by Julie Daines
Connor and Deepthroat would come back. Of that I was sure. This was our last night of police protection. And then what? How many times could we wiggle out from under their net?
“I know.” I stroked her soft, pink hair. “I’ll miss you too. But I can’t protect you. You need to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. How many times have I almost gotten you killed? You need someone who can keep you safe.” And Simon seemed capable enough.
She put her arms around me and hugged me tight. Her body shook as she tried to hold back the tears. She failed, breaking down and sobbing.
“Please don’t cry. You have no idea how hard it is for me to watch you cry.”
“What if I never see you again?”
“Look, I’ll make a deal with you. If you stop crying, I promise I’ll visit. I’ll come to you in England. Over Christmas break. You can take me to all the cool places. Deal?”
She took off her sunglasses and wiped her red eyes. For the second time, I saw something in them. They were dark and wide. Not terrified like before, when she’d dreamed her own death. This time I glimpsed sadness or maybe worry. Something more than a temporary good-bye.
“Scarlett. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I had another dream.”
I shook my head. I hated her dreams. They were beyond nightmares. But I didn’t remember her crying out since she’s seen her own demise the night before last. I’d been with her ever since. What could be worse than what she’d already seen?
“Remember the night at the cabin when I woke up to go to the loo?”
“You mean when you woke up screaming?” I’d assumed it was another Katie dream, but she’d never told me.
“Christian, I dreamed about you.”
I felt the warmth drain from my face. Sucker punch number two. “What did you dream?” I asked, my voice flat and vacant. Based on her other dreams, I was pretty sure I already knew the bottom line.
“In my dream, you were in a cold place. There were other dead bodies around you, at least two, and they were very cold. The bodies were on tables, like the one Katie lay on.”
The operating room. It had to be in the eye clinic, even if that wasn’t where Scarlett had been locked up.
“There were shouting voices. I think one might have been the man you call Deepthroat. I heard gunshots, and then you fell to the ground. The floor underneath you pooled with warm blood.” She finished her dream in a whisper. “I felt your heartbeat slow and stop.”
“I get shot?” I sank down onto her bed. How could that happen? She was leaving, and when she drove away with Simon, I wouldn’t be involved anymore. Still, my hands were shaking.
“Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” It wasn’t her fault, was it? I didn’t know how the dream thing worked. Did she dream it, and so it came true? Or was it already destined to come true, and so she dreamed it? Both of those options left me with little opportunity to determine the outcome of my own fate. Maybe the dreams were just a warning, things that might happen if we didn’t do something to change them.
I stood up, put her hand on my face, and shook my head. “Scarlett, there’s no way that’s gonna happen. I’m sending you home with Simon. He has plans to keep you safe. This whole thing is over. I don’t think your dreams are as true as you think they are. They’re just dreams. Everyone has bad dreams, and they almost never come true.” I had to add the almost because some of hers had come horribly true.
She went back to loading her clothes into the suitcase, tears falling freely as she worked.
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” I asked.
She tucked in the last of her stuff—her heavy combat boots—and flipped the top closed. “I was afraid you’d leave me again. I was afraid to be alone.”
Another twist of the knife that stabbed my heart. I’d never forgive myself for leaving her on the highway. No wonder she didn’t want to mention a death dream involving me. But now that she was leaving anyway, it didn’t matter.
“I admit I was stupid that first day. I was angry at the world. But I hope you know by now that I’d never abandon you like that again. Even if you dreamed about my death a dozen more times.”
“Do you mean that?”
“After all we’ve been through? Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Everyone who’s ever watched out for me has left me. Except for Simon.”
“Well, technically, I’m not leaving you; you’re leaving me.” I wiped the tears from her face. “And I’m not getting shot either. When you go back to England, this whole thing will be over. So stop worrying.”
She nodded her head.
I put my arms around her and kissed her.
There was a knock on her bedroom door, and Simon walked in. “Are you ready? We should be off.”
