I peeked into the hall. Dayla’s dad was sprinting up the stairs toward my bedroom. “Avie!”
Oh, God. I shrank back into the kitchen.
“She’s not up here! Where is she?” Mr. Singer sounded angry, like he’d just lost six million dollars and I was to blame.
“Hold on, Singer. I’ll get her. Avie?”
The doors upstairs were banging open and shut. I scooted behind the island. “In the kitchen,” I called back.
Mr. Singer blew into the room, and I held on to the granite counter like it could somehow protect me. “Where is she, Avie! Where’s my daughter?”
The Rolex Submariner glinted on his wrist. Dayla’s future father-in-law gave it to him at her Signing. Job well done.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Dayla didn’t tell me where she was going.”
“But she told you she was going somewhere!”
He circled around to make a grab for me, but Dad got between us. “Slow down. You’re scaring her.”
“Don’t tell me to slow down. My daughter’s disappeared. I’ve got to find her and that bodyguard before the authorities do.”
I peeked around Dad. As bad as it would be if her dad caught up to her, it would be ten times worse if Day got stopped by the border patrol. “I’m telling the truth, Mr. Singer,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.”
I wasn’t lying. Sure, I’d heard about Underground safe houses where they’d hide you if you were running for the border, but I had no idea how to find one.
Mr. Singer banged his fist on the counter. For a second I felt sorry for him. “You’ll tell me if she contacts you?” he said.
Dayla wasn’t going to contact me until she made it across. “I promise.”
Mr. Singer’s phone rang, and he turned away to answer it. “Yes? Yes!”
“You’d better be telling the truth,” Dad whispered in my ear.
“I am. I swear.”
Mr. Singer shook his head as he pocketed his phone. “My people tracked the car to Visalia. No sign of Dayla or Seth.” He locked his eyes on me. “This isn’t a game, Avie. We’ve got to get her back.”
I nodded, but inside I cheered. Day and Seth were still out there, free.
5
Dad didn’t let me out all weekend and Roik made me hand over my Princess phone like running away was contagious. So when I walked into class on Monday, it was like being let out of jail.
But then I felt the skin on my arms prick up. It took me a minute, but I realized the posters for MIT and UCLA were gone, and a recipe conversion chart was stuck up in their place.
Ms. Alexandra stood like a model, her hair swept up in a chignon, her lipstick perfect. She had one hand on her hip and the other on the back of Dayla’s chair, but only her lips were smiling.
Ms. A had handpicked our class when we were twelve, back when the Headmaster still listened to her, because she was the only female teacher left. Ms. A told him we had the most “potential.” Put us all together, and we were a color wheel of smart rich girls who’d racked up enough detentions to catch her eye.
But we were more than a mission. Ms. A called us the daughters she could never have.
There wasn’t an upperclassman at Masterson Academy who hadn’t heard that Dayla Singer had run off with her bodyguard, but Ms. A addressed our class in the ridiculously chipper voice she used for the security camera. “Dayla’s father called. Her cold is improving, and she should be back soon.”
We all clapped, and Ms. A smiled at Sparrow. Two seconds later, the security camera buzzed like it was in pain. Ms. A nodded a thank-you, and Sparrow slid the scrambler she’d engineered back in her pocket.
“I know you’re worried about Dayla,” Ms. A said quietly, “but my sources haven’t heard a thing. Keep in mind that’s good news.” She frowned. “I’m sure you’re wondering why the posters were taken down. Last night, the American Association of College Presidents announced they were suspending enrollments for women.”
Sparrow was the first one to figure out what Ms. A just said. “You mean we can’t go to college?”
“But they just let girls back in last year,” Sophie Park cried. “What’s going on?”
“The reason they cited was their inability to provide adequate security for women on campus. They stated that until they can ensure the safety of female students, they cannot house or provide instruction for them.”
We all sat stunned as if someone had lined up our dreams and shot them. No NYU theater for Portia. No biology lab for Sophie. No MIT engineering for Sparrow.
