Rose’s eyes soften and she lets out a small huff. “Fine, I won’t push about today. But next time I’m dragging you along,” she says as she heads down the hallway to the front door. When she reaches it, she turns back and adds, “I’ll ask my dad about the City Art Program while he’s driving me home. I’ll call you if I get any news.”
“Don’t—”
The door bangs shut, cutting off anything else I might have said.
I watch through the window until their car pulls away from the curb. Once it is gone, I go to the freezer and dig behind the frozen foods for the page with the word “VERIFY.” Everything I’ve ever been taught tells me to take the paper to a recycling center, but I don’t want the money or, more important, the recognition that might come from turning it in. I just want it and all the problems the gang tried to cause me gone.
I turn the dial on the stove, watch the burner ignite with a circle of blue-and-orange heat, and touch an edge of the fragile paper to the flame. It takes two tries before the orange flicker glows and begins to consume the page, leaving a curling trail of black in its wake. I dump the paper into a large pot and watch as the faded red letters slowly turn into black-and-gray char. When there is nothing left but smoldering remnants, I put the pot under the sink and run water until all evidence of VERIFY and the page on which it was delivered are washed into the pipes and carried away, leaving behind only a campfire smell.
When the pot is dried and stowed in the cabinet, I take my backpack and go upstairs, determined to move on. Mr. Webster said he was going to talk to the school and the police and make all of this go away.
There was nothing left to worry about. It was all over.
I pull off my uniform, glad that I don’t have to wear it again for the next few months, and change into faded yellow shorts and a white-and-red shirt. With several hours until my father comes home and no homework or studying to do, I pull out my tablet and sit on the bench next to my window to work on my mother’s painting. But no matter what I try I can’t seem to focus. All I can think about is the gang Mr. Webster talked about and the way the flame consumed the water-stained page.
Guilt snakes through my chest and squeezes.
Could my destroying the note prevent the police from finding the gang that’s causing so many problems for the city?
The idea that there’s a group out there threatening people is scary, mostly because, until Mr. Webster told us, I had no idea. I’d heard about the explosion near the lake. A faulty gas line was the explanation. And the train going off the tracks stopped travel on the Blue Line for a few hours. Some of the teachers had trouble getting to school, but otherwise it wasn’t a big deal, which makes this all hard to believe. No one I know thinks things are more dangerous in the city. Riding around on my bike yesterday didn’t feel any different from the way it had before. And the guy who gave me the slip of paper was more surprising than threatening. He certainly didn’t seem like someone who would be capable of any kind of violence.
I shut down my art application, call up my history text, and jump to the chapter on the end of city violence in the United States of America—starting with Chicago—and the rise of a new doctrine of Pride.
The photographs are as terrible as I remember. Buildings burning. Children sprawled like broken dolls on cracked asphalt—rusted chain-link swings sitting empty in the distance. Face after face of people of all ages terrified to go out of their homes because of the people who robbed and sold drugs and murdered. All of the gang members pictured in the history text look intimidating—especially when smiling at the camera. Their grins are cocky and belligerent—as if they are daring someone, anyone, to try to stop them.
I look at the dates under the photos: May 25, 2017. December 17, 2018. This was what the city—the whole country, really—was like just a few decades ago. The country was at war with itself while our armed forces were scattered in wars around the globe. If they hadn’t returned in order to set our country free from the unpatriotic who were determined to terrorize it, who knew what the city would be like now?
Only, the guy in the rain last night didn’t fit in with the images in front of me. He didn’t have an assault rifle or a sharp, bloodstained knife. Just the yellow umbrella, a couple of earrings, and the folded paper he handed to me.
But according to Mr. Webster, the man I met is dangerous—not just to me but to my family and friends and even the entire city.
I lean my head against the window and watch Mrs. Johnson and her toy poodle, Bruiser, coming down the sidewalk. The fluffy white dog stops every few feet to sniff at a tree or a plant, then yips at the car parked at the curb. Still barking, he lifts his leg and pees on the car’s gold-and-silver back tire rim. Mrs. Johnson tugs at Bruiser’s leash and yanks him away. The dog continues yapping at the car until he and Mrs. Johnson are out of sight.
I slide off the window seat and pace the room. Mr. Webster had listened to my problem, promised to fix it, and given me an answer about it that made sense. Part of me just wants to forget the whole thing. But the longer he and Rose are gone, the more questions I seem to have.
Like why did the man with the umbrella give me that paper and then disappear?
Why did it seem that my mother’s paintings were leading me to that exact spot?
And why had the woman been standing across the street from the school waving at me to follow? Was that what she was doing or did I just imagine it? And if she had been signaling me, was there a chance she was still in that area?
Waiting?
If so, then it’s possible the woman across the street from the school could have answers to some of my questions. Answers I need if my father and I are ever going to move on, but suddenly I’m not sure if I want them. Suddenly, I realize there’s a chance I don’t know my mother at all. If “verify” is some sort of code used by a violent gang . . . if the man who gave the paper to me was a member . . . and my mother knew him . . .
