hasn't talked to Ms. Charpetto yet. Maybe her and her dad got in late last night and she slept in, so she couldn't stop in at the coffee shop.
I take a deep breath. "Have any new students registered yesterday or today?"
"In March? It's almost the end of the year. No new students. Why?"
I back out of the room, my feet tripping over each other, my stomach sinking. "Just curious."
Ms. Kale says something but I'm already in the hall, running. My new Nike sneakers flap against the tile floor. No new students. No Jetta. Maybe she hasn't registered yet. Maybe she got lost on the way to school.
Desperate to prove I'm wrong and that all the evidence is just coincidences, I sprint back down the stairs to the janitor's closet. I whip open the door.
"Whoa!" A man holds up a mop as if to defend to himself. Cleaning solution splatters all over my suit and face.
"Sorry about that." It's not Jetta's dad. No mop of gray curly hair. No Red Sox cap lying around.
"Looking for a place to lock lips with your girlfriend?" the janitor asks, advancing, armed with a mop and bucket.
"No." I back up. This is the same closet that Jetta pulled me into yesterday and there was no lip-locking happening.
"I'm tired of you kids thinking my supply closet is a motel. One of these days-"
I turn and run. I have to find my friends. They'll answer my questions. I was wrong in coming to school first. Very wrong. I race up the stairs to the first period reading room. Turbo isn't there. I run a few doors down and peek into the social studies class. No wild red hair in sight. My friends aren't at school.
I slump to the floor. This new world feels wrong. The suit doesn't feel right. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to find some control. Only one place left to go.
The coffee shop.
9:13 a.m.
The muggy air weighs on me the moment I step out of school. The wind stirs up the trees, the branches waving. No one notices I've left. Not many people will question a student dressed to kill.
I feel lost. I don't belong anywhere. Not at home. Not eating breakfast with Izzy. And definitely not at school.
I lurk by the iron fence outside school. My friends aren't here, which isn't unusual, but the fact that they didn't let me know is strange. Whenever we skip school, we plan for days so we know how to take advantage of the seven hours, from where we're going to eat breakfast to where we're going to hang so no one can see us.
I push down the feeling that something has gone very, very wrong.
I should zip over to the Public Garden and follow Izzie's instruction but a part of me dreads it.
I take a right out of school and head toward the T station. I truly feel like a time traveler. Alone in the world. No one to understand. If I could take it all back, I would. So what if Dad's in jail? He might have made it out in a few years for good behavior. I've only made life worse for everyone.
The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air. That's a sure sign of trouble by the name of Big D. I press against the metal bars of a fence and look to my right and left. Nothing.
Something hard digs into my back. "Got any smokes?"
I wouldn't put it past Big D to hold a gun to my back for a pack of smokes, but it wasn't Big D. It was a girl's voice, hoarse and raspy.
"I don't smoke." I sound nervous, my voice wavering.
"Whatever." The pressure on my back is removed.
I whirl around.
A girl squats in the shadows of a lilac bush behind the fence. Her greasy blonde hair with black roots hangs in clumps. Smoke puffs out of her mouth and hovers in the air in perfect rings. She flicks her lighter, watching the flame for a second before she lets it die out. She does it again and again.
"You look like a pisser. Life can't be that bad," she says with a sneer.
"Yeah, it can." I grip the metal bars of the fence separating us.
She steps from the shadows and looks me up and down. "What? You lost your daddy's credit card? Life can be tough."
I bite my lip to hold back a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right."
She flicks ashes from her cigarette and steps real close to the bars so her face is inches from mine. A small ring pierces her nose. I can barely make out her eyes under the heavy black make-up. Black lipstick is smeared across her lips.
I step back.
Her hand shoots through the fence and grabs my starched white shirt. On her wrist she wears a spiked black leather band. She pulls me close so I can see the creases in her make-up and the spot on her upper lip where her lipstick went out of the lines.
"Scared?" Her breath reeks.
"Not really."
For just a moment, we look at each other and I see reflected in her eyes, the storm raging inside of me. She loosens her grip and lets her arms fall to her side. Her eyes are no longer suspicious.
"Tell me what's wrong." Her voice is softer.
