by David Estes
The question that I can’t seem to answer, though, is why did he reveal this to us? Why to me? Why to Roc? My worst fears were that he would threaten me through those I care about, but that didn’t happen. There is seemingly no purpose to what he did. It’s as if he did it just to…spite me, to break my spirit. Perhaps he thinks it will drive a wedge between Roc and me, thus creating chaos in my life. Maybe he believes in his sick and twisted mind that I’ll give up on the cause, go into hiding somewhere, or even return to him. He’s so arrogant he might just think that.
But I won’t. He’s only succeeded in lighting a fire in my belly, one that won’t be extinguished until he’s destroyed and his power usurped.
I open my eyes and roll my head to the right, where I can see Ben, who looks like he’s sleeping. On the floor is a piece of paper. Roc’s drawing. The side with the portrait of Tawni is face down, leaving the drawing of the woman who is half his mom and half my mom revealed. Not just my mom—his stepmom.
It’s weird, how none of it makes sense at first, but then all of it seems to make sense. That he always felt like my brother, always felt like my mom’s son. Us playing, laughing, growing up together. The only part that doesn’t feel right is that a guy who turned out as honest, caring, and awesome as Roc should have a father like mine. I guess that gives me hope that I’ll turn out all right in the end.
A nasty thought pops into my head and I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to make it go away. But it won’t, not until I think about it, so I let it in slowly, playing it around in my mind. Could my mom have known Roc was her stepson? Is that why she always treated him the way she did? My initial reaction is No way, José; my mom, the kind, loving person I grew up with, would never do that, would never keep such a secret from us. But then again, I never thought she would leave me alone with my father, no matter how bad things got for her.
I pound my forehead with the heel of my hand. I hate these thoughts. My anger should be turned on my father, not on my mother. This is exactly what he wants—for me to doubt things, to doubt my mother, to doubt myself. I’m playing right into his hands. If my mother left, then she had a damn good reason, one that was for the good of everyone involved, including me. She wouldn’t do something like that, and she wouldn’t keep a secret from us, like the one my father revealed today.
“She didn’t know,” I say out loud, opening my eyes and trying out the words to see how they sound.
“Who didn’t?” Ben asks, his own eyes blinking open.
I glance at him. I’m ready to talk about it—at least as ready as I’ll ever be.
“My mother,” I say. I tell him everything, the whole dark and twisted story. I even tell him how I felt, about Roc’s reaction, about my father’s smug smile. By the end my vision is blurry and my cheeks wet, and for a moment I’m embarrassed, using the back of my hand to wipe away the tears, turning my face away from Ben. Adele’s father. My judge. My jury.
“I don’t think she knew either. Your mother,” Ben says.
“How can you say that? You don’t even know her.” The words come out angrier than I planned and I feel like I’m defending my mom, even though what he said was what I wanted to hear.
“Call it a hunch,” Ben says, ignoring my tone. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
He’s such a genuine guy that I can’t hold onto my anger. “It’s okay. I suppose it’s better to know the truth, even when it’s hard.”
“Those are mature words.”
My embarrassment waning, I turn back to face him. His green eyes are shining with the moisture in them. While I was protecting some silly requirement for manly pride, he was crying, too, maybe not as much as me, but still. It makes me feel better. He’s the leader of the Resistance, strong, a fighter, a hero to his daughter. And becoming a hero to me. A true man. So if I’m crying and he’s crying, then maybe I’m just a little bit like him. For the first time since the meeting with my father, I have hope again. That there’s good in the world. That evil can be vanquished. And that I can help to do it.
“Let’s go find Roc,” he says.
Chapter Fifteen
Adele
Without time to consider my options, I close the distance to the rope ladder in three long strides and leap onto it just before someone starts pulling it up. My knuckles scrape against the stone block wall as the rope starts to swing, but I force my fingers to hold on. I hear Tawni shout below me but I don’t look down as I feel the earth moving away from my feet.
Instead, I peer up and see a set of eyes attached to a small body looking down at me. A boy, older than the crying kid, but no more than Elsey’s age. He’s hanging onto the rope ladder casually, using just his knees, as if he does it all the time. And in his hands: a slingshot, which he’s already pulling back.
I duck sharply, afraid to let go of the rope, but making sure my eyes are protected.
Twang! The slingshot sings and I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as the stone deflects hard off my collar bone. “Arrr,” I growl, desperately fighting off the urge to massage the wound with one of my hands. It hurts like hell, a stinging pain that shoots through my nerves like a fire cracker.
I grind my teeth so hard that my jaw starts to hurt. But it takes my mind off my shoulder and I start to climb, keeping my head down and starting with one hand up, then one foot; the other hand—the other foot. All the while the rope is careening side to side and being pulled upward by an unseen force. I repeat my climbing cycle twice more and then risk another glance up.
Another kid, a girl this time, is staring back at me, as if she was waiting for me to look up. Her hands hold a tube to her lips like a straw. Not a straw—a pea shooter, like we used to play with when we were kids. I hear a sharp exhalation of breath and feel a pin-like prick on my cheek.