He didn’t seem shocked to walk in on us kissing, and I wondered if he’d been listening at the door. But he also looked like he didn’t care, and that surprised me.
I zipped her suitcase closed and handed it to Simon. “She’s ready.” I followed them down the stairs and to the front door.
He shook my hand. “Thanks again. I’ll take good care of her.”
Scarlett gave me quick hug. “Don’t forget to call and that you promised to come. And say good-bye to your father for me.”
“Yeah, maybe in ten more years he might talk to me again; then I’ll be sure to tell him you said good-bye.”
She hooked her hand on Simon’s arm, and they started down the walkway. She turned her head and called over her shoulder, “Just remember, football is a game of two halves.”
The door closed. I turned and stared into the empty house. The fridge hummed softly, and the alarm system beeped once, reactivating itself.
She was gone. Just like that. What was I supposed to do without her? Live here with my father and Gloria, alone and miserable? Having someone interested in my life, someone who cared about how I felt and who actually liked being with me made me hate my dad more than ever. It was easier when I didn’t know what I was missing.
I went back into the family room and slumped onto the couch. I switched on the TV, losing myself for a few hours in banal sitcoms. Tomorrow was Monday—school. I’d missed Friday, so I’d need to write a note and sign my dad’s name. Or I could run away again. But then I’d be cut off and penniless.
Why hadn’t I left home years ago? Why had I wasted my life waiting for something that would never happen? I should have called social services myself and asked for a foster family when I was ten years old. Or asked to live with my aunt and uncle in Canada—where I’d been headed when I left three days ago.
I hadn’t made it too far. I’d only gotten to my mother’s grave before Scarlett entered the picture. Now she was gone, leaving a void even bigger than before. I’d thought for a moment she might be the bridge between my father and me—if she could have stayed long enough.
He seemed to like her. He spoke to her. He even spoke to me a few times when she was here. He ate with us—at least for a second. I should have known not to get my hopes up. Permanent depression was easier than working your way up only to be crushed down.
I heard the garage door open. He was home. I couldn’t face him. Not right now.
I darted up the stairs and shut the door of my bedroom. I switched off my lights and climbed into bed, shoes and everything.
He moved through the kitchen, probably getting his drink and maybe a bite to eat. One good thing about Gloria was that she kept the kitchen well stocked. She didn’t cook—not that family dinners had ever been an option—but she packed the freezer with frozen food and kept scurvy at bay with some fresh fruits and veggies.
From there, he usually went straight to his room or his study. He and Gloria rarely hung out in the main rooms. They watched their shows and did whatever else they did in the master bedroom.
His footsteps shuffled down the hall but not in the direction of his rooms. They came to the stairs and started up. I held my b
reath, listening. The door to Scarlett’s room opened and then a few seconds later closed. Now he stood outside my door, the shadow of his feet just visible through the crack underneath.
What was he doing? He never came up here. And this was two nights in a row. The door opened, and I slammed my eyes shut, trying to regulate my breathing in an I’m-sound-asleep-right-now kind of way.
He shuffled across the carpeted floor toward my bed, paused for a moment, and then left, closing the door quietly behind him.
I sat up. What was with him? He should be downstairs drinking his expensive wine, not snooping around my room or Scarlett’s empty one.
What did he want? Was he checking on me? He never checked on me. Did he think I’d left again? Of course. When he didn’t see Scarlett, he’d figured we’d run off together. He probably needed to know whether or not to cancel the credit cards and car insurance. Most likely, he was already working out the changes in his will. Although, chances were he’d written me out of his inheritance a long time ago.
I kicked my shoes off and rolled over. Some lawyer he was. My car in the garage should’ve been all the proof he’d needed to know I was still here.
Whatever. Tomorrow, I’d go back to school, and life would be back to its usual daily crumminess.
Chapter Fourteen
Christian vs. Precalculus
Sure enough, when I entered the kitchen in the morning, my first dose of nausea sat at the counter drinking a chocolate meal-replacement shake—yellow hair, absurdly long for her age, white-tipped nails, and more cleavage showing than appropriate for seven in the morning. Or ever.
