by Carrie Jones
And then he lets go.
CHAPTER 14
In movies and those television crime drama shows, when someone falls off a building, it is always in slow motion. The camera focuses on the falling guy’s face—yeah, it’s usually a guy. Women are too smart to fall off buildings. Women would keep hanging on. Anyway, in movies the guy’s arms windmill in slow motion. His jacket flaps like a useless kite. His eyes register shock and then fear, because he knows that he has no chance to survive, and the person left on the roof watches, watches, watches with the camera, noticing every nuance before the splat that is death.
That’s not really how it is.
People fall fast.
And they don’t fall just flat on their backs. They shift around as gravity takes them. You can’t see their faces for more than a second after they let go.
And I have got to believe that is a good thing. That’s the truth. I have got to believe that is a really good thing as all the shaking in my fatigued arm seems to spread across my entire body. Everything shudders and wobbles and jiggles. And I back up and slump down onto the snow, cross my legs, and just sit there.
That man just died. I was holding his hand and then he let go. And he’s gone.
He said I can’t control the chip, that something would be unleashed. What did he mean?
A seagull screeches and lands on the tip of the little concrete outcropping with the locked door. It’s like my head moves in slow motion and I turn to stare at the bird, full-on. The snow makes him appear a little grayer than he should. His beak, though, is this brilliant yellow. He eyes me.
“I tried to hold on,” I whisper. My breath comes out in cold puffs. The puffs disappear into the rest of the air, just kind of dissipate and vanish there.
The gull shifts its weight to one foot, hops a little, puts his other foot back down.
“Honestly,” I tell it. “I tried. He let go.”
My cell phone rings. It’s buried in the pocket of my coat. My fingers fumble with my zipper, manage to get it down, manage, somehow, to reach inside the inner pocket and pull the thing out. I flip it open without even checking to see who is calling.
“Mana. Where are you?” China’s voice, not my mom’s, not my dad’s, not Lyle’s.
I don’t answer.
The man said not to trust him.
The Lyle voice in my head said not to trust someone. Maybe him. Probably him.
He comes at me again. “Mana? You okay? You hurt? Are you compromised?”
“Compromised?”
“Are you a hostage?”
“Oh.” My voice is a quiet whisper of fear. “No.”
His voice calms down, loses its edge. “Tell us where you are. We will come get you. Are you still in the building?”
I swallow. “No. I’m on the roof of the building next door. The door is locked and I’m stuck.”
“How’d you get there?”
“Long story.”
“Okay. Never mind. Shut up, Lyle. She’s fine. Didn’t I tell you she’d be fine?” His voice is muffled and then clear. “We’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” I say, but he’s already disconnected the line.
The gull cocks its head at me.
I stand up, brush off my bottom, try not to tremble too much. “What? Who am I supposed to trust? He and Lyle are all that’s left, okay? Give me a break, bird.”
The gull lifts its cold wings, flaps once, and flies away.
“Whatever,” I say. The edge of the building is just a few feet away. I wonder, if I tiptoe to it and stare down, what I would see. No, I know what I would see. A man who used to be alive, splayed out on a snowy alley, blood staining the snow. I would see someone dead, really dead, because I couldn’t hang on well enough, because I failed and he let go.
Don’t trust him, the Lyle voice says again. It’s so far away that I can barely make it out. Don’t trust him, Mana.
Who?
Don’t trust him.
“Shut up,” I snarl, and I turn away from the edge of the roof and go to wait by the door. If I can’t trust Lyle, who can I trust? And Lyle is with China. So that is where I will go.
* * *
It’s Lyle who lets me off the roof. It’s Lyle who yanks me into a big old hug and says, “I thought they apprehended you. I thought you were dead.”
My mouth tastes pine-smelling sweatshirt fabric. The heat from Lyle’s body makes my mouth warm. I turn my head, press my cheek against his chest, and relax for about half a second, and then I pull away. I don’t want to. I just know I have to. This is no time for random hugging.
