I look up from Han and find Calliope standing next to a stack of She-Hulk comics. She’s wearing an apron with a honeybee logo.
My stomach takes a loop. “Uh.” I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Good, I think.”
She fingers the edge of the She-Hulk stack. “Do you know who the first comic superheroine was?”
The Inside Battle Page 10
