A Girl Called Fearless

by Catherine Linka

  Hawkins appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, you’ve arrived.”

  Dad looked from me to him. Go on. Get down there.

  My ankles wobbled in the stilettos.

  I’d seen pictures of Hawkins, but they didn’t prep me for the hair slicked back like an Italian race-car driver, or the European golf shirt the color of carbon steel. The Intimidator. I’d overheard Roik call him that. Now I got why.

  His eyes were dark. Cold. Rust-stained concrete. And they were fixed on me like he owned me.

  My thoughts flashed to the warm blue depths of Yates’ eyes.

  Dad gave me a little push. Go on!

  “Fine.” I watched Jes observe me all the way down the stairs.

  “Magnificent view, isn’t it?” he said when I got to the bottom.

  “It’s beautiful.” I tried to ignore the thought beating its wings in my head: I’ll die before I let his lips touch mine.

  “Not nearly as beautiful as what is standing before me. Welcome to my home, Avie.” He held out his hand. My muscles went tight like even my cells wanted to get away from him. I forced out a smile and shook his hand. Hard. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Call me Jes.” He wasn’t inviting me, he was telling me.

  “Jes.”

  Jes. How many times will you make me say your name? Say it like I love you, desire you? What will you do if I don’t?

  “Shall I show you around?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  He leaned in close and took a deep breath and I heard him moan faintly like he’d tasted me.

  Nausea flooded me and visions of Becca flashed before my eyes. I could barely hear what Hawkins was saying as he led me through the room, angling around the big steel coffee table and skinny leather benches as he pointed out the huge modern paintings on the back wall, and rattled off the artists’ names.

  I circled the room, because the last thing I wanted was to sit down and have him wrap his arm around me. I couldn’t stop imagining his lips pressed against mine or how he probably tasted like imported mouthwash.

  Make him think you like him. Make him feel the admiration you have for him and his mother, Ms. A had instructed me. Our goal is to keep you away from him as long as possible.

  I recognized the huge, translucent blue fish speared on a tall, metal pole, its body curled like it was fighting to get away. “Isn’t that by Giacomo Perretti?”

  Hawkins beamed. “My mother commissioned it.”

  “She had amazing taste.”

  “Yes, she did.” He leaned in. “Which artists are your favorites?”

  I’d memorized Letitia’s, and I should have said, “Boyle, Simcha, and Veragatzi,” but the me that refused to be her answered, “I love the Renaissance more than anything. Botticelli, Michelangelo, Raphael.”

  Hawkins’ lips flattened, and in my heard Ms. A snap, “Don’t bait him.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not very sophisticated about art. Maybe you could teach me?”

  “Gladly.” He studied my face, appraising me like a new painting. “Care to go outside?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” Anything to keep moving.

  Stone steps led from the dining room down to the terrace. I stopped at the top, surprised there wasn’t a railing. Waves crashed on the rocks a hundred feet below.

  “It can be a little unnerving—the first time,” Hawkins said.

  I got the feeling he wanted me to be afraid. “It’s really dramatic.”

  “I’ll walk on the outside so you can get used to it.”

  What do you want from me, I thought. What kind of game are we playing?

  We started down. The wind came up, fresh and clean and I ripped off my headband, and let it blow through my hair. At the bottom of the steps, Hawkins took the headband from me. “Put it back on,” he said, his voice very quiet and controlled.

  I looked him in the eyes, smiling ever so slightly while the rebel in me made him wait. Couldn’t he see that I wasn’t what he wanted, I thought as I swept my hair back and set the headband in place.

  The terrace was a couple hundred feet long, completely bare except for the pool. “Where’s the furniture?” I asked.

  “It mars the view. Right now the view is perfect. Pristine. I like things in their places.”

  Pristine? I thought about my unmade bed, the clothes on my floor, and the papers and pictures on my desk. I could never fit in his pristine world.

  I wiped my damp hands on my skirt. He would make me fit.

  Hawkins steered me to the edge of the terrace. Waves dashed the rocks below us, sending my stomach into spasms.