“I thought I was, too,” I say.
Sirens start in the distance. I want to ask him if he’s talking inside my head, but I—something holds me back, some sort of gut feeling.
Lyle touches my face and says emphatically, “We have to get out of here. Okay? Get somewhere safe?”
“Okay.” And then I realize something. He’s alone, without the big bad bodyguard commando in leather. “Where is China?”
“He’s trying to give the guys a bad scent. At least, that’s what he said, which makes no sense.” Lyle holds the door open for me and keeps talking after I shoot through and start down the stairs. “Bad scent? They’re not dogs. Anyway, he’s trying to lose them. He sent me up here to get you.”
“That seems stupid. We should all stick together.”
“He trusts me.” Lyle is practically preening.
“That’s quite a turnaround.”
Lyle flashes a smile. “What can I say? I’m personable.”
We clatter down the stairs. I turn to start down another flight. “Personable? That is such an old-lady word.”
“Fine. Charming?”
“No better. You already got into Dartmouth; you can lay off the big words. You already took your SATs.”
He laughs. He is just one step behind me.
“It’s good to hear you laughing, Lyle,” I say.
“It’s not inappropriate? With your mom missing and everything?”
“Probably.” We make it down another flight. Just a couple more to go. “But it’s still good. Mom would say that it is our ability to laugh that makes us human. Even in the worst times, you know? We can still find something funny. And that gives us hope.”
“Makes us human,” Lyle says in a whisper. He’s obviously a little freaked out by everything. So am I. “You haven’t remembered anything more explicit about where the chip might be? We’re alone now, so if there’s something you’ve been too worried to tell anybody…”
“Nothing.” I sigh. I am slightly amused that Mr. Runner seems more winded than I am.
“You’re sure?” He touches my arm and huffs out the sentence.
“Sure.” I stop for a second, stare at him. “Are you really out of breath?”
“Asthma.”
“You don’t have asthma.”
“I know! I’m trying to joke.”
“You had me worried for a second, man.”
“You care so much about me.” He smiles again, but it’s forced. I don’t like it, and I change the subject, walking again down the stairs.
“So where are we meeting China?” I ask.
We finally make it to the bottom. The big red EXIT sign hangs over a fire door. I wonder what we’ll see when we open it and step outside. More alien freaks? A dead guy on the ground? Police officers in full body armor waiting to arrest us?
“We’re meeting him at Martha’s.”
“Martha’s?”
He nods at the door. “It’s a diner. Are you going to open the door?”
I pause, waiting, trying to calm my nerves, and finally admit, “I’m kind of afraid.”
“You are afraid? You’re never afraid, are you? You do all that flying for cheerleading.”
I squint at him, because all of a sudden he’s acting fuzzy. “I’m always afraid, Lyle. You know that.”
“Huh.” He pushes the door open. “I thought you were the bravest girl I know.”<
br />
“The bravest girl you know?”
“What?”
“You’re talking like Mrs. Fuller, the librarian.”
“Stress.” He laughs again. It’s a little too loud.
* * *
It doesn’t take long to get to the diner, but it feels like ages that we’re out there on the street, exposed, vulnerable. I narrow my eyes at every person who comes close, trying to figure out if they’re human or just pretenders. While we’re waiting for a table at Martha’s, I lean against Lyle, because I’m tired and I know he’ll let me. Not only does he let me, he puts his arms around me. It seems our ratio of touching versus not touching has increased as rapidly as his use of big words in everyday sentences.
I shift my weight a little bit, but he keeps his arms there. It should feel good, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel right. Lyle should be more awkward about this, because we aren’t boyfriend/girlfriend; we’re just best friend/best friend. His arms should be less tight, right? Or maybe it’s me … Maybe all this stress, seeing the man die, is freaking me out.
“Tired?” Lyle whispers. His lips are so close to my ear. I swear they’re almost touching my skin or one of my studs.
I half shrug.
“My dad … My dad, too … It’s just so unbelievable.” I can’t think of what else to say.
