Miss Nigel sneers at me as I approach her desk. I feel pale, like all the blood’s been siphoned from my body. A faint muzzle appears, giant ears twitching through her thin hair. The imaginary shrew actually makes me feel better.
“Miss MacLean,” she says. “Saves me calling you to the office. In there.” She sounds satisfied, as though the culmination of some long-awaited anticipation waits for me at the end of her pointing finger. Confused but willing to find out what’s going on without a fight, I nod to her and circle her desk, heading for the interior of the office.
The first thing I see is Principal Cradle at her desk, talking to a couple with her hands moving in aggressive, angry motions. The next thing I realize, the man and woman she’s addressing are my parents. As I draw a breath and stumble to a halt while putting this truth together, she looks out and spots me. Frowns and jerks her index finger for me to join them.
Like a puppet on a string, I obey, finding myself standing next to Mom and Dad who turn to look at me with horror on their faces.
“Kit MacLean,” Mrs. Cradle says, voice crisp and furious. “I’d like to know what you have to say for yourself before I expel you from this school.”
“I’m sorry?” I was the victim at the party. Surely she can’t kick me out for that. It wasn’t drug use, it was a drugging.
She hands me a sheaf of papers and I take them while Mom looks away, Dad grim, holding her arm in one hand. The pages draw my eyes while the principal speaks, though I can barely assemble the information coming at me from both directions into anything coherent.
“You can start by explaining why there are test answers in your private school email account,” Mrs. Cradle huffs. “Prewritten term papers. And a price list quoting rates for your services.” Her arms cross over her chest, cheeks bright pink.
What… where… wait…
“Wait,” I whisper, looking up. “No. This isn’t—”
“Mr. Brown.” I turn slowly, heart stilled a moment, silent in my chest, to find Tom standing behind me, face stern and sad, shaking his head, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Please, join us.”
He does so, shuffling his feet, doing an excellent imitation of someone who feels guilty, embarrassed. He even shrugs at me. “Sorry, Kit. But I had to turn you in when I found this stuff. It’s cheating.”
I gape, a fish out of water, unable to draw a breath, heart still lead in my chest.
“I didn’t mean to snoop,” he says to Mom and Dad while the room goes dark at the edges and I finally drag in a breath. “Honest. But Kit and I are doing an assignment together and she gave me access to her email.” Liar. Liar. LIAR. “I stumbled on the folder and I couldn’t believe it.” He looks up at me, eyes earnest. “Why, Kit?”
All I can think is he should be in the drama club, too. What a spectacular performance.
***
M. and D. are on their feet, guards behind me as T.B. hands over the thumb drive.
“It’s all there,” he says, Adam’s apple bobbing, skinny body hunched as though subservient. I know better, the snake. He’s finally making his move against me and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. “Dates, times, hits, money. She’s been playing the agency for years.”
M. bounces the small drive in her hand, looking hurt and furious. “Thank you,” she says. “You can go.”
He leaves, meeting my eyes for the briefest moment just before he’s past me. So I can see the triumph there. His final victory over me.
“I don’t suppose either of you are willing to listen to reason.” It’s a useless attempt to talk to them. I can see both of my bosses have made up their minds. As has C., their superior, who watches and waits for them to act.
“Reason.” D. shakes his head. “You’ve betrayed the CIA, Kitalia. What reason?”
“Maybe the fact someone is setting me up.” I could mention T.B.’s name, but I refuse to make things worse. “I’ve never, ever, in my time with this organization, ever given you reason to doubt me. And yet, all of a sudden, you believe reports that came out of nowhere?” I can’t believe this. It’s heartbreaking.
My family is turning against me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“The evidence.” M. swallows, as though I’m getting through to her. “It’s weighty, Kitalia.”
“Enough.” C. steps in, her pinched expression hard and cold. “Kitalia Ore, you are under arrest for betraying the CIA. Take her.”