  “No railing,” I said. “I guess that would mar the view, too.”

  “Exactly.” His hand pressed the small of my back. “You understand me.”

  I held my breath, caught between him and the rocks. “I’m getting a little dizzy. Can we back up?”

  “Yes, of course,” Hawkins said, and he took my hand and kissed it.

  I slid my hand away too quickly. Blush. Look away. Pretend you’re overcome. You’re a virgin. Make him respect that, Ms. A had said.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m—”

  “It’s all right. I understand.” He touched my cheek and I’m sure he felt me flinch, so I smiled at him like I couldn’t believe I was the one he’d picked.

  Lots of girls would want him. Good-looking, powerful, rich.

  And twisted. Only someone truly twisted would search until he found a girl who he could mold into a replica of his mother.

  “Mr. Hawkins.” Ho strode toward us. “The photographer and his stylist have arrived and are setting up in the great room.”

  Hawkins gestured to an open door. “Shall we?”

  27

  Upstairs, the stylist combed my hair and fussed with the headband, consulting a photo of Letitia on his phone until he got it right.

  Ho slunk over to me while I waited for Hawkins to change. “Your job is to look pretty,” Ho said. “You are not to speak to the reporter, not even if he asks you a direct question unless Mr. Hawkins indicates you should. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” I’m a prop. “So where’s the golden retriever?”

  Ho glared at me.

  “Joking,” I said.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  Hawkins returned in a sport coat and a light blue shirt, his collar open like he wanted people to believe that even though he’s rich, he’s an okay guy. He smiled, and his teeth were too white.

  The photographer seated Hawkins on the leather bench beneath the struggling turquoise fish. Then they arranged me, curled up at his feet, my hand on his knee like I worshiped him.

  Feeling his body heat through his pants made my skin crawl.

  Jes squeezed my hand and I looked at him over my shoulder. He smiled, and I caught the flicker in his eyes. Behave. Play your part.

  I smiled back. Of course.

  The photographer got off a hundred shots before the reporter from People arrived, and Dad and everyone else leaped up in adoration.

  Tyce Pham was probably in his twenties, but we all knew his face, because he appeared on Entertainment News every week. He sat down with Hawkins and me and went on about how grateful he was to interview Jessop, multimillionaire businessman and likely candidate for governor of one of the key states in the country.

  “We’re giving you the cover, Mr. Hawkins,” Tyce said.

  It took a second for the gunshot of reality to hit me: my face was going national.

  Until now, it was just local news or a few bloggers following me. How the hell could I go Underground if I was famous in fifty states?

  Jes and the reporter were ping-ponging compliments about me back and forth, but I barely listened. When was the issue coming out? I had to get to Canada before that happened.

  Hawkins rubbed my arm, bringing me back to attention. “Look at my future wife, she’s beautiful isn’t she?” he said.

 
“She resembles your mother.”

  “Do you really think so? I didn’t notice. But she has my mother’s taste in art.”

  “Who are your favorite artists?”

  The question was for me. I glanced at Ho.

  “Aveline.” Jes squeezed my hand in warning.

  “Boyle, Simcha, and Veragatzi,” I said, playing my part. I felt Jes relax.

  “Mr. Hawkins. You’re going to marry after a long bachelorhood. Has this affected your political positions in any way?”

  Hawkins beamed. “It’s made me even more concerned about keeping women safe. Right now most women in this country are under twenty or over sixty, and vulnerable to being manipulated by banks and credit card companies, targeted by Internet predators, and victimized at schools and in the workplace by rapists and kidnappers.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do if Aveline was taken from me.”

  I knew he wanted me to look adoringly back at him, but I stared at my skirt.

  “And how do you feel the government should deal with this?”

  “In these dangerous times, women need protection. Patriarchal controls to screen the phone and Internet provide some protection. Requiring women drivers to be escorted by a male guardian helps. Assigning financial guardians to oversee a woman’s banking and credit could make a difference.”

  “So women should not handle their own money?”

