The Conspiracy of Us

by Maggie Hall

  I was about to slam the box shut, but stopped. I pulled out the top few mementos—invitations to parties I never went to, a picture of me with a neighbor’s family. Rattling around in the bottom of the box was the infinity-sign pinky ring from eighth grade, when I broke The Plan for Missy and Alina and Katy. We called ourselves the Fab Four, and promised to text every single day when I moved. That lasted for about six weeks.

  Halfway down the stack, a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper listing everyone I’d ever found on Google named Alexander Mason who could maybe, possibly, be my dad.

  He and my mom had dated in college, and when she got pregnant with me, he left. When I was younger, I wondered if one day he would realize he’d made a mistake. That he wanted us after all, and we’d have a normal life, full of smiles and holiday dinners and cheesy, feel-good, cell-phone-commercial family moments. My dad’s parents were dead, and he didn’t have any other family, but I used to think about how there was a possibility of brothers and sisters if he came back into the picture.

  I got over that wish a long time ago. I ran a finger over my locket. I’d taken the one picture I had of him out, and now there was only a photo of me and my mom, protected by the worn gold filigree. The picture of my dad stared up at me from the box. It was small, and blurry, but you could tell my dark hair and pale skin came from him, and I knew I had his eyes. You could almost call my natural eye color deep blue, but that wasn’t quite right. Really, my eyes were purple.

  When I was younger, kids had teased me that I was wearing contacts to be cool. That normally wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but as weird and friendless as I was already, it killed me. But it did give me and my mom an idea. Since I had horrible vision anyway—and, though she’d never admit it, probably because they reminded her so much of my dad—my mom suggested colored contacts. I’d had dark brown eyes ever since.

  I jammed everything in the box and shoved it back under the bed—and then opened it once more and snatched out the compass drawing.

  Even if The Plan was the right thing to do in the long run, what was one night? One dance. One date with one guy. Tonight could be one tiny memory that wasn’t a what-if.

  I could hear my mom in the kitchen, opening the cabinets over the sink. I knew the sound of her bundling the silverware, wrapping it in a dish towel, and putting it in the bowl of the blender, the same way she’d always done it. Next she’d pack up the baking stuff and the cleaning supplies, and I’d pack my room and the bathroom and the laundry room. And then we’d pile those boxes alongside the ones we’d never gotten around to unpacking from last time.

  I made a decision.

  I fished my phone out from between the pillows, typed out a quick text, then jumped off my bed and went to the kitchen. I grabbed some of the broken-down boxes my mom had brought up from the basement. “You’re probably right,” I said, and her thin shoulders relaxed. “I’ll start folding clothes.”

  The rest of the afternoon, I was a model daughter. I packed my room, vacuumed, and even heated up frozen lasagna for dinner. Then I waited until my mom was safely on her way to the airport, slipped my dress on, threw my hair up with bobby pins, and walked out the front door.

  CHAPTER 6

  The gym reeked of cheap aftershave and a hungry energy fueled by the crush of bodies and the open backs of dresses and the euphoric faces blinking in and out of the dark. Streamers on the walls caught the strobes and exploded with light, like fireworks, spearing the dark corners of the room.

  The swirl of bodies in jewel tones and sparkles and pressed black suits parted around me as I stood at the edge of the dance floor, physically present but not actually a part of anything. I wondered sometimes if they all knew how good they had it: girls in circles with their friends, singing at the top of their lungs, or with their arms curled around their boyfriends’ necks. Girls who had gotten their hair done by a big sister, cheesy prom pictures taken by a proud dad.

  Across the gym Lara saw me and jumped up and down waving, the spinning lights flashing off the glittery blue tulle of her dress. I waved back, a surprisingly sharp pang running through me at the thought of leaving her, too. I’d tried so hard not to get too close to any of them. I held up a finger to tell her I’d be over in a minute.

  I wove my way past the line for the photographer, who was posing a guy’s hand on a girl’s hip, and pulled at the hem of my dress. I’d gotten it in the ninth grade for a neighbor’s wedding. It was pretty, with capped sleeves and scalloped lavender lace, but definitely too casual for prom. I hoped Jack wouldn’t care.

  If I ever found him, that is. He hadn’t texted back. It would be just my luck if he’d turned his phone off and didn’t see the message until tomorrow.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d circled the whole gym once, twice. Casually peered onto the dance floor. Walked by the bathrooms and the water fountain. Gotten a cup of punch from the snack table, just in case he was waiting there. Checked my phone five times. Stopped and talked to Lara and her date. Still no Jack.

  I traced a pattern on my scuffed leather messenger bag with one fingertip. It was fine. It was probably better this way.

  I took one last look at the human-sized papier-mâché Oscar statuettes, felt the bass of the dance track vibrate through my feet, and took a sip of too-sweet red punch. Then I turned to head for the exit—and ran straight into a senior in a yellow dress.

  “Sorry . . .” I trailed off when I realized I’d splashed punch all over myself. Perfect.

  The girl was staring intently at something I couldn’t see, though, and didn’t even notice me. The friend she was dancing with was looking, too.