This time I can’t help but to raise a hand to my injury, and I feel the warmth of fresh blood streaming down my face. That filthy, little… I think, once more lowering my head to climb, moving faster, less worried about falling, more focused on getting my hands on the brats who are attacking me. A few more stings pepper my body in various places—my ear, my neck, the crown of my head—but I ignore the pain, determined to—
Thud!
Something heavy crashes into my skull and sparkling fairy stars dance before my eyes. My head suddenly feels heavy and my hands too tired to grip the rope. In the back of my mind I know I’m pretty high up and that a fall could kill me, but the thought of going to sleep just sounds so good.
Luckily, when my fingers relax on the rope, I fall a little forward and my hands slips through the ladder, pushing the rung sharply under my arms, burning my skin. The sensation of falling loops wildly through my stomach, sending warning signals to my brain. It snaps me out of my stupor and I manage to grasp the rope once more.
I look up just as the foot comes down on my head, trying for the knockout blow. Turning my head sharply to the side, I avoid the worst of it as the dirty, shoeless foot glances off my shoulder. Able to think once more, I grab the foot and pull down hard.
“Ahhh!” a high voice yells as a small form tumbles into my arm. It’s the girl with the pea shooter. The kicker. I desperately cling to the ladder with my other arm, while trying to hold onto the girl, who is kicking and thrashing wildly, trying to unhinge herself from me, completely unconcerned with the potential three-story drop below us.
“Stop squirming,” I snap. She doesn’t listen—just wriggles even harder.
I hear a shout from above and look up to see the boy with the slingshot, once more taking aim. He’s now dangling outside the top-floor window, where I’m headed, as the ladder continues to ascend.
“Don’t shoot or I’ll drop her!” I shout, muscling the girl away from the rope so she’s hanging precariously over empty space. Finally she stops fighting me as she realizes the danger she’s in.
The boy’s eyes widen and I see doubt register in his eyes as he lowers the slingshot slightly. If he shoots me and I fall, she’s going w
ith me. Although clearly he’s not afraid of violence, perhaps he draws the line at bearing responsibility for the death of a friend.
“What youse want?” he says.
The ladder rises another couple of feet. I can almost touch him.
“Just to talk,” I say. And wring your little neck.
He pulls back and helps to pull the ladder over the windowsill. With a final grunt, I pull myself and the girl into the window, crashing awkwardly to a crinkly floor below. I feel my tiny hostage scramble away from me, scraping against the papery floor with her fingernails.
For a moment I can’t see through the gloom, but then a bright light is flashed in my eyes and I raise a hand to shield them.
“Don’t move,” the boy says, wielding a slingshot next to the light. His confidence is back.
“Yeah, don’t move,” the girl repeats, holding the light.
“I’m not moving,” I say, considering my options. I don’t particularly believe in hitting children, but for these two I might make an exception. They put the rats in brats.
“Youse said youse wanna talk. What about?” the boy asks.
“About you and your friends giving me my stuff back, for starters.”
“Forget it,” the boy says. “Finders keepers.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a real rule,” I say.
“Yeah, it is,” the boy says. “And anyway, it ain’t ours to give back. Not anymore.”
What is that supposed to mean? “Well, then, whose exactly is it?”
“Mep’s. The Gimp. Only don’t call ’im the Gimp—he don’t like that.”
I feel blood trickle off my scraped knuckles, and my shoulders, neck, and head are throbbing in at least six places. Damn kids.
“Where can I find this Mep?”
“You cain’t. He finds youse.”
Screw talking—it’s not getting me anywhere. I fake right, move left, and feel the air from the rock as it rips past my head, missing me by mere centimeters. I crash into the boy, rip the weapon from his hands, and swing around him to grab him around the neck from behind.
The girl plays the flashlight on our faces and I can tell she’s scared. I feel bad for a second, but then I remember how she bashed me in the head with her heel. “Let him go!” she cries.
“Only if you take me to Mep.”
She nods furiously. “Follow me. He’s just down the hall.”
“He’s here?” I say incredulously. After all the talk about how He finds youse, I thought for sure we’d have to go to some secret hideout in the city.
The girl doesn’t answer; instead, she moves away from me through the room, her feet crinkling on the floor, which I now see is covered in old newspapers. In some spots the newspapers are rolled up, and next to them are large squares of paper, knit together to form sheets. I realize: the kids are sleeping here.
I feel sick as I begin to put it all together. These kids are orphans, living without adult supervision, stealing to stay alive, sleeping on newspaper and reporting to some gimp named Mep.
I hesitate for a second. Tawni’s still down there by herself and she’s not exactly a fighter. And the Star Realm’s not exactly a safe place, as we’re quickly discovering. With the kid still in a headlock, I peek out the window. Tawni’s looking up at me, her face masked with concern. “You all right?” I shout.
She nods. “Should I get help?” she yells back.
“No!” The last thing I want is Tawni traipsing through the narrow subchapter streets by herself. “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.”
We tramp across the sleeping quarters and out of the room, passing through a short hallway with moldy, pockmarked walls and a crumbling floor. At one point the boy tries to stamp on my foot, but I just tighten my hold on his throat and his body goes slack, forcing me to drag him with me.