  “It’s not fair to force that responsibility on them.”

  “You’ve spoken out before about sexual harassment in school and at work.”

  “Yes, women are safest at home away from the claws of sexual predators.”

  My throat squeezed like Hawkins had looped a belt around my neck. He’d keep me a prisoner, force me to beg him for money.

  “You have a history of helping the most vulnerable,” Tyce said. “You headed the task force that created L.A.’s orphan ranches.”

  I sat up. Sparrow always railed about how orphan ranches exploited teen labor.

  “Yes, Tyce, when the mayor called, I jumped in. Scarpanol had devastated the African-American and Hispanic communities, leaving hundreds of thousands of children and babies without a safety net. I’m proud that these children now live in clean, safe conditions and receive training in technical skills and domestic arts.”

  From what I’d heard, the boys were bused to pick fruit or lettuce for ten hours a day while the girls canned jam in industrial kitchens. I was sitting next to the man who’d probably invented the idea of turning a profit on abandoned kids.

  “Any thoughts on the proposed Twenty-eighth Amendment to the Constitution in light of the violent student protests in the capital today?”

  “Violent?” I blurted. “But they were supposed to be peaceful.” Hawkins crushed my hand. I blinked at the pain while Tyce flashed me a smile, thrilled I was off script. “There was a confrontation with the capital police and several hundred protesters were arrested,” he said.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  Ho glared at me, over Tyce’s shoulder. “I think we’re getting off message.”

  Tyce ignored him. “The police were armed with batons and pepper spray. Several shots were fired.”

  My heart pounded. I had to find out if Yates was hurt, if he’d been arrested.

  Hawkins leaned forward and blocked me from the reporter. “To answer your question, Tyce, I admire these young men for their idealism and conviction. For taking a stand on what they believe in. But science tells us the human brain does not fully mature until age twenty-five. Twenty-five! We don’t let ten-year-olds drive cars. That would be irresponsible. So we shouldn’t let eighteen-year-olds drive the nation.”

  Tyce radiated approval. He asked a few more questions and then suggested some shots of the two of us around the house.

  “Actually,” Hawkins said. “How would you like an exclusive?” He pulled a red Cartier box out of his pocket.

  I shoved my hands behind my back. It wasn’t a ring box. It was worse.

  “Go ahead. Open it,” Hawkins said.

  My hands trembled as I lifted the lid. A Love Bracelet to match the one Jes had on: a gold band studded with screw heads, the most popular Signing gift a girl could get, except mine had a second diamond-pavé band.

  No one else I knew had one like this. Not even six-million-dollar Dayla.

  Hawkins fished a tiny gold screwdriver out of his pocket. “Hold out your arm.”

  “This is great,” Tyce crowed. “This could be the cover shot.”

  I wanted to run. Out the door. Up the hill. Let them drag me out of the scrubby brush. But instead, I did as Hawkins said.

  He slid the bracelet onto my wrist and the camera shutter snapped relentlessly as he locked it. “Now everyone will know you’re mine.”

  It was gold and glittery, but it was still a handcuff. I have to get this off me!

  “I can’t wait to show my friends.” My voice was so bright and chirpy, so totally not me, that I couldn’t believe Dad and Roik were nodding like they thought I loved it.

  “Now you can do mine,” Hawkins said, retrieving a white gold band from his pocket.

  The photographer snapped as I slipped the bracelet over Hawkins’ hand and tightened the screws. “Now that’s done,” Ho said, taking the screwdriver from me, “how about a shot of Jessop at the controls of his helicopter?”

  “Fantastic!” Tyce said. “Lead the way.”

  The guys left me behind as they went out to the helicopter pad. I spit on the bracelet and tried twisting it off, but it wouldn’t go over my hand.

  28

  The ride home was endless, because all I could think about was the protest and whether Yates was okay. Back at the house, I told Roik and Dad I was going to bed early. I sat on my floor, turned on the phone and lowered the volume.

  The reporter hadn’t lied. Dozens of videos of the protest were already posted. “Mayhem in Sacramento.” “Marchers Defy Cops.”

