“Our kids are clever. No question about that.” Maddy cupped the back of her yellow-and-green head scarf. “But in times like these, I think it’s wise to let the grown-ups do the teaching.”
“We’re teaching her about life,” said Viveka. And then to Frankie she added, “And she’s teaching us about living.”
“Well then,” said Maddy with a caustic grin. “Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing.”
Ms. J sniffed. “You’d better take good care of yourselves. We want you here in one piece in case we come back.”
In case? Frankie had never considered that these people might be gone for good. She had been too consumed with her heartache. Too preoccupied with confronting Brett. Too fixated on her parents’ voltage decision to stay.
Ashamed by her thoughtlessness, Frankie adjusted her inner empathy dial and tuned in to the frequency of the room. Sorrow hovered, gray and oppressive as Salem fog.
Parents had formed clusters, discussing their barely baked plans in hushed tones. Jackson sat in a club chair, leaning forward as if trying not to puke. Lala and Blue giggle-sobbed as they recorded video messages on each other’s phones. Cleo’s gold-wrapped arms encircled Deuce. Soaked false lashes dangled from her eyes like branches trapped at the mouth of a waterfall. If tear salt could calcify, it would have hung from her lids like stalactites. Could this really be good-bye forever?
Frankie couldn’t imagine school without these people. And she couldn’t imagine them without each other. Now, more than ever, she was determined to make things right. To be the one associated with uniting instead of dividing. To bring meaning to her life and to feel worthy of being called “Daddy’s perfect little girl.” She owed it to her friends, her parents, and her future.
Like Martin Luther King Jr., Frankie dreamed of living in a nation where people would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. The sooner she realized that dream, the sooner she could get started on Katy Perry’s and live the teenage one.
CHAPTER THREE
UNDER THE INFLUENCE
The front door of the Carver house blew open with urgency. Melody lifted her throbbing head off the kitchen table and braced herself for a follow-up slam that never came.
“Hullo?” her older sister, Candace, called out, spitting a pistachio shell across the table at Melody.
No one answered.
The girls exchanged a terrified glance that seemed to ask, Are we about to be taken into custody? Questioned for our involvement in “The Ghoul Next Door”? Kidnapped and tortured until we reveal the RADs’ hiding places?
If only they knew.
“We have fully loaded snipers, you know!” Candace added.
Melody rolled her eyes. “The sniper is the shooter, not the weapon,” she whispered.
Candace shrugged in her typical I-should-get-points-for-even-knowing-that-word-because-perfectly-symmetrical-blonds-like-me-aren’t-expected-to-and-I-did sort of way.
“Where is she?” cried the intruder.
The familiar high-heeled stabs of Tory Burch hiking boots pocking the wood floors put them at ease.
“Hi, Mom…” Candace muttered, cracking into another pistachio.
Melody hit REDIAL on her cell phone for what felt like the zillionth time that night. Once again it went straight to voice mail. She hung up. “I’m telling you, something isn’t right with Jackson.”
Glory Carver appeared in the doorway of the woodsy kitchen. Her petite frame was wrapped in an unassuming black trench coat, allowing her auburn curls to take center stage. “Where’s your father? He should have been home hours ago.”
Melody shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Oh well, I can’t wait another minute. Let’s hear it,” Glory insisted, rubbing her hands together anxiously.
Melody’s stomach dipped. There was nothing about this nightmare she wanted to share, especially with her.
“Come on, I didn’t race home from book club to be stared at. Go!”
“Aren’t you going to close the front door?” Melody asked, unable to look her mother in the eye.
“Really? The door?” Glory untied her trench and joined her daughters at the table—a glass oval that mocked their rustic home with its I’m-from-Beverly-Hills shine. “That’s all?”
“Yup.” Melody got up and yanked open the wood-paneled fridge. The cool air was soothing.
“Why so morose?” Glory asked.
Melody rolled her eyes at the organic fat-free milk.