I stand, allow the guards to flank me. Am I really going to go without a fight? When I meet M.’s eyes, D.’s, they both seem to beg me to just go quietly. I don’t owe them anything at this point, but maybe I can still find a way out that doesn’t involve killing anyone.
Maybe.
***
“I just don’t understand.” Mom sinks to the couch, the emails crumpled in her hands. She’s still crying. I don’t like seeing her cry. It makes me feel vulnerable. “Kit, where did we go wrong?”
Dad hasn’t spoken, just looks disappointed.
“Why won’t you believe me over some kid who lied?” It’s impossible to get through to them, but Dad seems the most likely to listen. “A kid who’s the biggest bully at school.” There, I said it.
They both flinch, but Dad seems even more amenable. “Kit, he’s been bullying you?”
Mom shakes her head but stays quiet as I sigh.
“I didn’t cheat,” I say, with as much heart as I can muster. “I swear I didn’t. But, you believe a strange kid over me if you want. I don’t care anymore.”
Dad takes the pages from Mom and tears them up right in front of me. “I believe you, Kitten,” he says, glaring at Mom. She tosses her hands and hugs me. It’s so nice to hug her back, even if I still feel her hesitation.
“We’ll talk to the school,” Mom says. “But you’re still suspended for three days.”
“At least she agreed not to expel you.” Dad sinks into his easy chair, face crumpled and sad. “Kit, if you’re being bullied… we don’t want a repeat of last time, honey. Please, let us in, okay?”
I’ve already told them too much. After all, they couldn’t help me before. And this is something I have to take care of myself.
“I’ve never been in trouble in my life,” I say. At least, not outside the bullying. They both nod. “Just give me the benefit of the doubt and trust me, okay?”
Grace Grant’s mom and dad were never in the picture. She didn’t need to deal with meddling adults. And, for a moment, I wonder if I’m sunk, if a trip to the therapist is next, along with three meals a day and a handful of meds to keep me nice and compliant in my padded room.
They let me retreat with hugs and I love you’s, though I hear them talking below as I go to my room. Three guesses what they are saying. I sit down on my bed, toeing a copy of Grace Grant and the Tower of Ice, the painted image of the red-haired detective smiling back at me with grim determination.
It seems like Tom is a step ahead of me every time. Like he knows all the moves I have in my arsenal and is making sure each of them is countered before I choose it. Like chess.
Wait, chess. Yes, of course, the chess game! I beat him at chess when I was in grade two. Just before Bonnie—
I gulp, choking on a giant ball of horror that rises and tries to suffocate me before managing to exhale it out, coughing over my knees. Tom Brown lost that game and made it clear he was furious about it. And the very next day Bonnie started her campaign to ruin me.
He’s been at this a very long time.
A very long time indeed.
I sit, frozen and unsure. What do I do now? He’s been there all my life, hasn’t he, lurking and watching me? All of us, for what I know. Like some bloated spider on a web. I shiver at the touch of faint traces of spider silk, imagining the dark and the ropes of stickiness, his fat, silver body clinging to the net he’s made, face covered in sparkling eyes as he laughs at me in Bonnie’s voice—
Something rattles on my window. I lurch for the curtains, jerking them open, look do
wn. To see Tate looking up at me.
***
Chapter Twenty Five
I don’t hesitate a second. On silent sock feet, I slip downstairs and peek into the living room. Mom and Dad are absorbed in their crime procedural, the sound up loud enough neither notices when I slip into the kitchen and wave Tate inside.
She follows me without a word up to my bedroom, looking lost and forlorn when I close the door and we’re alone together in the quiet.
“Kit.” Tate’s lower lip trembles.
I shake my head, half turn from her. “Just tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it and I’ll believe you.”
Tate doesn’t comment about that. “He hates you so much.”
“The feeling is growing increasingly mutual.” I sit at my computer, gesturing for her to take a place on the edge of my bed. She leans down when her foot hits one of my books, smiling faintly at the cover.