“It’ll be over soon,” he says.
“You think so?”
A waitress motions for us to follow her.
“Absolutely.”
“Absolutely?” I straighten up. He lets me go. “Yay for you, with the multisyllabic words.”
“Multisyllabic is a pretty multisyllabic word itself,” he says as we sit down.
“Thanks,” I say to the waitress, as she hands us some laminated menus. I thank her again, but Lyle doesn’t.
I think about that for a second. Lyle always says thank you. Lyle is polite to a fault.
I eye him. “What are you getting?”
“Breakfast all day. So … a sausage breakfast sandwich on a bagel.” He puts down the menu and smiles at me.
Everything inside of me shudders and freezes.
I force myself not to react. “That was quick.”
He just keeps smiling.
I make myself smile back.
The thing is: Lyle is a vegetarian. That’s why we had veggie pizza instead of pepperoni and pineapple, which is my favorite.
“So,” I say, putting my menu down, too. “Do you think China will be here soon?”
“Probably.” Lyle sips his water. His Adam’s apple slides up and down just like it normally does. Maybe he just likes sausage now. Maybe danger has made him into a carnivore. I blink hard, trying not to imagine him having one of those acid tongues behind sharp Tyrannosaurus rex teeth.
Our waitress takes an order at the next table. A kid at another booth starts whining while his mom orders a meatloaf special. I make myself tune it out and focus on Lyle. There are the same wide eyes, the same shock of maple brown hair. There is the Lyle smile, with normal, human teeth. But maybe the eyes aren’t quite the same. Maybe there are talons behind them, something sharp, unknowable, un-Lyle-able. And he smells like pine. Maybe my dad didn’t get new soap.
I decide to take a risk, a calculated question. I pick up a sugar packet and start fiddling with it. “So, your mom was so nice about everything the other night.”
“Yes,” he says. His fingertip traces a line down the side of his water glass. “She’s pretty understanding. She likes you.”
“She’s always so calm. I wouldn’t have imagined anybody’s mom would be so calm when stuff like that happens.”
“Your mom would be,” he says.
“Oh, she’s not as mellow as your mom,” I lie. “Nobody is as mellow as your mom.”
“True.” Our eyes meet.
I try a new tactic. “I think I’ll get a coffee. You want a coffee?”
“Good idea.”
Lyle knows I don’t drink caffeine. I press my lips against each other, try to be calm Mana, cool Mana, nonpanicking Mana … try to be more like Lyle normally is, actually. I lean forward across the tabletop. “Listen, I really have to pee. Will you order for me if she comes while I’m gone?”
“Sure.” He focuses all his attention down at the menu in his hands. “What do you want?”
I’m already getting up, hauling my bag with me, and moving past the waitress, who is still negotiating the order at the table behind us. I toss the words over my shoulder. “Blueberry pancakes.”
He repeats it. “Blueberry pancakes. And coffee. Right? Why are you taking your bag?”
“Um … uh … girl issues,” I whisper, and try to make a really embarrassed expression.
His eyebrow raises. Just one of them. I make one last effort. “Plus, Mr. Manateeman is in there. You know how I am about manatees.”
Penguins. How I am about penguins.
“Yes. Such a soft heart.” He points a fork at me. “Don’t be too long.”
“Just one sec. I swear.” It’s all I can do not to run full throttle past everyone sitting in their comfy upholstered booths. It’s all I can do not to scream and panic and hyperventilate. It’s all I can do to just carefully walk back to the restroom. I pull on the door. Locked.
“One minute,” some lady calls out in a happy singsong voice.
“Sorry.” My answer is automatic, polite.
I stare at the picture of a woman on the door and at the braille dots beneath it. I clutch my arms with my hands. I will not glance back at the pseudo Lyle. I will not glance back.
I glance back.
He’s watching. His face arranges itself into a smile and he waves.
“Someone is in it.” I mouth the words and point at the door with my thumb.
