by Ella James
“As what? Someone with a killer whistle?” I smiled a little. “Not yet.”
Abruptly, Nick tossed his sandwich wrapper at me. My head jerked, following it as it plummeted smoothly through the round mouth of a garbage can.
“Good throw.”
“Wal-Mart time,” he said flatly.
“I’ll drive, since I know the way.”
“I think I could get us there.”
“Fine. It’s a test.”
I climbed on behind him and slid my arms around his waist. I thought he hesitated just a second before pulling off.
11
Wal-Mart wasn’t my favorite place. Actually, I didn’t like any supermarket. Too many people. Too much commotion. But Wal-Mart was worse than your average King Soopers or Safeway because there were so many more people—shopping for groceries, shopping for household stuff, getting their cars serviced. It was icky and noisy and I liked to avoid it. Except, this time I couldn’t.
Nick parked the bike in a motorcycle spot on the grocery side and held out his hand to help me off. I took it, feeling a wash of weirdness at where I was and who was with me. As weird situations went, this one far exceeded anything I’d experienced—even most of what I’d heard about.
He held onto my hand a second longer than he maybe had to, but I hardly noticed. I was looking at his nervous face.
“It might be too soon,” I warned as I followed him between shoppers’ buggies, toward the automatic doors. “If you’ve only been missing since yesterday, they might not have had time to get the posters up.”
He nodded, quiet. “I know.”
A group of Daisy Girl Scouts selling cookies crowded the entrance. I looked the other way in case I knew anyone. In the flow of traffic, Nick and I got shoved together. My cheek brushed his bicep; I could feel his warmth through the flannel.
When we made it into the entrance, Nick got between me and the traffic, and we both stepped to the side. I didn’t have time to hold my breath. There it was: the Missing Kids board, complete with Amber Alert posters and regular-looking kids smiling out at us. None of them ever looked different in any way that I could discern. They could be me. They could be Nick. My eyes jumped from face to face while my stomach tied itself into a knot. There was an elementary school boy with a silly, snaggle-toothed grin. A middle-school-aged girl with freckles and a pony tail. My head heated up when I got to a row of shots that looked like high schoolers. Girl, girl, girl, boy—but none was Nick.
He turned away first, his neck and shoulders tense.
“It’s okay,” I started. “We can look in other—”
“The police station,” he said. He half turned his head. “Is that okay?”
But not for help. Nick wanted me to go in and ask for Amber Alerts.
I let him drive, because it was obvious he knew his way around. He took us to the closest police station—he couldn’t explain how he knew it was the closest—a two-story building made of cement blocks during whatever period of time that kind of building was popular (I’m sure Nick knew.)
“Maybe you should wait, um, not in the front.”
Nick nodded seriously, and I tried to ignore the feeling that I was doing something wrong.
The police station seemed busy—there were lots of people moving about a large lobby, trying to find the right windows; and in front of every window, a long line. I had to wait for ten minutes in one, only to find out I was supposed to be two lines over. I was seriously stressed that I’d leave and Nick wouldn’t be there.
When I finally got up to the window the officer, a middle-aged Hispanic lady with a tight bun, glared at me suspiciously when I asked for the reports.
“For a civics project,” I explained solemnly. I had to pay five dollars for all the copies—there were way more than at Wal-Mart—and then I left.
Nick was waiting for me a block and a half down. I ran to him, and we sped off.
I asked him at a stop light if he had any place in mind. He didn’t, so I directed him to a coffee shop I’d visited a few weekends before with S.K. It was a freestanding Victorian-house-looking building in the middle of a business-y district that was trying to turn trendy.
Since I’d only been there once, I had no idea where to park, but Nick found a parking deck (notably) fast, and we were off the bike and walking down the sidewalk in a snap. It kind of seemed too fast; I had the stack of papers folded over, stuffed into my Kavu bag, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to read them. Glancing over at Nick, I figured he felt the same—only probably a million times more nervous.
The shop wasn’t busy, so we stood there for a minute, looking over the menu. We ended up with a tall vanilla latté for me and a cup of hot chocolate for Nick. (That request, from him, was unexpected and seriously charming). There were booths inside the shop, but none of them seemed right. I led us outside and waved my hand at a cluster of umbrella-topped tables. Nick chose the nearest one and sat stiffly, pushing an unfolded newspaper out of his way.
I pulled out the papers and handed them to Nick. Each one had a picture, which was a good thing. The bad thing: there were about a jillion of them, and it took Nick a long time to go through the whole stack. Finally I wrested half the pile away; “The suspense has to be killing you…”
Ten minutes later, I sat back with a sigh. Nick puffed out his breath and looked down at his arms, propped on the table. He didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched and he let out another noisy breath.