“Mom, I think the expression is sow more oats,” Candace said, enunciating carefully. “And I agree. She is totally obsessing over Jackson. Sister needs to date.”
“Actually,” Glory said, giggling, “I meant morose.” She fixed her green eyes on Melody. “I don’t understand.”
“Lots of reasons.” Melody shut the fridge and stomped off to slam the front door shut. Could it be that my friends have become the target of a massive monster hunt? she wanted to yell. Or that my boyfriend hasn’t picked up his phone in three hours? Oh no, wait! I know why I’m being so morose. It’s because Cleo’s butler, Manu, gave me reason to believe that you’re not my real mother! But genealogy was not the priority. Finding Jackson was. So Melody walked back into the kitchen without saying a word.
“I just assumed you’d be celebrating, that’s all,” Glory explained with a self-pitying shrug.
“Celebrating?” Melody asked, confused.
“Your sister texted the good news from the Teen Vogue shoot.”
“Good news?”
“When I heard you got your singing voice back, I nearly jumped out of my J Brands!”
Candace cracked another pistachio.
“Wait.” Melody leaned against the counter and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “You’re talking about my singing?”
Glory nodded. “Of course. I want to hear it.” She slapped her hands together as if in prayer and mouthed, Ohpleaseohpleaseoh-please. “Do ‘Defying Gravity’ from Wicked. Just like you used to. That was always my favorite.”
Candace burst out laughing.
“Mom, I’m not in the mood right—”
“Babe!” Beau called as he entered the house. “You’re never going to believe it!”
“I know! She got her voice back!” Glory raced to the foyer to greet him. “It’s eight thirty; where have you been?”
“The phones at the office have been ringing like mad.”
Perma-tanned and dressed in an Armani suit, the age-defying plastic surgeon entered the kitchen. Loosening his tie, he kissed each of his daughters on the forehead and then lowered himself into one of the black open-hand-shaped chairs around the table. Glory popped his favorite Lean Cuisine meal—Baja-style quesadilla—into the microwave and set the timer. “Why didn’t you let the service answer?”
“Morbid curiosity,” he said. “The calls were from teen-agers asking if we could give them fangs, horns, tails… you name it. They wanted to look like…” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember the word, then gave up and moved on. “Anyway, at first Dr. Kramer and I thought it was just another practical joke, like the one those Merston kids pulled on that poor guy Brett. But then we heard about the show on Channel Two and—”
“NUDI power!” Candace shouted, punching her fist in the air.
“What’s a NUDI?” Glory asked over the beeping microwave.
“Normies Uncool with Discriminating Idiots,” Candace explained. “Melly, it’s working. Normies want to be RADs! Our message is totally getting through!” She began texting Billy. “Man, this is gonna look great on my college applications.”
“That’s it! That’s what they’re called—RADs!” Beau said, fanning his steaming quesadilla. “And from what I understand, some of them live on our street!” He sipped some wine that had appeared in front of him thanks to Glory. “Dr. Kramer is dying to spot one, so I invited his family over for dinner on Sunday night. They have two kids your age, so—”
“So what? You’
re starting up a side business now?” Melody snapped. “Come see the weirdos on Radcliffe Way! Dinner included in the cost of admission! Free hunting nets while supplies last.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“So morose,” Candace explained. “But she’s right, Dad. They’re not circus freaks.”
Melody nodded in agreement.
“I never said they were—”
“By the way, are the Kramer kids boys or girls?”
“Girls.”
“Candace out.”
“Not a chance,” Beau insisted. “Attendance is mandatory.”
“Beau, why did you invite people over the night before our vacation?” Glory asked, filling his wineglass. “We have to leave the next morning.”
“It was the only night they could do it.”
“Pathetic,” Melody mumbled under her breath. Were her parents really being this flip in the face of something so serious? Did the bad news have to happen to them to make them care? Wasn’t it enough that it was happening to their neighbors?