  I put down my cup and, dabbing at my dress with a napkin, ducked between two guys in tuxedos and too much cologne to see what was going on. I stopped short.

  It wasn’t a what that was going on, it was a who.

  Crosswalk Guy.

  He leaned against the gym wall, one foot propped casually over the other, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He was a head taller than everyone around him, and had to be at least a year or two older than all of us.

  As if to confirm that, he blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, then stamped out a cigarette, right there on the gym floor. No wonder everybody was staring. How had he not been caught by a teacher? There didn’t seem to be any around.

  The guy’s eyes continued to roam the crowd. And then they got to me. His face broke into that slow, lazy grin again.

  I held my breath as he pushed off the wall at half tempo, so the strobe lights seemed to move entirely too fast. Half the dance watched him watch me. Was he mistaking me for someone else?

  A slow song started as he stopped in front of me. “Avery West.”

  I took a step backward. How did he know my name? He had a light foreign accent—maybe Russian? That would fit with the jaunty blond hair and the high, sharp cheekbones. It made my name sound exotic, like a Bond girl. Ay-veery.

  “Lovely to see you, sweetheart,” he continued, plucking the napkin out of my hand with a frown and dropping it to the ground. “A dance?”

  He slipped one cool, sure palm into mine before I had a chance to respond.

  “Um,” I said. He settled his other hand on my lower back and drew me close. EmmaBeth Porter, dancing nearby, stared from him to me with a look halfway between appalled and so jealous, she could throw up.

  I brushed back a strand of dark hair that had escaped its bobby pin and stared up at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.”

  “You don’t.” He smiled. “And even more interestingly, I do not know you. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me who you are, and we can skip this little charade?”

  He squeezed my hand.

  EmmaBeth and her date had moved toward the stage, where last year’s prom court was assembling, leaving me and Crosswalk Guy by ourselves on the far edge of the dance floor. Even though all he’d don
e was say things I didn’t understand, I suddenly did not want to be alone with him.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said, pulling at my hand. He held on tighter, and alarms went off in my head. “I’m going to go—”

  “Stellan,” came a quiet voice from behind me.

  Crosswalk Guy—Stellan—rolled his eyes. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re here.”

  I ripped my hand out of Stellan’s, turned around, and was hugely relieved to see Jack.

  He wore a perfectly fitted black suit over a crisp white shirt and a thin tie. He met my eyes for just a second, then looked past me at Stellan. He scowled. Even that brought out a hint of the deep dimple in his right cheek.

  “Stellan, get away from her,” he said. His British accent was back. “Avery, come here.”

  I was headed toward him anyway, but stalled at the command. I looked between them. Compared with Jack’s slim but solid frame, Stellan was taller, sharper, almost gaunt in that ethereally beautiful way you see on runway models. And while Jack looked like he might punch someone, Stellan wore the kind of patronizing smile adults get when kids are fighting over a toy.

  I wrapped my arms around myself. “What’s going on?”

  “So who is she?” Stellan said to Jack. He unbuttoned his gray suit jacket. “If you weren’t here, I’d think I had the wrong girl. She’s so . . . ordinary.”

  I looked down at my punch-stained dress and sale-rack strappy sandals.

  “Not that you’re not pretty.” Stellan smiled thinly down at me. “You are.” He turned back to Jack. “As I can see you’ve noticed. And such a little thing. I could snap her in half with one finger.”

  Jack growled low in his throat, and Stellan laughed. “You make this too easy.”

  “Excuse me, I’m right here,” I said. “And this is really . . .” Bizarre? He had to think I was someone else, right? But then how would he know Jack? “Jack, let’s go—”

  Stellan stepped between us, loosening his tie. I suddenly realized he wasn’t getting comfortable. He was getting ready for a fight. Sharp slivers of alarm pierced my confusion. Maybe it was time to let go of the idea of Jack as a prom date.

  I started to inch away.

  “What do you even want with her?” Jack said. His voice was low and dangerous, with no trace of the anxiety I’d heard while he was on the phone earlier. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

  I stopped. The memory of the phone call flooded back. He had asked the caller what they wanted with “her.” And when “he” was coming. And had mentioned “tonight.”

  “Jack, seriously, what is going on?” I said, but my words were drowned out by the electronic screech of a microphone.

  “And now, it’s time to announce your new prom court!” said a senior cheerleader. On either side of her, last year’s court lined up, holding sashes and crowns.

  “If it isn’t obvious,” Stellan said, a lock of blond hair falling in his face, “we want her because you want her. And we’d like to know why.”

  Jack stared him down. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”

  “Ah, but it is our business when Alistair Saxon sends a Keeper to attend high school classes halfway across the world while every other family is using their resources on more essential tasks.”

  It felt like I was watching TV in a foreign language. I was about to make Jack fill me in when Stellan continued, “So the reason I’m here is to figure out why this girl is more important to the Saxons than the mandate.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The familiar word struck me like a slap to the face. “Wait,” I said. “Did you say mandate?”

  Jack glared at Stellan, and Stellan rolled his eyes. “No one can hear us. Relax. And she must know about it, so it doesn’t matter.”