“Hi, Gloria.” She must’ve come in pretty late. I was surprised she was up so early. “How was Vegas?”
It seemed she’d been hoping for that question because she gave me a friendlier smile than usual and said, “So amazing. We had the best time. I won fifty dollars at the slots, and we saw Cher!”
My appetite vanished, and it wasn’t because of Cher.
“The food! Oh wow! I ate so much I’m on a diet for a year. But we got this great—”
“You know what? I’m totally late for school. Sorry. Gotta go.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked straight to my car.
The Rover was still loaded with all my stuff. I guess I should’ve brought it in since my dad had me financially trapped here. I wouldn’t get far without his money. Note to self: Get a job.
I drove the fifteen minutes to West Hills High School with my forged excused-absence note in hand. I’d been signing all my own school forms since sixth grade—report cards, field trip permission slips, driver’s ed insurance forms. I could have bought my own house if I didn’t have to sign in person.
Jay Jackson, star wide receiver of the football team, waited by my locker. He leaned against the chipped yellow paint, one hand holding his notebook and the other tucked casually into his jeans pocket. His curly black hair was still wet from his post-football-practice shower, and his skin was the same chocolate brown as Scarlett’s eyes.
“Where were you on Sunday?” he asked.
I knew this would be his first question. He thought I skipped church on purpose. “Have a little faith, dude. I’m not that lame. Something came up, and I couldn’t make it.”
He glared at me for a minute—trying to read my mind—while I smiled a perfectly innocent smile at him. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?”
“I’ve had my phone turned off all weekend.” Which reminded me. I pulled it out of my pocket and turned it on.
More glares.
“What about Friday?”
“I, uh, went to the cabin for the weekend.” That seemed like the easiest answer. If I told him I ran away, he’d never let me out of his sight. “Relax, okay. I had an emergency come up. I’ll tell you about it later.” We had three minutes until first period. I wasn’t up for a full-on explanation of Scarlett or the bathroom floor in thirty seconds or less, and most assuredly not in the main hall at school.
“Are you coming to Mutual on Thursday?” He sounded like Detective Parker, grilling me, just waiting for me to slip up.
“Absolutely.” I tried to prove it with my most earnest look. “Seriously. I’m totally fine, and we’re still good.”
He relaxed, his intensity melting away, leaving the old, overexuberant Jay in his place. “You missed an intense game.” He flashed a brilliant grin to a gaggle of girls passing by. “Three touchdowns!” He pumped his fist. His personality was almost as big as his talent. He had already committed to the University of Oregon. For him, it was the Ducks or nothing.
“Cool,” I said.
“So, who’d you go to the cabin with?” I expected this question. Besides Jay, I didn’t have a big pool of friends—not ones I’d take to Hood River. Plus, I never missed his games.
“No one,” I said. But I didn’t want to lie. “I mean, I met this girl. It’s a long story. I promise I’ll tell you later.”
“You took a girl to your cabin for the weekend?” he bellowed, loud enough for the entire hallway to hear. He shook his head with disappointment.
“Shut up.” I said it through clenched teeth. “It’s not what you think. I’ll tell you. Later.”
Beth looked up from across the way. She gave me a disgusted look, slammed her locker door, and marched away. There went my chances with her. That is, if I’d actually had a chance in the first place. Somehow, I didn’t mind.
“Fine,” he said. “But this better be good.”
The warning bell rang. “You coming?” I asked, waving a hand in the direction of the classroom. We both had math first period.
“Yeah.” Jay narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to the side. “What happened to your face?”
He had a good eye for injuries. My bruise from Connor had faded, and my lip was almost healed. “I got in a fight.”
“Nice. How’d you do?” Jay had a hard time repressing the football player inside.
At the restaurant—not so good. At the bookstore—great. “I broke his nose.”