“But we’re going to be packing and—”
“Don’t worry,” Beau said, lifting his glass by the stem. “I’ll get takeout from the Hideout Inn, you’ll put it in a Pyrex dish, and they’ll think you made it.”
Glory smiled and slapped her husband five. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”
Do you actually hear yourselves? Melody was about to shout. But her iPhone started to ring.
Jackson!
Hurrying to pick it up, she couldn’t help wondering how involved she would be in “the cause” if her boyfriend weren’t a victim. Or how concerned Candace would be if she didn’t think “NUDI Leader” would look good on her college applications. But Melody dismissed those thoughts, wanting to believe she’d care more than her parents. A lot more.
“Hello?” she blurted, even though the call was coming from a blocked number.
A voice whispered on the other end. “Melody, it’s Sydney Jekyll. I mean, Ms. J. Your biology teacher. Jackson’s mother.”
Melody’s mouth dried. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Ms. J sighed. “He just refuses to leave without saying good-bye.”
“Leave? Where is he going?” A cyclone of nausea tore through her.
Who is it? mouthed Glory.
Melody dismissed her with a wave and hurried for the privacy of the living room.
“Can you be at Crystal’s Coffee across from McNary Field Airport in forty minutes?”
“Uh-huh,” Melody managed.
“Good. See you soon. And make sure no one is following you.”
The line went dead.
Melody checked the side-view mirror one last time—nothing but darkness and streetlights behind them.
“This is it,” she whispered, spotting the only three illuminated letters on the coffee shop’s marquee. “Left at the ‘fee.’ ”
“Ha!” Candace said to the decrepit sign. “You think Frankie could make that light back up with her hands?”
Melody didn’t know. And she wasn’t in the mood to guess.
Candace flicked on her turn signal. “Let’s do this!” As she turned the wheel sharply, the BMW screeched into the Crystal’s Coffee lot.
She parked next to a Tacoma with a window made of duct tape and cardboard. Melody slumped down in her seat. “At least turn off the lights.”
“Okay, you really need to relax,” Candace snapped, obviously tired of Melody’s nonstop paranoia.
“Tell that to your outfit.”
Candace looked down and giggled. Dressed in Glory’s camouflage bird-watching vest and trucker hat with binoculars around her neck and a warbling whistle poking out of the pocket, she was hard to take seriously. But her sister was right. Candace did need to relax. At least about being followed.
“I don’t see their car. Do you think we missed them? Or what if—” Melody couldn’t bear to finish the thought. It was one thing if Jackson had left, quite another if he’d been taken.
“Haven’t you ever had to ditch a stalker?”
Melody shook her head.
“People who are in hiding don’t park in plain view.”
“True,” Melody admitted, eyeing the dilapidated roadside diner. The shutters were drawn. “What would you do? You know, if your boyfriend was leaving?” Saying the words out loud made her insides squinch up, like being zipped into a jacket several sizes too small.
“And I wasn’t already bored with him?”
“Obviously!”
“Hmmm.” Candace tapped her chin. “That’s never actually happened. But I guess I’d make him stay.”
“How?”
“That’s your job.” Candace leaned over and patted Melody on the shoulder. “Mine is to keep watch on stakeout duty.” She pulled the bird whistle from her pocket and blew. It sounded like a woodpecker that had swallowed a squeaky toy. “When you hear that, it means ‘get out as fast as you can.’ Now go before he leaves.”
Leaves? Melody’s chest zipped even tighter.
Rigged with bells, the door chimed as she opened it. Not even the sweet coffee-and-doughnuts smell could stir her appetite. The Formica counter, silver-and-black stools, and five red booths were predictable. The score of La Bohème playing on the jukebox, not so much. Was this really the last place she and Jackson would ever kiss? As she stepped inside, Melody flipped her hoodie over her head. It was the closest thing she had to a hug.
There were only two customers: a balding man in a corduroy blazer hunched over a plate of spaghetti, and a black-haired boy immersed in a copy of Hot Rod magazine. He had a scar across his cheek and wore a T-shirt that said HELLO, MY NAME IS RICK. Melody’s forehead began to panic-sweat. Jackson was already gone.
