by Cat Patrick
“I’ll do it,” I say, standing quickly. I feel like Matt’s the sun and I need sunglasses: I’m overwhelmed by him and need a moment to calm down. “You eat,” I say to Audrey. “What flavor do you want?”
“Clear,” she says before popping a pretzel bite into her mouth.
“Got it,” I say. I turn and walk back to the fountain-beverage station by the pretzel place and fill Audrey’s paper cup with whatever brand of clear soda they have. I take a deep breath and shake my head at my girlishness as I grab a lid and snap it on, then shove a straw through it. I walk back to the table feeling surprisingly more centered.
“Do I get a tip for that?” I ask Audrey when I’m about five steps away from her.
“You wish!” she says, laughing loudly.
“Fine, then I’ll take it back,” I say, pretending to turn around.
“Give me my drink!” Audrey shouts playfully. Her voice echoes off the walls, up to the skylight. People all over the food court look up from their greasy snacks. An older lady tsks at the scene we’re making; two young girls giggle to themselves.
And that’s when I see her.
Across the food court, Nora Fitzgerald from Frozen Hills is turning in her chair to see what’s going on.
Like a deer who spies a hunter, I bolt. Only when I round the corner of the main part of the mall and duck into one of those side hallways that lead to the creepy walkway behind the stores do I realize that I’m still holding Audrey’s drink. When I’m sure that no one’s followed me, I set it down on the floor and text Audrey.
Daisy: SORRY! But I can explain. Meet me around the corner by Foot Find.
I hit send and wait. Audrey and Matt arrive in minutes.
“You could have just asked for some of my soda, Dais,” Audrey jokes. She picks it up and starts drinking it. “What’s the deal?”
Matt’s standing between me and the main walkway. Instinctively, I stay directly behind him, like he’s my shield. He looks at me funny.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says.
More like Nora did, I think to myself.
“I saw a girl from my old school who… uh… hates me,” I say. “Can we just go?”
Matt shrugs and Audrey nods. We make our way toward the movie theater’s parking lot, Audrey chattering about mean girls, me looking over my shoulder for Nora, and Matt eyeing me like he knows I’m lying and wants to ask about the truth.
Thankfully, I catch a break: Matt doesn’t ask.
ten
“It’s only a long weekend,” Mason says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as we barrel down Interstate 29 in the dark.
“I know,” I say glumly. “But we weren’t supposed to leave until tomorrow. And wait—what do you mean by long weekend?”
“I thought I told you that we’re staying until Monday night,” Mason says. “To ensure enough time for Wade’s test. We called the school and got you excused from Monday’s classes.”
“No, you didn’t tell me that,” I mutter, turning backward in my seat and watching the lights of Omaha fade into the distance. I already regret telling Cassie and Mason about Nora because it gave them a reason to leave town tonight. Now I’m even more annoyed because I won’t get to see Audrey or Matt on Monday. “I’m not supposed to be on this trip.”
“You weren’t supposed to be seen,” Cassie says without looking up from her computer. I’m surprised by her tone; she’s not usually so snappy. The worst part is that she’s right.
“Why was Nora even in Omaha?” I mutter.
“We checked her email,” Cassie says. “She’s staying with relatives. Something about a family reunion this weekend.”
“Random,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s going to happen with her?”
“Depends on quite a few variables,” Mason says, scratching his head.
“Like?” I look at him expectantly.
“Like whether or not she saw you. And if she did, whether she wrote it off as coincidence or actually believes you’re alive.”
“And?”
“And it depends on what she does with the information.”
“If she goes public—” I begin.
Cassie interrupts. “Then our thirty-year research study is over.”
“But hasn’t this happened before?” I protest.
“To my knowledge, it’s only happened one other time,” Cassie says.
“Twice,” Mason corrects. “There was that one in Missouri.”
“I meant that one. What was the other?”
“Florida.”
“Oh, right,” Cassie says before refocusing on her computer. It bugs me that she’s talking like she was part of the program back then. Recruited straight from college after the program had already started, Cassie’s younger than the other agents. At first she was assigned to the main lab, but her boss thought she’d be better in the field. So when Sydney left, Cassie was reassigned to us. But sometimes Cassie talks like she was with the Revive project from day one.
“I believe that the protocol is watch and wait,” Cassie continues. “A team is monitoring Nora now. If she forgets it and moves on, then we will, too.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” I ask.
“Who knows what he’ll do at this point?” Mason mutters. Cassie shoots him a surprised look, which softens his tone.
“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it,” he says in a way that makes me feel like he’s talking to himself more than to me or Cassie.