I walk across the room and look at the picture screen on my wall as it scrolls through the images I’ve uploaded over the years. Mom with her hair pulled back in a knot and secured with her tapered paintbrush—her screen balanced on her lap as she sits on a rock, staring out at Lake Michigan. I took the picture the previous summer. It was the last time I remember all three of us going to the lake together, only Mom said she was tired and that she just wanted to sit in the sun and draw while Dad and I walked on the beach. I offered to draw with her, but she said watching me struggle would just be a distraction from her own work and I didn’t think twice about walking away.
For years she said I was talented. She applauded even my worst efforts and told me, when I got frustrated, that all artists had to learn to walk before they ran.
Then something changed.
Mom grew distant. She brushed aside my work or suggested I should try to draw easier subjects. The stool in her studio—the one she bought for me to use—was put in the back corner and she asked about my work less and less.
Dad said the change was because I was getting older. Mom knew how hard it was to get accepted into the university programs and hired by the government. Her friends at work were seeing their own kids get crushed because they were turned down. Only the best of the best made it into the university arts programs, and those who didn’t were forced to put their art aside and find a new vocation. Mom wasn’t sure I was improving enough and didn’t want me to be left adrift because I wasn’t talented enough to be selected.
But what if Dad was wrong? What if there was more to it than that? What if Mom was trying to hide who she had become and the things she was doing from both of us? There are so many things I clearly don’t understand.
A hollow ache builds in the center of my chest. I wrap my arms tight around myself and stare at my mother’s face—eyes pinched close together—mouth pursed tight, but turned up slightly on the edges, as if amused by something only she could see. Did I lose my mother in that car accident or was she already gone long before she died? Not knowing
is like losing her all over. I shouldn’t have to feel that kind of loss again. And yet . . . here I am.
I turn my back on the pictures scrolling on my screen and pace across the room. Mr. Webster made me promise to come to him with any questions I have, but I can’t risk telling him about my mother’s paintings. Which means the only way to learn exactly who I lost in that accident is to find the answers on my own.
I grab my phone and retrieve my bicycle from where I had leaned it against the house. Before I can let my doubts about what I’m doing stop me, I climb on and start to ride.
My leg muscles complain as I pump the pedals. Today’s mile run and the ride yesterday are more of a workout than I’m used to. But even though it’s been two hours since I spotted her there and the chances of her still remaining are slim, I push the pedals as fast as I can.
The sun is bright orange yellow against the cloudless sky as the school comes into view. I allow myself to slow down so I can get a better look at what is happening there.
The police cars are gone. A couple of guys shoot hoops at the outdoor courts at the far end of the building, and a handful of people are standing on the sidewalk not far from the faculty parking lot with their backs to me. I keep my head down as I coast along the street and turn up the inclined drive where I saw the gray-haired woman disappear.
There is a tan brick garage behind the three-story apartment building. It has a white, slightly chipped door, a patch of deep green grass with some reed-thin trees, and a fenced-off area for a vegetable garden that looks as if it was recently planted. But no gray-haired woman in a black hoodie.
I didn’t really think she would still be here. Still . . .
“Atlas was certain you’d return. I was not as optimistic.”
I spin around as the woman I saw hours ago steps from the side of the garage and nods. Up close she looks younger than I had originally thought. The gray hair is streaked with hints of brown. Her eyes are clear blue and flash with impatience. “Had you taken five minutes longer it wouldn’t have mattered because I would not have been here.”
“Who are you?” I ask. “Who is Atlas? And why—”
“Hush!” she snaps, and steps toward me. “You have questions. Had you come immediately I could have given you the answers you seek, but it’s no longer safe. You have to leave immediately.”
“Leave? Why?”
“Because you didn’t come here alone. You were followed by city detectives, and if you don’t show yourself to them soon, they’ll grow curious. If they start to search for you they might find me, and I’m not interested in outrunning Marshals today.”
I shake my head. “No one followed me.”
“Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true,” she warns. “If you wish to continue this conversation, be on the La Salle Street Bridge at twelve thirty tonight. Make sure you aren’t followed or no one will be there to meet you.”
She turns toward the garage.
“Wait—” I wheel my bike after her. “I can’t just go out after midnight to meet some stranger.” It was crazy enough that I came here in the middle of the day!
“Then don’t.” She glances back. “Come or don’t come. The choice is yours. You won’t be given the opportunity again.”
Panic flutters in my chest as I recall what Mr. Webster said about how the gang was creating unrest. “If you’re trying to scare me, I’m not scared,” I say. “There isn’t anyone following me.”
“If you are so certain of that, why are you whispering?” she asks.
She’s right. I am. I was. I straighten my shoulders and at a normal volume say, “The police are looking for you. I can turn you in.”
“You can try.” She gives me a sad smile and shakes her head. “Twelve thirty. If you don’t come, we’ll understand that you wish to live your life as it is now. You will not be judged.” She disappears around the garage, and I drop my bike and follow in time to watch her run toward the chain-link fence beyond, leap, and gracefully vault over the five-foot-tall barrier. She lands in a crouch on the other side, and when she comes up, she winks in my direction before racing down the alley and out of sight without my saying another word.