“Frustrating, huh?”
He nodded, blank-faced.
“I’m sorry.” I stirred my latté, which didn’t need stirring. “I’ve got an idea. How ’bout we try the nearest library? You can get online and look at pictures that way.” He could look at them at my house, too, but it seemed smarter to stay in Denver, where we had so many other resources.
He stood, looking tired, and nodded belatedly. “Sure. Thanks.”
We were walking past a neighboring music store—one of the indie ones S.K. had started haunting—and I was saying, “The internet has so much more info,” when Nick’s body froze. I followed his gaze to a newspaper machine. There was a bold headline splashed across the front
Landslide Kills Three
a smaller headline
Teenage son remains missing
and next to the smaller headline, what looked like a yearbook photo of Nick, smiling.
I was stunned still. Nick stared at the paper for a second, then leaned over and jerked the machine’s handle.
“Hang on,” I said, jolting into action. I dug in my Kavu bag for change, but Nick turned around and dashed back to our table. He lunged for the paper he’d moved, snatching it up and flipping it over.
I watched his eyes narrow as he read the article, watched him fumble to open the paper, following the story to another page. When he finished he held the paper my way, staring at the ground, eyes wide.
A family camping trip turned into a tragedy early Saturday when a large rock formation fell onto a mountain road, causing a minivan to plunge off a cliff-side near Pike’s Peak. Dead are 49-year-old Hugh DeWitt, a contractor and boys’ Sunday school teacher; 47-year-old Jane DeWitt, a homemaker; and 13-year-old Lauren DeWitt, a middle school student, all found at the scene.
As of press time police were still searching for the body of Gabriel DeWitt, the couple’s 17-year-old son, who left with the family, according to his grandmother.
I stopped there. There was a lump in my throat the size of Africa, but I forced myself to pull it together. Nick—Gabriel—needed me.
I glanced down at the paper, wanting to argue with the photo, but it was Nick—Gabe—to a tee. There was no way anyone with eyes could argue the resemblance. Unless Gabe had a twin, which the article hadn’t mentioned, the boy I knew as Nick was Gabriel DeWitt, miraculous survivor of a car crash that killed his entire family.
I looked up at him. His eyes were on the sea of cars in front of us. “Gabe,” I said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked down at me, brow
s creased, face scrunched like he might cry or freak out. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I’m not Gabriel DeWitt.”
“You’re not?”
He turned away and started walking toward the parking garage. I followed, as per our usual arrangement. I waited until he got to the deck and produced the key, then I pulled it from his fingers.
“I don’t think that you should drive.”
His hands trembled, but his face was still locked tight.
“Why don’t we go somewhere?” I asked him. “Somewhere quieter.”
I had absolutely no idea what to do with him, but we couldn’t stay here. I got onto the bike, and Gabe swung behind me wordlessly. His arms around my waist were thick and warm. The only sign I had that he was not okay was the way his chest bumped against my back. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath.
I drove to a big shady park near the area mall and parked in front of a bush-lined sidewalk. Nick pulled the newspaper out of his shirt and stared at it while I got off the bike.
“That’s not me,” he said flatly.
“You don’t think so?”
“No.” He got off the bike and paced a tight circle around the parking space beside ours.
“What do you think?”
He paused, giving a jerky shrug.
“That Gabe guy,” I started cautiously, “he looks a lot like you.” Nick-Gabe stared defiantly at me, and for a minute I struggled with what to say. “Do you know where Pike’s Peak is?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, folding his thick arms.
“It’s close to my house.”
He scowled. “You know anyone who wears a tuxedo on a camping trip?”
“Well, no. But…”
He sliced his hand through the air, surprisingly forceful. “I’m not him. I think I would know my own damn family.”
“It doesn’t have to be you,” I said, soothing. “That Gabe guy could have a twin. Or maybe you’re just a look-alike. Maybe you’re a cousin. Maybe you’re not even related.”
“What was I doing when you shot me?” he demanded.
“I didn’t see you.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see me?” He strode closer, those brown eyes wild—and set on me. “How do you not see somebody standing in the middle of a heard of deer?”
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “That’s part of the mystery.”
“The mystery,” he said bitterly.
“I mean, the—”
“Fine,” he said, turning on his heel. “I know what you mean.”
I waited and waited for Nick to turn around. For him to say something. What must be going through his mind? When it seemed like eternity had passed, and he didn’t seem any closer to turning around, I murmured, “What now?”
He turned and shrugged. “Don’t know.” He rubbed his face, looking at me through his fingers. Then he pulled the paper out from under his arm and stared at it. I couldn’t see his face, but I figured he was looking at the picture.
“I dunno,” he said—almost a groan. “You think it looks like me?”