Lyle rolls his eyes. He makes hand motions like banging on the door. I fake laugh and gaze away. Everything inside me trembles, swirls in on itself, barely hanging on, barely staying in place.
What is going on? Has he been hit on the head? Lost his memory? Is he brainwashed? Controlled by some sort of alien force? A robot? Maybe he’s a robot! An android? Is that what they call them? All I know is he’s not normal Lyle. I have no idea who he is, or what he is, but he is definitely not normal Lyle.
Lyle would not let me have caffeine.
Lyle would not eat meat or smell like pine.
Lyle would not just be like, “Oh, of course you love manatees,” when I love penguins.
Lyle would not say his mother was mellow.
I wave at him again. He fake yawns. He seems normal. Maybe I’m imagining things.
But no, I know I’m not. He was out of breath on the stairs, going down the stairs even. He runs distance. He got recruited to an Ivy for running distance. He never gets out of breath.
Someone flushes. Then there’s the sound of running water, someone pulling paper towels out. The door unlocks and opens. A waitress scoots out and I scoot in, lock the door, examine the place.
It’s a tiny bathroom. Used brown paper towels lay abandoned by the stained metal basket. One of those water-stained drop ceilings makes everything seem dingier. There is no window and therefore no escape.
“Crap,” I mutter.
I double-check the lock, take out my cell, and type in Lyle’s number. It makes a funny noise and the display reads NETWORK BUSY.
“Oh my God.”
I try my dad’s number, even though I know he won’t answer. I get the same thing. Network busy. My fingers tremble and I try 9-1-1. Network busy.
It’s no use. There must be a block on my phone. The whole thing is pointless now. I toss the phone in the trash with all the wet, crumpled paper towels. Someone tries the door. I scoop my cell back out because, honestly, if I do find my mom again, she is not going to be happy with me throwing away something so expensive.
“One second,” I say.
There is no way out. No window. Just four walls and a ceiling.
A ceiling.
I vault up onto the sink and pu
sh at the ceiling tiles with my hands. I get one out and to the side. Gripping the edge of the supporting wall that separates the bathroom from someplace else, I yank myself up in a perfect pull-up, which we practice at cheering, and—boom!—I’m through the hole. It is not pretty up here. I barely fit between the wires and the wall edge. I cram in, fetal, pathetic, my bag shoved in with me. This is the first place someone will search. I push the tile back in place. Light leaks through the tiles, for which I am thankful, and I can see just enough to manage.
The wall edges north and south and then connects with another wall. I creep along it, dragging my bag, figuring that maybe I can get to another room, move another ceiling tile, and hop down into an office. It’s stupid. It’s the best I can do.
Someone pounds on the door.
I skitter faster and get to the spot where the walls meet. I move beyond that, trying not to sneeze from the dust and the ceiling particles that swirl around like dirty snow. Then I lose my balance. My foot shoots into a ceiling tile and breaks through. The rest of my body, unfortunately, follows. I scramble, trying to get a hold on something solid, but I’m not quick enough. I fall, belly first, but I tuck forward and turn. Bam. I hit the floor, feet first at least, in a good stuck landing, just like at the end of a particularly difficult tumbling run.
“Holy sugar diabetes!” a woman in a white apron swears. She drops the pitcher of pancake batter in her hand.
“Sorry. Sorry.” I try to actually use some observational skills. I’m in the kitchen. Things steam on massive metal grills. There are bowls and spatulas everywhere. A guy stares up at me, away from the steel counter where he is chopping onions with a massive knife. My heart beats so hard that I can feel the pulse of it even in my fingers. I manage to stand up straight. “Sorry.”
The woman bends, starting to wipe up the batter. “Holy Gobsmackers, what are you doing?”
I give her some paper towels, trying to fight the urge to just run away.
“My boyfriend … he’s out there.” I force my voice to sound panicked. It is not a hard fake. “He’s … he’s really mad at me. He hit me this morning and he said he won’t let me go back home and I … He scratched up my ankle.”