  I knew about the manila envelope on our dining room table, but I highly doubted my mom’s work orders had anything to do with two strangers fighting over me at the Lakehaven High prom.

  “This year’s prom queen,” said the cheerleader on stage, “EmmaBeth Porter!” Her friends, lining the stage, squealed prettily. A loud “booooo” sounded from where the stoner kids were gathered at the edge of the bleachers, followed by a chorus of laughter.

  Stellan put his hands in his pockets in a way that could have been casual if the rest of him didn’t look like a tightly coiled spring. “So she has information on the search?”

  “The what?” I felt very small looking up at the two of them. It didn’t help that they were ignoring me entirely, and that I was at least two steps behind in the conversation. “What’s the mandate?”

  “Or she’s a spy?” Stellan said. “Are the Saxons using American teenagers as spies now?”

  “A spy?” I looked around. “Is this a hidden camera show?”

  “Of course she’s not a spy.” Jack’s mouth tightened in irritation. “She’s got nothing to do with the mandate. I was sent to find her because she’s related to the Saxons.”

  I let out a breath. At least that made sense. “Okay, you do have the wrong person,” I said. “I don’t have any family.”

  Jack looked down. The grim set of his jaw looked like it belonged to an entirely different person than the guy who saved my grade in history class, but his eyes softened. “Yes, Avery, you do.”

  “I think I’d know—” But I stopped, the tiny locket-sized picture in my memory box springing into my mind. I felt my face go slack.

  Jack lowered his voice. “In class you told me you didn’t have any family. Maybe your mother doesn’t, but your father did.”

  I had to wet my lips to get words out. “Are you kidding?”

  “No,” he said quietly.

  My vision darkened at the edges, and I went light-headed. I must have looked like it, too, because Jack put a hand on my elbow.

  I blinked up at him. Could this be real? My father was looking for me? After sixteen years, my father actually cared?

  “Where is he?” I said, whipping around. “Is he here? Who are you?” Was Jack some kind of private investigator?

  Stellan looked up from studying his fingernails and heaved a sigh. “As fascinating as this is, I don’t care. My orders are to find the girl and take her, so I’m going to go ahead and do that.” He took my arm in a death grip.

  “What? No!” I tried to pull my arm back.

  Jack lunged for me, and Stellan reached under his jacket. A flash of silver glinted in the low light. I did a double take.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. Stellan had pulled out a knife the size of a small sword. I shrank away, but he didn’t let go.

  “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” I could hear the smile in his words.

  “No you didn’t,” Jack said through clenched teeth.

  “You’re right. So much more entertaining this way.”

  The microphone screeched. “And now, the Lakehaven High prom king!”

  I couldn’t stop staring at the knife. Jack stepped in front of us. “I’m not letting you take her.”

  “Oh, right—you’ll want to stay for the prom king announcement. Might have a chance at it this year.” Stellan started to drag me away, knife to my side.

  “Quit it!” I finally snapped out of it and fought against his hand, careful to avoid the knife. “Let me go!”

  A few curious sets of eyes turned toward us, and I stopped struggling. As much as I wanted to get away from Stellan, I didn’t want to make a scene. I needed to hear what Jack had to say about my father.

  “Hey.” I pulled on Stellan’s jacket. If Jack was an investigator, what was Stellan? He cocked his head down at me, but didn’t stop steering me around the edge of the dance floor, past the DJ booth. “If you don’t let me go, I will scream and you will get arrested.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

  A laughing, jostling group of guys walked by an
d peered curiously at us. With a sigh, Stellan hid the knife.

  The second he did, I ripped my arm away and ran to Jack, who had been following us. He tucked me behind his back and surveyed the exits—the front doors, the emergency exit out the back. “The side doors would be the easiest way to get out,” I said, panting. “But are you absolutely sure you have the right person? My father’s name is Alexander Mason.”

  Jack’s shoulders tensed.

  “What?” I pleaded. “Stop being so cryptic. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Avery, I’m—” He glanced at me over his shoulder and eyed Stellan, who typed on his phone as a teacher made her rounds past our corner of the gym. Jack let out a breath and turned around. “I’m so sorry. I know very little about your father. I don’t work for him. I work for his family. He’s—it appears he passed away, some time ago. His family didn’t know you existed until recently. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  Passed away. On the stage, the new prom court stood waving, and their faces blurred into one artificially lit grin.

  My father was dead. I felt something shift within me, a key turned one click farther in a lock, a compass spun in a new direction. I wasn’t a girl whose father had left. I was a girl whose father was dead.

  “You’re sure?” I whispered.

  “That’s what I was told.”

  It shouldn’t hurt like he was a real person. He’d been dead to us for a long time. But still, my throat burned with the promise of tears. I hadn’t realized how much I still harbored that secret wish of meeting him, and now I never would.

  But if Jack was telling the truth, he had family.

  Stellan glared daggers at the white-haired teacher who was now chatting about the weather with the very tall and intimidating football coach, not ten feet away from us. I’d be safe for a couple of minutes. I sat down at an abandoned table littered with glitter and streamers and empty punch cups and played with a star-shaped piece of gold confetti. “Do they want to meet my mom, too?”