“If Nora pursues this, will we have to move again?” I ask.
“Probably,” Mason says honestly.
And only right then, when the sick feeling creeps into my stomach, do I realize that I haven’t been faking it. I want to live in Omaha permanently. I genuinely like Audrey; my feelings for Matt are real.
Only when I’m faced with the possibility of another move do I realize how much I want to dig in my heels.
Only then do I realize just how much I want to stay.
It’s after one AM when I begin to boot up my snail of a computer. I can’t very well take sleek spy technology to school, so, unlike the computers that Mason and Cassie get to use, I have a few-years-old laptop that’s as heavy as a boulder and as loud as an airplane on takeoff.
Our small, independent hotel has a weak Internet signal, so between that and my grandma’s microprocessor it takes forever to get online. After it connects, I log in using my password, which Mason makes me change every month. When my IM program pops up, I check for Audrey’s username—QueenMcKean—to see whether she’s online. There’s no little green dot; she’s not.
I sigh and switch over to my email account. I open a new message and begin typing Audrey so her address autofills.
To: [email protected]
Subject: random night
Hey Aud,
How’s this for weird: I’m writing from a hotel room in Kansas City. My parents were planning to come for the weekend and leave me alone in Omaha but, at the last minute, changed their minds. They must have watched a movie about a teenager who throws a party the second her parents leave for vacation and rethought their decision. Not that I’m like that.
Hey, sorry again for that thing with that girl tonight. You seemed sort of out of it on the way home: are you mad at me for something? I mean I know I made us leave early but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. But if I did something, I’m sorry.
Anyway, thanks for the fun night and tell Matt the same. And okay, fine, I guess hiding behind my computer screen I can admit that I do sort of like him. A little. Hope that doesn’t make you want to upchuck. But you said my dad was hot so I guess now we’re even.
Daisy
I hit send and watch the email move from my outbox to the ether. Then I scoot off the bed, retrieve pajamas and toiletries from my bag, and walk to the bathroom to get ready to go to sleep. When I return, despite it being the middle of the night, I’m disappointed to find that there’s no reply. Audrey’s emailed me later than this, and now I can
’t help but wonder whether she really is mad at me for some reason.
I crawl under the overbleached sheets, wired on soda and adrenaline, confused.
After only three hours of real sleep—which feels more like three minutes—my wakeup call sounds and I want to throw the phone out the window. Instead I roll over, pick up the receiver, and then slam it down again without answering. Then I go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The interior one, of course.
“Daisy, are you up?” Mason’s muffled voice calls through the wall.
“Yes,” I groan, exhausted.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Mason calls back.
“I am!” I shout back. Mason doesn’t answer.
Annoyed at the daylight, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed, tripping over the laptop cord on my way to the bathroom. I land with a thud on the hideous carpet and lie there, wondering what else could go wrong. Eventually I manage to shower and get ready, which makes me feel a little better, until I remember where we’re going today.
To Wade’s house.
The Zimmermans have upgraded to an even bigger house—for three people—since the last time I was forced to come to Kansas City, so the neighborhood we’re driving through now is new to me. Compared to the McKeans’ development, this one is a poseur. The massive houses are set back from the street, and there are kids out playing on the sidewalks. The difference is that here, the homes are new, matching, and only pretend to have character. I realize that there aren’t individual mailboxes in front of the homes when I see a postal worker pull up next to a large metal community box with a locked section for each family. Something about not having your own mailbox bothers me.
As if reading my mind, Megan texts.
Megan: Where are you?
Daisy: KC.
Megan: NO!!
Daisy: Yes. Mason made me.
Megan: So sorry, girl. I know how you loathe Wade. Hang tough, okay? I’ll do an extra great post in your honor tonight. I’m thinking a backstage pass to my closet. You like?
Daisy: Sounds FABULOUS.
Megan: xoxo
Daisy: Same to you
Right then, we pull into the driveway of a house I can only describe as a non-pink, walled version of Barbie’s dream house, complete with a Porsche out front. The license plate reads KCHS FP.
KCHS… Kansas City High School?
“Is that Wade’s car?” I ask loudly.
“Must be,” Mason says. “There’s a student parking sticker on the front window.” Of course Mr. Observant noticed that.
I groan.
“Be nice,” Mason says quietly as we walk to the front porch and ring the bell.
“Always.”
Taller than Mason, and with a square head, jaw, and shoulders, Wade Zimmerman is a big block of a guy. He has decent skin, cropped hair, and white teeth that are mostly straight. His nose is a touch crooked, which would add to his appeal if he didn’t love to tell the story of how he broke it getting bucked off a mechanical bull… well after eight seconds, of course. Girls who like chauvinistic pigs—or maybe even grown women who like young guys—might find Wade attractive. I, on the other hand, do not.