The girl pauses at a closed door on her right, takes a deep breath, and then knocks. There’s a muffled sound and the door opens slowly.
She whispers something I can’t hear to someone I can’t see.
“Enough with the mysterious bull crap,” I say, pushing past the little girl and into the room. The room is well-lit, with lanterns in each corner and at least a dozen candles. It reminds me of a séance, like the ones Madame Sonia used to hold that my mom wouldn’t let me go to. Three kids, wearing tattered white tunics that are so dirty they appear gray, bar my path with serious arms folded across puffed-out chests. “Move it if you don’t want to get hurt.”
The kids look at each other, like they’re unsure who to be more scared of—me, or this Mep character.
“Let her enter,” a remarkably high and whiny voice says from behind them. They shrug and part in the middle, allowing me to pass through them. I dump my “hostage” on the floor and move forward. The kid immediately races out the door. Little wimp, I think, not so confident without your slingshot. I’m still clenching his rock-slinger in my hand.
Mep’s sitting on a big cushion in the center of the room, surrounded by a half-dozen other kids, who almost look like his worshippers, such is the meekness of their postures. He would have been sitting cross-legged; that is, if he had any legs. Instead, he is just sort of resting on his torso, the stumps of his legs no more than half a foot long. I keep a straight face, but inside I’m horrified. This poor orphaned boy is stuck in the crummy Star Realm with no legs. It almost makes my time in the Pen look like a vacation.
As I look at him closer, I see that despite his tiny stature—due to his missing limbs—the boy is older than the rest of the kids—perhaps fifteen. He gazes at me with curious brown eyes that dance with questions.
“Why have you come to see Mep?” he asks.
“Why you are speaking in third person?” I retort.
A hint of a smile crosses his face. “I’m sorry, I’m used to speaking to children,” he says. “Why have you come to see me?”
“Your thugs stole our packs,” I say, “and when I chased them they shot rocks at me.” I don’t mention the heel-in-the-head incident. I’ll save it for later if I need it.
“You shouldn’t have chased them,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“They stole my stuff.”
“Finders, keepers.”
“Yeah, rock-slinger boy already tried that on me, but unless you can tell me the Tri-Realms law that states that, I want my packs back.” I can’t believe I’m actually relying on Tri-Realms law in my defense, which is the biggest bunch of BS there is, but I can’t think of anything better to say, except maybe Give them back now or I’ll sock you in the nose.
“Mep’s Law,” he says.
I’m getting bored of this conversation, which is beginning to transition from somewhat silly to laughably loony. “Listen, you little punk,” I say, stepping forward. Immediately, about twelve feet are planted in a circle around Mep. Some of the kids have pea shooters, some slingshots, and all wear fearsome glares. Well, maybe more comical than fearsome, but still, under the flickering glow of the candles, it’s somewhat intimidating, especially because I’m hopelessly outnumbered.
So what do I do?
No surprise there—I fight.
Three kids are down before they even know what hit them, my foot arcing through the orange light. I take a little strength off the kick, as I want to intimidate the buggers, not kill them. The other kids drop their weapons and run for the door. I let them go. Like I said, my tactics are for intimidation purposes only.
I fake a punch at Mep’s face and he flinches, throwing his hands across his face in defense, as if that could really stop my fist. I know I’m just being cruel now, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough.
“Give me the packs,” I growl.
“I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Mep squeals.
“Give me the freaking packs. NOW.”
“Okay, okay, they’re right here,” Mep says, reaching behind his back and retrieving our two packs. He hands them to me and retracts his hand quickly, as if
he’s afraid I’ll claw him or something. I check each bag to make sure nothing’s missing. Stale wafers. A handful of leftover Nailins. Some clothes—our only spare clothes. No canteens, but that’s because we chucked them away when they were contaminated. All there.
“Thanks,” I grumble sarcastically, making for the door.
“Wait a minute, please.” I stop, but don’t turn around. “Why don’t you stay a minute and have something to eat or drink.”
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“I want to make you an offer,” he says, his voice going up in excitement.
“You can’t possibly have anything I want,” I say, although I am curious as to what the little guy has to say.
“Just five minutes,” he says. “Take a seat.” He motions to another cushion, and grudgingly, I place it in front of him and sit down. “Thank you, I appreciate it,” he says.
I just stare at him. This day is getting weirder and weirder.
“Some protectors they are,” he says, motioning to the door. I sense movement to my left and I jerk my head to the side, seeing the three kids I kicked to the ground sneaking for the door. When my gaze catches theirs, they break for it. I laugh as I watch them go.
“They did all right,” I say, massaging my sore shoulder.
“They’re good kids,” he says, at which I cringe, again remembering the kick in the head. Noticing my reaction, he says, “They are. You don’t know what kind of lives they’ve had—where they come from.”
“That’s just an excuse,” I say.
“I like you,” Mep says. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It’s not what I expected him to say to the girl who penetrated his defenses, accused him of stealing, and beat up his gang of minions. “I do,” he says, flashing me a smile. He’s boyishly cute, with dimples in each cheek when he grins, piercing, turquoise eyes, and messed up brown hair.