  No, Yates. You said it would be peaceful. I clicked on “Police Brutalize Protestors.”

  I struggled to watch the video on the tiny screen. The camera caught a sea of young men marching up the Capitol mall and wearing college sweatshirts from all over the state.

  “Don’t take our voice! Don’t take our vote!” they chanted.

  I tried searching the crowd for Yates, but the shaky video was too blurry.

  The camera turned to the wall of police on the Capitol steps, zooming in on the batons and shields as big as car doors. My breath caught. The men in the last row carried rifles.

  Yates, where are you? Please be in back.

  The protestors sat down as a group and linked arms. “Keep it peaceful. Keep it nonviolent.” My heart sank, hearing Yates’ voice.

  “I told you to stay safe,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  The police spread out, walling the protesters in. “This gathering is illegal. If you do not disperse immediately, you will be arrested.”

  The camera focused on officers waving red bottles that looked like fire extinguishers, then panned to ones who’d trained their guns on the crowd.

  “Stop, don’t do this. They’re unarmed,” I pleaded under my breath.

  The boys threw their hoods over their heads and hunched over. “You use weapons,” someone yelled. “We use our voices.”

  A beam of thick orange mist shot out over the crowd and the protesters screamed as if they were being burned.

  Then I heard Yates yell, “The world will see this!” and my eyes filled with tears. as the camera caught him staggering to his feet. “Students aren’t criminals,” he cried.

  A cop lunged for him, baton raised. I shoved a pillow over my mouth and screamed, “No!!!” as the baton slammed down.

  Yates fell, and the camera lost him. “Students aren’t criminals!” the crowd roared at the police. “Students aren’t criminals!”

  Yates had disappeared in the chaos. “Come on, where are you?” I whispered. I stopped the video and searched the frame. S
topped it again and zoomed in. I kept going while the camera dogged police who were hammering boys with batons and dragging handcuffed protestors to a line of buses.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it and I tapped Yates’ number, but the phone went to voice mail and I hung up, too afraid to leave a message.

  Yates had to be okay. They wouldn’t just throw him in jail. They’d take him to a doctor, right? He was bleeding! He could have a concussion! I pulled my quilt around me, imagining Yates crumpled on a dirty cell floor, his sweatshirt soaked in blood.

  Even if he was okay, he had to get out of there. But what could he do about bail? His dad wouldn’t give him the money. They’d barely talked in over a year. I pressed my hands to my throbbing head. I don’t know what made me look over my shoulder right then, maybe a psychic flash, but when I did I saw a tiny red light tucked behind the edge of my curtain.

  I threw myself into my closet and shut the door.

  Roik monitored my bedroom!

  Think, think! I held the phone up to my chest. I didn’t know how much Roik saw or heard—or if he was watching me right now. I searched the dark, but didn’t see another red light. Maybe Roik didn’t dare watch me undress.

  Then I realized I was right: Roik was in my closet the other day.

  I flipped on the light and searched for wires. None. But that didn’t mean he didn’t put a wireless mike in here. Roik wouldn’t be the first bodyguard to pull that.

  My closet was packed. Boxes crammed the shelves to the ceiling. Shoes and purses and dirty clothes were piled up on the floor.

  The row of garment bags.

  I zipped the first one open and tore out the outfit. I felt along the hems and in the pocket and seams looking for something small and black and traitorous. Then I moved on to the handbag and shoes and headband Elancio had so carefully selected—feeling the linings, and checking the heels.

  Roik hadn’t done this alone. Ho probably told him to do it.

  I found the first mike. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Roik heard Yates and me on the phone.

  I ran to the bathroom and filled a glass with water. The mike hissed when I dropped it in. But I knew it wasn’t the only one. Roik believed in backup plans.

  My hands shook as I tore into the rest of the garment bags, digging into jacket pockets and burrowing into boots. I’d never said Yates’ name aloud, but Roik wasn’t stupid. He’d heard me talk about running, and he could put the clues together.