“Grace Grant,” she says. “I love her books.”
Okay, she’s totally earned my trust. Anyone who adores Grace the way I do has to be a good guy. And poor Tate seems so lost and alone sitting there, like she doesn’t even know why she came. Sure, I’ve been gullible in the past, but why would she be here if she didn’t want to talk?
I could use a friend right now.
“You need to let it go, Kit.” Tate’s voice drops deep into her chest. “Before he goes too far.”
I laugh out loud. “You do realize he framed me for cheating and got me suspended?” How much further could he go?
“It’ll all wash over,” Tate sounds sure of it, almost desperate, “if you just back off.”
“How can I?” I stand up, pace a little. “He’s gone too far, Tate. And not just with me.” I’m feeling Grace inside me, Kitalia. Tom might not know it, but he’s made me the way I am, ensured I’d be molded and formed into someone who just can’t stand it when justice isn’t done. His own damned fault, as far as I’m concerned. “He’s ruined my name at school. And you know he’s not going to quit now that he’s having fun.” That’s the part that bothers me the most. He won’t stop. I feel it in my heart. He must have lost interest when I retreated from Bonnie, after she moved away. A vanished accomplice. But I’m on his radar again, aren’t I?
“Kit!” Mom’s voice comes from the bottom of the stairs. I exit my room in a rush, closing the door behind me, skittering to a halt on the hardwood at the top.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Come down here for a moment, please.”
Now what? I glance over my shoulder, hating to leave Tate alone like this. But Mom and Dad wouldn’t probably agree having a friend over right now is a good idea, so I leave her there in silence and descend to hear what my parents have to say.
They face me like a matched set of forced cheer, both with tiny smiles, fake confidence. I see it more in Dad than Mom. She does a better job pretending, so I must get it from her. He just seems uncomfortable with the whole thing.
“Kit,” Mom says, “Dad and I have talked things over and we want you to know we trust you.” They do? They both nod and I feel a whole lot better. “But, we’d like you to talk to someone.” And here it comes, the therapist talk. I knew it. I sag as she goes on. “You remember Dr. Racket?” Yup, therapist. “From last time.”
Dad clears his throat. “Kit, we know you. This isn’t like you at all. And all of us, including your brother and sister, just want the best for you. We don’t know how else to help you.”
I want to argue, but there’s nothing I can say. And maybe I can use this whole therapy thing to my advantage. If I can convince the doctor I’m totally fine, Mom and Dad will drop it and it will be all over.
“Okay,” I say, smiling brightly, calling on the perky girl I was just a few weeks ago. What a shift in consciousness. “Thanks.”
They hug me again and seem happy with my compliance. I retreat one last time to my room, slipping inside to find Tate just standing from my desk chair with an odd look on her face.
“Sorry,” I say, happy to have her there to talk to. But, she bounces to her feet, awkward and uncomfortable as she eases past me and opens the door.
“Me, too,” she says. “Gotta go.” I follow her downstairs, trying to shush her, but Mom and Dad don’t notice, back to watching TV. I wave at Tate as she disappears through the kitchen door before running up to my room to think.
Tate’s afraid, that much is clear. I wish she’d just let me help her. I return to my computer, realize the screen is live, set to my social network. I have a program I use to broadcast to all of my sites so I don’t have to bounce around to them all the time. ChatPal is open. And, next to it, my phone just goes dark.
No. Please. Not Tate. I slump in my chair, the last vestiges of any gullibility or faith in the new girl dying a pathetic death, about as pathetic as the hope I ever had to live a normal life after everything I’ve turned myself into.
It was her. It has been her all along. She’s a willing accomplice to Tom’s plans, her vulnerability and need for help faked, to draw me in, keep me soft and open so she can attack like a snake from the grass.
A text pings and I listlessly check it.
Thanks for access. Have fun at the shrink.
She told him about the therapist—she must have overheard us downstairs. And, as I set my phone aside, I watch in real time as Tom Brown hacks my accounts and takes them over.