"Why do you care?" I ask, surprised at her turn around.
She nods back toward the brick colonial behind her. "Because I'm stuck in here with nowhere to go and no one to talk to."
I study the building for the first time. Iron bars run across the windows and the heavy black front door is a mouth ready to swallow kids whole. Even the landscaping in the yard is depressed with the branches hanging low to the ground. This is the school for kids with emotional problems that Big D had been sent to. None of the kids who end up in a place like this have had an easy life. I feel bad for the girl.
"I'm sure it's not your fault you're in here." I want to cheer her up and bring a real smile to her face.
"This isn't about me. I talk to shrinks all day. Got it?"
"Yeah, sure," I say.
"So, what's your problem? They can't be worse than mine."
"I'm a time traveler." The words slip out as if I've been waiting all day for the right person to talk to. No one will believe her even if she does tell anyone.
"And I'm the fat lady at the circus." She grinds her cigarette butt under the heel of her black boot.
"You don't have to believe me. That's not the important part."
"Fine. Go on." She grows quiet and listens.
"I keep making decisions to make life better for my dad but nothing helps. He went from minimum jail time to life in prison to death. And now he's still a jerk even though I set him free from jail."
"I haven't seen my dad in years." Her eyes grow wistful, and for the first time, I see the sadness and pain.
"Dads are crap anyway. You're better off."
"Not my dad. He's the best," she says, her voice hoarse. "I know he is."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know." She fumbles with her lighter, trying to light another cigarette, but a breeze has picked up.
I cup my hands through the bars to block the wind.
"Thanks." She takes a long drag.
"How'd you end up here?" It feels good to focus on someone else's problems. Even with her tough fa?ade, I like her.
"My grandmother sent me here to reform me." Her eyes roll. "I didn't quite turn out like she'd planned."
"Sorry."
"It's not your fault. Someday, I'll get outta here and I'll run and never look back."
I lean my head against the bar. "Sounds good. Where will you go?"
"Paris."
"Why Paris?" I ask.
"I want to learn to paint. Become an artist."
I freeze as her words echo in my heart. A chill runs through my body as I study the girl closely.
She has a grandmother.
She was taken from her dad.
It's too similar. I look beyond the smokescreen of the piercings and unwashed hair and make-up.
I stumble back. My heart seizes and I can barely breathe. "What's your name?"
"Anna. But I go by Jetta."
My breath shoots out in short gasps. My whole body trembles. It can't be true. This can't be her, looking like this, depressed, and living in this home. The horror overwhelms me.
/> "You look like you've just seen a ghost."
I fall toward the gate and grab the bars. "How?"
"What do you mean?"
I force the words out. "How did your grandmother find you?"
Before I can move, she thrusts her hand through the bar and jams the burning end of her cigarette into my chest. It burns through the shirt and into my flesh.
"How the hell do you know about that?" she snarls.
I clench my teeth but don't push her hand away. I deserve it. The pain feels good, stinging, cutting. My eyes burn.
She drops the cigarette. "Who are you?"
My legs twitch. I want to run and never look back, but I have to know. "Just answer the question."
A mask of hatred falls over her face. "My grandmother hired some guy to find me. I was six. But I'll never forget his name."
I swallow the dread building in my throat. "What's his name? Tell me."
"Joseph Brodie."
I run and don't look back. The skin burning on my chest doesn't touch the pain that tears at my heart. My feet slap the pavement. With each step, the truth pounds into my head and body. Your fault. Your fault, it says.
Images of Jetta twirling in Mom's coffee shop flash in front of my eyes. Her smile. Her pink lips and sparkly eyes. Her love for life and art. Her gentle touch as she wiped my cuts and her sweet kiss.
I end up on a side street. When I can't run anymore, I stop, my chest heaving. I wish a lightning bolt would strike me dead. I deserve it. A surge of anger rushes through me and I punch the air with my fists and cry out. "No!"
A sob rips past my closed throat. I've been so selfish. All along I've been messing with the Gardner Heist, trying to protect my dad. I wanted a better life, and I seem to have it, but it means crap.
The heist is on me. My life has been stolen. And Jetta's has been decimated.
10:36 a.m.
Across from
Heist Page 24