No psych classes at Oxy for me. No escaping home for the freedom of a dorm. The nos hammered me and I pressed my fingers to my forehead to stop the pounding.
“But they’re going to figure this out, right?” Zara asked. “I mean, they’ll find a way to let us back in, right?”
“Yeah,” Sophie said. “Like, couldn’t we take classes online for now?”
“Get real,” Sparrow snapped. “How’s Portia going to learn acting if she can’t go onstage? Or Sophie—how’s cyber lab going to work for you?”
Ms. A held out her hand for us to quiet down. “Sources within the association have told us that colleges are being pressured to keep women out. They’re being threatened with funding cuts if they don’t cooperate.”
“I bet it’s Senator Fletcher and the Gang of Twelve,” Sparrow said.
I looked back at Ms. A. For the last year, she’d been telling us about Senator Fletcher and the twelve other powerful members of Congress who headed up the Paternalist Movement and seemed to control everything the government did.
“But why are they doing this?” Sophie asked.
Sparrow rolled her eyes. “Fifty million women died and the country fell apart. The Paternalists want us home safe and sound in the kitchen. Not taking jobs away from men who need them.”
“This isn’t fair!” Zara cried. “We’re going to be eighteen. We’re supposed to be free to choose what we want.”
“They’ll pay for this,” Sparrow muttered like it was something she intended to carry out herself.
I stared at her. It wasn’t the first time Sparrow said something like that, but it always shocked me, because she looked like a Renaissance Venus with soft curly hair and a perfect oval face. Not a kick-ass chick you’d expect to wreak vengeance.
Ms. A touched Zara’s shoulder. “I promise you,” she said, “the Paternalist Movement doesn’t control everything or everyone. Don’t forget there are people fighting for your rights in this country, including our president.”
Sophie burst out, “But we can still go to college in Canada, can’t we?”
“Yes, that’s still an option.”
I sank into my seat. I’d never get Dad’s blessing to go to Canada. The only reason he’d sign off on Occidental was that it was twenty minutes away.
“This is why you cannot be silent, my dears,” Ms. A said. “When you leave Masterson next year, you must speak out for Gen S.”
Generation Survivor.
Ms. A nodded at Sparrow, and the security camera quit buzzing and went live. “Let’s start with embroidery, class.”
We got out our needles and thread. Last spring the Masterson Board of Trustees had revamped our curriculum. They cut back our courses in science and math and slipped in classes in child rearing and the domestic arts. With our mothers and older sisters no longer around to teach us, they wanted to make sure we were prepared to assume our roles.
But Ms. A turned embroidery defiant: a game we played against the administration and the trustees. Each stitch was part of a secret code Ms. A used to teach subjects we were denied: velocity, DNA, vectors.
We’d stitch or knit or crochet the principles into our heads and tear the stitches out after class. Chinese women used nu shu code to write letters to each other. We used ours to learn.
Ms. A marked out a pattern to follow on the board. Sparrow glared at the blank spot where the poster for MIT used to be. Zara was sniffling, and Portia star
ed at Ms. A with hollow eyes.
I tried to thread my needle with the white silk, but the thread wouldn’t go through. Sophie took it from me and did it in one try.
“So you think you’ll go to Canada for school,” I asked her. “Your dad won’t try and stop you?”
“He believes in my dream. He would never try to stop me.”
I knew about Sophie’s dream, because she’d shared it with us—of inventing a blood test that would reveal if Scarpanol had turned a girl’s ovaries into cancer factories before it was too late to treat.
I didn’t have a dream like Sophie, but I had questions I needed answered. I needed to understand why people did what they did, why they fed Scarpanol to cattle without years of testing it. Why the government let people import it from China, why the scientists cleared it so quickly when they already knew hormones could twist estrogen into cancer? I needed to understand why nobody stood up and said, “Wait. Are you sure this is safe?” I knew I couldn’t change the world, but I needed to understand why greed and profits were so much more important than my mother’s life.