“Not bad for a tennis player.” He held up his fist for a bump but then pulled back. “Wait, it wasn’t a pipsqueak freshman, was it? ’Cause that doesn’t count.”
I grinned. “It was a thirty-year-old guy with a gun.”
His jaw dropped, and he looked like a jackrabbit caught in the high beams. “No way.”
“Way.” I shut my locker and walked off. He jogged to catch up as we entered the classroom. Jay kept psst-ing at me. I studiously opened my notebook and ignored him until he heaved an exaggerated sigh and gave up.
We sat on the back row in Mr. Consejo’s class—precalculus. A monumentally boring subject, but if you got Mr. Consejo off topic, he’d prattle on and waste half the period. And any subject was better than math.
My gaze wandered from the x’s and y’s on the dry-erase board to the gathering clouds out the window. Scarlett would be home by now. With Simon. He seemed like a nice guy, but I didn’t like the idea of her living with him. Did men his age really let young teenage girls stay in their apartments just to be nice? Scarlett insisted they were just friends, and Simon didn’t do or say anything to suggest differently.
I could send her some money so she could find a place of her own. Maybe live with a different friend from the Shepherd. A female friend.
That would have been a good plan if it didn’t mean involving my dad. I’d have to get his help working out the depositing of a monthly payment to her overseas. He’d know how to set it up so Simon and other possible scumbags couldn’t get their hands on it.
Not that Simon was a scumbag. I just hated him for taking Scarlett away, even though I knew she was safer there. It was selfish, but I wanted her here, with me. Sunning her face through the car window. The warmth of her little body pressed closed to mine on the couch. Her hands soft on my face.
I yanked my mind back to the classroom. Mr. Consejo wiped the board clean and started a new problem. The markers squeaked as he wrote. “It costs forty-five cents pe
r ounce to mail a letter to Chile.” Roberto Consejo was from Santiago, and he tried to work his home country into as many equations as possible. “But it costs sixty-five cents per ounce to mail a letter to Argentina.” He didn’t like Argentina. Apparently, they were rivals. “If Rosa paid eighteen dollars and fifty-five cents to send thirty-five one-ounce letters to South America, how many did she send to Chile?”
Jay raised his hand. He didn’t know the answer. He stank at math. He was going for an interception. “Did Colo-Colo play this weekend?”
Touchdown. The best way to distract Mr. Consejo was to get him talking about his favorite soccer team, Colo-Colo. According to Consejo, they were the number-one team in Chile.
Consejo got a dreamy look in his eyes. “It was beautiful. At least the second half. The first half, not so pretty. At halftime, we were behind nil one . . .”
Halftime. Duh. Football is a game of two halves. That’s what Scarlett meant. In England, soccer was football.
Mr. Consejo related the events of the miraculous turnaround with mounting excitement. “And with fifty-five seconds remaining—GOOOOOAL!” He shouted it like he was the actual commentator, and a girl on the front row jumped. “We beat Huachipato two to one.” He was glowing when he finished his narration.
Two halves. Meaning things can change, there’s a chance to turn things around in the second half. Things can get better.
Or worse. I was already at nil. I didn’t see any way for the score to change. At least, not as long as I lived in my father’s house.
The door to the classroom opened, and a girl walked in, handing a pink note to Mr. Consejo. He glanced at it then looked at me. “Morris, it appears your father is here to check you out.”
Jay stared at me. He was the only other person in the classroom who understood the impossibility of that statement.
I shook my head. Nothing on earth could convince me that my dad waited for me in the main office. “No he’s not.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud. A few peopled chuckled.
Mr. Consejo read the note again. “It says here, he is.”
I was still shaking my head, my jaw set. It wasn’t him. I knew it. He would never come check me out. It would never happen. If they played the Stanley Cup in the middle of frozen heck, my father would still not come check me out. If a meteor plummeted toward the earth, and all my father had to do to save all humanity from annihilation was come to the main office and get me, he wouldn’t do it. “It’s not my dad.”