My crap radar goes off the second we walk in the door. Wade is wearing—I am totally not kidding—a sweater-vest. Not a sexy J.Crew sweater-vest; an old-man politician sweater-vest.
“Lovely to see you again, Daisy,” Wade says as he offers his hand to me to shake. I fight the urge to roll my eyes or pretend to be British when I answer.
“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.
“How are you enjoying your new school?” he asks. Why does he have to talk like he’s forty-seven?
“It’s fine,” I say. “What’s with the Porsche?”
“Oh, you like it?” Wade asks. “It was a birthday gift from my parents.” Shrugging, he adds, “It gets me to and from practice.”
“Funny,” I say, not thinking so at all. Instead of pointing out that he’s the cockiest guy I know, I ask about his license plate: “What’s FP?”
Wade chuckles loudly—literally, it sounds like “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” because I guess he’s not even himself when he laughs—then explains the hilarity.
“It means Franchise Player,” he says. “It’s the nickname the other players have given me for my skills as a quarterback. It simply means that I’m a valued member of the team. It’s all in jest.”
In jest?
Wade tries to appear embarrassed, but there’s nothing remotely flustered about his expression. All that reads there is pride.
Overconfidence.
“Cool,” I say, not really thinking so, but trying to be nice because Mason asked me to.
After a few more pleasantries, scones, and one too many stories about scouts coming to see Wade play, I’m shown into the Zimmermans’ first-floor office to mess around online while Mason and Cassie go to work. I log on and check my email: no reply from Audrey. Trying not to obsess too much about it, I switch over to Anything Autopsy and blog about sensible versus nonsensical cars for teens, then do a “she said” reply to Megan’s diatribe about the newest YouTube pop sensation. Just as I’m hitting publish, Mason puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.
“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”
This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.
“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.
“Great,” I say.
Mason turns to leave.
“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.
“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”
I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.
If God says we move, there’s nothing Mason can do about it.
If God says we move, we move.
eleven
At dinner, the adults encourage Wade and me to hang out together tonight. I can see through Wade’s forced smile and gritted teeth that he’s as thrilled about the idea as I am. When Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman stand to clear plates and get dessert, Wade starts texting under the table and Mason leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I really think you should do this,” he says.
“I wanted to watch a movie at the hotel,” I protest. “And you know how I feel about…” I jerk my thumb in Wade’s direction so he doesn’t perk up at the sound of his own name.
“That’s the point,” Mason says. “Maybe you just need to get to know each other better. I think it’s important that you have friends, and at least Wade understands your past. You can talk about it with him.”
Mason looks at me pointedly, reminding me that I can’t talk about the program with Audrey or Matt.
“Except that he’s in denial,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fun,”
Mason whispers before straightening up, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Zimmerman returns carrying a coffeepot and Mr. Zimmerman trails behind with pie.
“Who likes blueberry?” Mrs. Zimmerman asks. Normally it’s my favorite, but right now, facing a night with Wade, and with Audrey and Matt back in Omaha, where I want to be, not even blueberry pie can make me happy.
An hour later, I’m riding shotgun in a car no teenager should own, listening to some weird rap-country hybrid on full blast, wishing upon wishing that I was a better debater when it comes to Mason. When there’s a break in the noise, I reach over and turn down the radio dial. Wade looks at me like I just slapped him, but he doesn’t turn it back up.
“So what are we doing tonight?” I ask.
“I thought we’d chill with my boys and my girl at The Field, and then hit up a party later.”
I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the personality one-eighty. Wade would make a great Disciple someday, if he weren’t so ashamed of the program. Then again, I haven’t talked to him about it in a while. I decide to try again.
“So, how’s the test going?” I begin.
“Fine,” Wade says. “You know….”
“Yeah,” I say. “How far did you get today?”
“Just through the physical,” Wade answers. His tone is not necessarily encouraging, but it’s not dismissive, either. I decide to dive in with one of the biggies.
“So, Wade, how much do you remember about the day of the bus crash?”
Wade’s head snaps in my direction and he stares at me for so long that I’m afraid he’s going to crash the Porsche. Finally he looks away.
“Nothing,” he says flatly before turning the music back up. He ignores me for the rest of the drive.
As it turns out, The Field isn’t some hipster hangout downtown—a play on “playing the field”—nor is it a great wide expanse of landscape. It’s a soccer field.