Ms. A finished marking out the pattern and said, “Pay attention, class. Mastering this lesson is required for graduation.”
Zara stopped sniffling.
“Damn straight,” Sparrow said under her breath.
Anyone reviewing the security tape would think we were quietly stitching a line of ducklings following its mother, but in reality we were learning to stitch code: “We shall overcome.”
6
Roik waited with the other bodyguards in the car lane after school. Two lines of armored SUVs curved past the fountain and rose beds. Usually, the bodyguards loitered in their suits on the steps outside the main doors, but today I smiled, seeing them stand at attention for Ms. Alexandra.
“A historic landmark!” She pointed at the white stucco mansion with its iron railings and red tile roof. “Designed by Julia Morgan, the architect for Hearst Castle! So show some respect, gentlemen, and stop tossing your disgusting cigarette butts in the flower urns.”
Roik spied me, and my heart skipped a beat, because I could tell from the way his hand hugged his jacket pocket, he had a message for me from Yates.
Roik didn’t like smuggling messages, but he needed the money for retirement. Dad had cut his salary when the company started hurting. Roik wouldn’t do it often, and he made it clear he’d listen to any message first.
“I found this on the seat.” Roik dropped an earring into my hand.
“Thanks.” We got in the car, and he steered it out the iron gates.
I slipped the wire through my earlobe. I held my breath listening to Yates’ whisper. “Hi, Fearless. I heard about Dayla and Seth. Don’t freak. Seth’s smart and I know he’ll take care of her. I bet they’re in Vancouver right now.”
I hoped to God he was right. Dayla’s dad had hired Retrievers to get her back. They’d probably staked out every airport and border crossing on the West Coast.
“Sorry I can’t be there with you,” Yates said.
“Me, too,” I murmured, but Yates couldn’t hear me. To send him a message back, I’d have to pop the earring in the little mint-box recording device Sparrow had assembled.
Roik cruised down Arroyo, and I sat up, ready to wave at Yates, but as we approached the cafe, Roik glanced at me in the mirror. “Is your seat belt on?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He floored the car and tore through the intersection. “Guy behind us has been tailing us for blocks,” he said, and hit Big Black’s panic button for Armed Escort Service. We flew past the Lean Dog just as Yates went into the kitchen. Dammit. Today, when I needed a friendly face the most, I’d missed Yates completely.
I rolled my eyes as two armed escorts on motorcycles pulled up behind us, but, I told myself, this was better than the time Roik leaped out and pulled his gun on the taco truck tailgating us. Embarrassing.
Roik sped past the turn for Dayla’s neighborhood and I slipped the earring from my ear. Oh, Dayla. I hope you and Seth are gazing up at the blue Canadian sky right now, celebrating the rest of your lives together.
The guards at the Flintridge community gatehouse waved Roik through and the armed escort peeled away. Up here on the hillsides, trees still hung over the streets and gardeners still manicured green lawns. We drove past a house where pink balloons arched over the door and a big wooden stork was plunked down in the grass. “It’s a girl!”
Poor thing. But she’d probably have it easier than Dayla and me. She’d grow up in this world never knowing what she’d missed.
7
A black Land Rover I didn’t recognize came out our gate as we went in. It was followed by the slick Mercedes convertible Dad’s lawyer still drove, despite the sick economy.
Dad usually did business at the office unless he wanted to keep a deal hush-hush.
Roik parked in front of the house and I slipped the earring into my pocket. I tiptoed into the foyer, hoping to make it to my bedroom before Dad knew I was home.
Gerard intercepted me halfway up the stairs. “Your father’s waiting for you on the terrace.”
“Okay.” I held up my backpack. “I’m just going to stick this in my room.”
Gerard lifted it off my hand. “I’ll take care of that for you.” He’d put on a dress shirt and tie, which meant Dad was out to impress whoever’d just left.
“So I guess Dad can’t wait to see me.”