I chewed my lip. I did, but I wasn’t sure whether to say so. “It looks a lot like you,” I measured. “But people sometimes look alike. When you look at it, does it feel like you?”
“Not at all. I… don’t think I have a family.” He pulled his shoulders up and put a hand over his eyes. “It’s not me. I just know it isn’t.”
“Okay.” At the time, I would have said I didn’t know why I told him, “You can stay with me until you figure it out… I mean, if you want.”
He arched a brow. “I can’t hide at your house forever.”
“Actually,” I said slowly, “I was thinking of going to a party tonight…”
“Go to your party.”
“And, I was thinking you should come, too.”
Those dark eyes narrowed. “That... You don't have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, but what if I want to?” It seemed absurd, considering the circumstances, but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing. “I could tell people you’re my cousin.”
“Cousin Nick.”
“Yeah.”
His face had lightened a little, but it went stormy again.
“What?”
He shrugged. Nick-Gabe had the I’m-a-teenage-guy-and-I-don’t-care shrug down. “What if people recognize me? Whoever I am,” he added cryptically.
“It’s a costume party. Which means,” I said, holding out my hand, “we get to go and buy disguises.”
He stared at it—my hand—for several seconds before taking it. I tugged him toward the bike, and he waved me on first. He slid on behind me, gently encircling my waist. This time, his arms felt heavy.
12
I drove to the costume shop. I wasn’t as smooth as Nick was with the bike, but I trusted my driving more than his at the moment. A few minutes after I’d pulled back onto the road, I’d felt him lean more weight against me, his chest melding warmly to my back. As I drove, I wondered what was going through his mind. My own was a whirlwind of denials and sureties. Nick had to be Gabriel DeWitt. He looked exactly like the guy. I’d kept it light when he asked, but the truth was, if Nick wasn’t Gabe, he was a clone.
The trouble was, him being Gabe DeWitt raised more questions than it answered. If they were going on a camping trip, why had he been wearing a tux? A starched, stain-free tux? And if their car rolled off a freakin’ cliff during a freak landslide…Why didn’t he have one single bruise? Not even so much as a hair out of place.
By the time I parked in front of Howland’s Costume Booth—which had, over the years, grown big enough to fill a vacated supermarket building—I’d decided Nick had to be Gabe. I didn’t know how he had survived or wandered onto my property unsoiled, but I knew Nick’s—Gabe’s—face when I saw it, and that had been him staring at me from the newspaper page.
Nick swung off the bike before I did. He looked off-balance, pale. I spread my hands out on the bike seat and looked into his eyes. “You sure?”
He nodded.
“Okay.” I reached for his arm, balancing my weight as I slid off. Instead of letting go when I got my footing, I laced my arm through his and threw my whole self into an effort to make our time together as pleasant as possible.
“This,” I started, nodding at the building’s long, dark purple awning, “is Howland’s. We used to come here every year when I was little. I was a bunny, then a Ghost Buster, one year a Powerpuff girl. Blossom. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“I do,” Nick-Gabe—well, he was Nick for now—said.
“None of the Powerpuff Girls had brown hair, and I originally thought Blossom looked the most like me. Now that I re-think it, though, I figure I was Blossom cause she acts the most like me.”
Nick held the door for me, and we walked into a fantasy paradise. The walls were striped with rows of flashing lights. The air smelled like bubblegum and plastic. I scanned the aisles, an idea for our costumes already forming; Nick pulled me through the security sensors and into a space between two racks.
“Look,” he said earnestly. He was standing very close. “I want you to know something.”
“Okay…”
“I’m not him. Gabe.” Nick pulled his arm free of mine, wiping his palms on the thick khaki hiking pants. “I wanted you to know, you don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m not Gabe DeWitt.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.” I forced myself to shrug, to act like what he’d just said didn’t scream Denial! in evil, Disney-villain tones. “Okay,” I said again. “That’s good I guess.”
l turned toward the store’s long aisles. “Are you more like a banana or more like Donald Trump or Indiana Jones or… I don’t know, something more abstract, like a supernova?”
Nick’s eyes widened. Almost immediately he un-widened them.
“What’ll it be?” I prodded, hoping he would talk to me—and not just about costumes. I was trying to be a good sport, but the truth was, I was seriously w
orried about him. Worried about the whole situation.
“Well,” he said, “I definitely don’t want to be a banana. No celebrities, either. Indiana Jones is all right, but I’m thinking we should look around.”
“A guy who likes to shop.” I smiled. “I bet you have a girlfriend.”
The stupid part of me that still wanted to be Bella (the very small, kept secret from everyone part) suffered a stomach drop, but I was for the most part a reasonable girl. I knew I couldn’t keep him forever.