“Table for one?” asked the overbleached blond waitress with a snap of her minty gum. Her age-spotted hands hovered over a stack of menus.
“Ummm,” Melody stalled. Now what? Go back to the car? Wait? Show the waitress a picture of Jackson? Or maybe D.J.? Ask if she saw one of them? Melody was bombarded with options, yet none of them seemed worth considering. He was supposed to be here! “Actually, I’m meeting—”
Ping!
Melody quickly checked her phone.
TO: MC
oct 14, 9:44 PM
BLOCKED: SIT WITH RICK.
She lifted her gaze. Rick lowered his magazine and tried to smile, but a quivering pout was the best he could do.
Yes!
“I’m going to sit with that guy.”
The waitress winked in an I-would-too-if-I-were-twenty-years-younger sort of way.
Up close, there was no mistaking the crackle in Jackson’s hazel eyes. But the black hair? The scar? The Hot Rod mag? And where were his glasses?
“Wait,” Melody said, sliding into the booth beside him. There were two plates on the table: an untouched slice of Oreo cookie cheesecake and a side salad. “D.J.?”
“No, it’s me,” Jackson said, managing to conceal everything but his kind voice. “I’m in disguise mode. Do I make a good bad boy?”
“The waitress thought you were cute.” Melody tried to sound upbeat. She reached for his hand and held it to her face, wanting—no, needing—to inhale the familiar waxy scent of his pastel crayon–smudged fingers. But the colors had been replaced with harsh black stains. Hair dye. And now they smelled like public-bathroom soap and coarse paper towels.
“How was the Teen Vogue shoot?” he asked, as if it were any other day.
Melody tried pretending that it was. “Cleo and I kind of bonded, so that was good. I got my singing voice back and performed for three camels named Niles, Humphrey, and Luxor. And this guy, Manu, gave me very good reason to think some woman named Marina is my real mother.”
Jackson pushed the cheesecake aside. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Believe it,” Melody said, before sharing the details.
“Did you ask yo
ur mom about it?” Jackson asked.
Melody shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because I was too busy wondering if you were alive.” Which was mostly true. But there was a part of Melody that wasn’t ready for that conversation. The part that didn’t know how she’d react if Manu was right. Tears rushed to her eyes. “You’re not really leaving, are you?”
Nodding, Jackson hooked the hood of her sweatshirt and pulled her close. Their foreheads touched. “Tonight,” he mumbled. “London. On a private jet. I don’t know for how long.” He paused. “I hate this.”
The tears began to fall. Hot and fast, they slithered down Melody’s cheeks and off her jaw.
She pulled back and looked Jackson in the eye. “Can’t you tell your mom you want to stay? You could wear this disguise. Switch schools. No one would ever know.”
“I tried. A hundred times, at least. She told me not to bring it up anymore. I promised I wouldn’t if she promised to get you here.”
“Well, try again,” Melody insisted, wondering if that’s what Candace had meant by make him stay.
“Fine,” he agreed, with surprising ease. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “One condition: You have to stick around while I talk to her.”
“Why?”
Jackson half-smiled. “Because if she has as much trouble saying no to you as I do, then the flight is as good as canceled.”
Riding the updraft of possibility, Melody leaned in to kiss him.
“What’s this about a canceled flight?”
She quickly pulled away.
Ms. J was hovering above them, her shiny black bob swinging across her jaw. Her signature matte red lipstick had been freshly applied.
“Nothing,” Jackson assured her. “Everything is still on schedule.”
“Good.” She slid across the open seat and looked at the wooden bowl of iceberg lettuce as if it were some kind of insult. “I know I promised you alone time, but one more second in that bathroom and I would have contracted the hantavirus.”
Melody grinned like she completely understood. It was something she found herself doing often with her boyfriend’s-mom-slash-beyond-intellectual-biology-teacher.
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