“Champing at the bit, so to speak.”
“Fine.” I started back down the stairs. “Looking sharp.” I smiled at him over my shoulder, because even when Gerard annoyed me by enforcing one of Dad’s rules, he usually took my side.
I found Dad sitting on the patio, holding a glass of amber liquid up to the light and gazing over the fish pond.
A sleek, inky green helicopter skimmed our neighbor’s roof, buzzing like a dragonfly streaking over our pool. Leaves were settling on our lawn where the chopper had taken off.
Dad’s face was amped with color. The last few months, his skin had turned patchy and yellow like a lab rat and I’d been worried he was sick, and too scared to ask. But today, even his eyes looked greener.
“Something good happen?” I asked.
“Avie, come sit down.” Dad patted the cover of a thick folder on the table. Three more glasses stood next to it, slivers of ice swimming in the bottoms.
“You seem happy.” Like a deal he was hoping for had gone through. Maybe money problems had been stressing Dad out.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Regimen Industries has agreed to acquire us.”
“Us? You mean Biocure?” I said.
Dad looked slightly embarrassed as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Yes, they’ve acquired a thirty percent stake, and they’ve promised to invest whatever’s needed for expansion.”
“So now you’ll have money to grow the business?”
“Yes, but the best part is what this means for you, honey.”
An electric current ran through me. He didn’t. “What? What did you just do?”
Dad tried to smile, but when somebody knows they’re telling you a big, fat, self-serving lie, the smile never comes out right. “I’ve secured you a place in one of the most powerful families on the West Coast. I’ve made sure my baby will be treated like a queen for the rest of her life.”
I leaped out of my seat. “You sold me!”
The smile dropped off Dad’s face.
“I can’t believe it! You promised me you’d wait. You said I could go to college.”
“I never promised.”
“You did! You promised Mom before she died!”
Dad jerked his head. I’d nailed him, but he shot back, “I’m sure your favorite teacher told you the news. You can’t go to school in the U.S. now even if I let you.”
“I could go to Canada. UBC. McGill!”
“Avie, you need to calm down.”
“You’ve ruined my life!” College. Freedom! In one breath, Dad had t
orn my dreams to shreds. I started to walk inside.
“Come back here and sit down,” he snapped at me.
I spun around and grabbed the back of my chair, shaking it so hard Dad winced, because he knew that was meant for him. “What am I worth, Dad?”
“You’re worth everything to me.”
“No. How much did you get for me? You sold me along with a thirty percent stake. What was my asking price? I want to tell my friends so I can make them jealous.”
Dad stood up and headed for the French doors. I cut him off and ripped the folder out of his hand. “What am I worth? Ten million? Fifteen? Tell me so I can lord it over Dayla the next time I see her. Your daddy doesn’t love you like mine does. He only got six million for you.”
“Fifty million.” He paused and I gasped into the silence. Then: “You won’t be seeing Dayla again.”
And the way Dad said it, so quiet and controlled, I knew something terrible had happened. “What about Dayla?”
He reached out his hand for the folder and I handed it back.
“She was caught at the border. Homeland Security has her bodyguard in custody and she’s been taken to a Fetal Protection Facility, where they’ll hold her until the Contract family takes possession.”
“What do you mean? The Contract family won’t take her.”
“I’m sure Dayla’s father will find another Contract for her.”
I’d heard differently. Families didn’t want to take a chance on a girl who ran. “What happens if he doesn’t?”
Dad wouldn’t look at me.
My life was a car crash with bodies all over the road. Dayla detained. Seth in jail. Me promised to some guy I’d never met.
“So what’s his name?”
“Whose name?”
“The name of my beloved. The man who bought me fair and square.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me. I’m looking out for you.”
My eyes teared up without warning—my heart wishing that what he said was true.
“No, you’re looking out for the company. I’m just an asset.”
A Girl Called Fearless: A Novel (The Girl Called Fearless Series) Page 2