For several heartbeats, I can do nothing but replay the exit in my mind. By then it is too late to chase her. And really, there’s no point. The woman isn’t going to tell me anything that will answer my questions. Instead, she and whoever is behind this group want to lure me away from my neighborhood back to the heart of the city—alone.
Which is insane. All of this—the paper, the woman, the insinuation that someone followed me here, the vault over the fence—is unbelievable. I climb on my bike and pedal home, zigzagging down different streets from the ones I used on my way. Every few seconds I look over my shoulder, and while there are cars driving along and people on the sidewalks, none of them pay me any special attention.
I was right. The woman had been trying to freak me out. This was all designed to upset me and my life. My mother would never have wanted this. Whoever this gang was, they had gotten me to trigger an alarm at the school with the mysterious word they found a way to put in my hands. They had made me doubt. That had to have been part of their plan all along, and I fell for it. How stupid was that?
I stash my bike behind the house and head back upstairs, frustration building with every step. Mr. Webster warned me that the group was looking to cause problems. Who knows what would have been in store for me if I had bought into what the gray-haired woman wanted. . . .
From my window, I spot a dark blue car parked across the street. It was the one with the gold-and-silver rims I’d watched Mrs. Johnson’s dog pee on earlier. I’d never noticed that car on the block before today. It hadn’t been there minutes ago when I returned home.
But it is there now.
I tell myself it means nothing.
But when I check an hour later, the car is still there, and this time the driver’s-side window is lowered an inch. Maybe two.
Even though I have vowed not to think about the gang again, the woman’s warning about my having been followed to meet her replays in my mind. I find myself going downstairs to the living room to get a better look at the car. Slowly, I walk to the edge of the front window, careful not to rustle the curtains.
I’m just trying to prove the woman wrong once and for all, I tell myself as I peer out the edge of the window. There’s no way anyone was following me then and no way anyone is just sitting in that car now.
I spot a pair of eyes staring out the lowered window. There’s someone in that car.
When the man in the driver’s seat shifts, I can see another shadow behind him.
My heart trips. There is more than one person parked in the blue car. The car has been there for over an hour with the engine off.
That’s . . . really strange, I think as the driver’s eyes flit along the street before returning to the one house he seems to be the most interested in watching.
Mine.
Six
My heart beats loud in my ears as I jerk back from the window.
This is stupid, I tell myself. I’m overreacting. After everything that has happened today, it’s no wonder I’m spooked. The alarm . . . the police . . . Rose’s dad telling me about the gang . . . it’s enough to spook anyone.
I glance out the window again. The car is still there. The men are still inside. The engine is quiet, and the men are very definitely watching my house. Who are they and how did the woman know about them?
Pushing down the fear that has burrowed deep inside my stomach, I hurry upstairs and grab my tablet. I cast looks out the window to make sure the car is still there as I pull up Mr. Webster’s office number at City Hall. Then I dial, hoping he’s still at work.
It takes ten minutes to convince the woman who answers the phone that I know Mr. Webster and that he told me to call him. Finally she puts me on hold. I pace the room and catch a glimpse of a police car cruising down the street. The Chicago Police Department vehicle s
lows and then stops a few feet in front of the car of the men who have been watching me. I hold my breath as I watch the uniformed police officer climb out of his car. The driver’s-side door to the car that’s been watching my house opens and a man in brown slacks, a white shirt, and a navy-blue jacket gets out. Sweat glistens off the top of his hairless head as he stands with his hand on the top of the car door and nods at the officer who approaches.
I lower my phone and step closer to the window as the bald man shifts his jacket. Sunlight glints off the gold shield clipped to his belt. The uniformed officer says something, and the bald guy points back at whoever else is sitting in the car.
The officer nods and heads back to his own vehicle.
“Merriel? . . . Are you there? . . . Merriel.”
I blink at the sound of my name, then look at the phone in my hand. Mr. Webster!
“Sorry.” My hand holding the phone shakes. The man watching my house knows the police. It seems like he might even be one of them—perhaps some kind of detective. And he’s tailing me—just like the woman said. “I was looking out the window while I was on hold and got distracted.”
“When my assistant told me you were on the phone, I was worried something else might have happened.”
“Nothing happened.” My mind races. Why would detectives be watching my house? The only answer I can come up with is because Mr. Webster told them to come here. “I just wanted to thank you again for helping me today and to ask . . .”
“Yes?”
“Just . . .” Thoughts trip over each other. “I know you told me not to worry, but is there any chance that the gang you told me about could figure out who I am? Is there any reason the police or someone should be watching my house in case they try to contact me?”
I wait for him to tell me about the guys in the car out front, but instead he says, “The gang is looking for people who want to become members. They aren’t going to come looking for you at your home. Trust me. No police protection is necessary, but if you feel uneasy or remember anything more that could help us find whoever the code word came from, I want you to contact me immediately. My assistant has been instructed to put you right through.”
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