***
Chapter Twenty Six
I pace my prison cell, the harsh, gray fabric of my jumpsuit rubbing at my skin even through the white t-shirt I wear beneath.
The CIA prison isn’t as Spartan as an ordinary one, the cell at least twenty feet wide, but the full glass front wall is disconcerting. They like watching me, giving me privacy only in the bathroom I can visit as often as I want. Even then, though, I feel the prying minds of other psychics. They might not be as strong as I am alone, but the bosses seem to have ensured their collective attention is enough to keep me in check.
Or, I’m happy to let them think so. Happy is a very strong word for what I’m feeling right now. Content? Nope. I’ll endure it. Until I decide where to go from here.
I haven’t seen or heard from my bosses since I was taken away and put here three days ago. Not a peep from anyone who I used to think cared about me. Just the silent watchers in my head and the guards who make sure I have creature comforts. Books, lots of them. At least I’m not bored when I can focus on the words on the page.
J.J. came the first day, though, I have to admit. To beg me to confess. I refused, naturally.
“Tell them,” I snarled at him through the glass while his dark eyes flickered over my state of dress with sorrow, “all they have to do is look into my mind and they’ll see the truth. But they won’t do that, will they? They don’t really trust psychics. Good to know their true colors are finally shining through.”
I had no idea they were so bigoted. And, from what I could tell, T.B. had managed to hide his own talent from them. Which meant they had no idea they were being played. But, unless they were willing to trust the very power that they’d used on so many missions, I was screwed.
Nice they are happy enough to use me to their own ends but when it means my freedom or incarceration—or death, treason after all—I’m on my own. Typical.
If and when I get my ass out of this, I’ll take that lesson to heart for the rest of my life.
***
The therapist smiles at me over the desk, but I just keep my head down. I haven’t been able to open my computer for the last three days. Not since Tate betrayed me. Tom’s next phase in his plan to destroy me involved taking over my cyberlife and turning it into a disgusting disaster of dating site profiles and obscene images that have since gotten me banned from two of my favorite profiles. It’s just too disheartening to watch, so I choose to ignore it.
Like I’m ignoring Dr. Racket, she of the peppermints on her desk. She’s older than I remember, but not by much, iron gray hair curled around her jowls, silver rimmed
glasses sparkling at the corners with rhinestones.
“Kit,” she says, leaning forward, “tell me about this bully, dear.”
***
I don’t respond to the question. It’s idiotic, even for the bosses. My trial is a joke and they all know it. Just a chance to parade me in front of the muckity-mucks and show they're taking affirmative action against a known traitor while the real traitor watches and smiles at me with his eyes.
How fun. His thought trickles into my head, protected, shielded from the ones who watch me. They don’t even notice. Of course they don’t.
You haven’t seen fun. I show him an image of himself without his skin. He flinches from it while the watching psychics react with horror. They only caught the impression of it. Must be enough to make them think I’m guilty.
To hell with all of them.
***
Thursday morning. I’m still trying to decide what to wear when Mom calls to me I’ll be late for the bus. So, typical Kit MacLean fashion, or jeans and a T-shirt? Compliant or screw you Tom Brown?
I settle in the middle, my designer jeans topped with a sparkly pink shirt and a matching headband. I don’t have the patience to trim my bangs and, as I thump down the stairs, consider growing out the stupid things.
It’s a long walk to the bus stop, though no longer than usual. I keep my head high regardless, though Clancy shoots me a worried look and Abigail laughs behind her hands. Whatever, they can be mean if they want. But they both might like to remember how easily it could be their lives in tatters.
Tom doesn’t seem to care who he blackmails.
I step on the bus, relief flooding me. Jimmy is back. He must have been sick. But, when I try to sit next to him, he puts his bag on the seat, blocking me. I stare at it a long moment, heart racing. This can’t be right. Hear the giggling from the others as Bill the driver yells back at me.
Girl Incredible Page 12
