by Ty Drago
But she did it because she was an Undertaker, and it needed doing.
Pages, Jillian explained, were usually high school juniors. I’d left school an eighth grader, which seemed like a deal breaker to me. Apparently I was wrong.
“It’s cool,” Tom told me as we sat in his office on the day before our departure. “You don’t come off as thirteen. Maturity wise, you can pull of fifteen or sixteen, easy.”
“Okay …” I said. “But I still look thirteen.”
“Do you? Stand up.”
I stood up. So did he. “You’re taller than me,” I said. “Big surprise.”
“How about Sharyn?” he asked, his face neutral.
“Her, too.”
“And Helene?”
“She used to be. Now, I’m a little taller.”
He nodded. “Yeah? When’d you first notice that?”
I frowned “I guess it was back when you guys held that funeral for me … when you thought I was dead.”
Again, he nodded. “That’s when I noticed it, too. Remember the first thing your mom said to you?”
“That I’d gotten taller,” I replied. “But grown-ups always say that when they haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tom said. “The thing is: you did get taller, bro. I’m sure of it. ’Tween you headin’ out that day to save your family and when you interrupted my eulogy, I figure you grew about three inches.”
“That’s impossible!” I exclaimed.
“You got shot, Will! That assassin’s bullet should’ve killed you dead. But a few hours later, you showed up with nothing but an old scar.”
“I told you,” I said. “The woman in the white room healed me. Just like when I broke my arm last year.”
“Except I’m not sure she did. If she’d healed you, like we do these days with the crystal, there’d be no scar at all. Right?”
It was true. The Anchor Shard healed things completely, as if the injury had never occurred.
Tom said, “How long you figure you were in that white room?”
“Maybe a few hours?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then what do you think?”
He told me.
I left Tom’s office seriously creeped out.
The next day, Sharyn and I said our separate good-byes. Mine started with Dave, who hugged me—he does that—and told me for about the millionth time how much he wished he could come along.
“You got your own gig,” I said.
“Yeah,” he admitted, looking huge and childlike at the same time. He does that, too. “But … it’s kinda getting old.”
What was the Burgermeister’s new gig? Well, let’s just say it started out as a cool way for him to show off his mad skills and join the fight. But, over the last couple of months, he’d soured on it. And I didn’t blame him. Sometimes Undertakers have to do stuff “for the cause” that goes against everything that feels right and decent. After a while, that kind of weight drags you down, makes it harder to get through the day.
It’s like this: war, even if it doesn’t kill you, eats away at you.
In a word, it sucks.
“Sorry, man,” I said.
Dave’s huge shoulders rose and fell. “We all gotta do what we gotta do, right?”
“Right,” I said.
And I thought, This is a hero, Harleen.
“Try to sleep,” I told him. “Maybe ask Tom if he’ll have the Monkeys put a door in for you. You know … to help with the noise.”
The Burgermeister scowled. “After what happened in the Brain Factory? Naw, no door for me. Besides, it ain’t the noise. It’s the dreams.”
I knew just what he meant.
“What’s your name?” Helene asked me.
“Andy Forbes,” I replied.
We were in her room. Her roommate, Katie, was elsewhere. Helene sat on her bunk with an open civics book on her lap. She was quizzing me one last time. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be sixteen in July.”
“Grade and school?”
“Junior,” I said. “Chapeltown High. Chapeltown, Pennyslvania.”
“Interests?” she asked.
“Politics,” I replied. “Current events.”
“Favorite subjects?”
“History and poly-sci.”
“Name the president, vice president, and speaker of the house.”
I did.
“Name the senate majority leader.”
I did.
“Name the committees in the Senate.”
I did. I missed one: the Rules and Administration Committee. “A real poly-sci would know that,” Helene said.
“You don’t know it! You’re reading it out of a book!”
“I’m not headed to DC to pretend I’m somebody else. This is hardcore, Will. You heard what Jillian said. You’re gonna be surrounded by other pages, all older’n you and all serious poly-sci. If you don’t even know the basics, your cover won’t last a day.”
“Is this what it’s like to be a Schooler?” I asked.
“When you’re a Schooler, you’re totally on your own. You’ll have Sharyn.”
That made me wonder how Sharyn was doing. Right now she and Jillian were somewhere in Haven, running through this same final cram. But at least Helene and I liked each other.
Several questions later, she closed the book. “Okay, here’s one more tip: the minute you walk out of Haven, you’re not Will Ritter anymore. You’re Andy Forbes. Get that. Believe that. It might just keep you alive.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then, treading carefully: “Um … we haven’t talked about South Street.”
“Yeah. I … uh … asked Tom to pay for the skateboards. But Doug still won’t answer when I call him.”
“Sorry,” I said. “So … you gotta find another letter drop?”
Helene sighed. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that. Tom knows it all now. He says we’ll be ‘discussing it some more,’ once you and Sharyn are on your way.”
“I hope it works out okay.”
“Thanks. You know, it’s funny.” Then she made a sour face. “I mean … it’s awful, but it’s funny, too. I was so caught up in my own problems, so upset about what happened at the comic book shop. But then, later that same day, Ian died and suddenly those problems, they seemed so pointless, like nothing compared with what happened to him. But now, after less than a week, I can feel myself getting caught up in them again. What does that say about me?”
I shrugged. “That you’re human?”
“I guess. I wish you weren’t going.”
“Yeah? So, you’re gonna … what … miss me?”
She smiled ruefully. “Yeah, jerk! I’m gonna miss you!”
“So … we’re cool? About the following-you thing?”
“You mean the stalking-me thing?”
“I like ‘following’ better,” I said.
“If you hadn’t been there, we might not have saved Jillian. So, once again, Will Ritter makes a bonehead move that turns out to be a good thing in disguise. I told Tom I think it’s your mutant power.”
I had no reply.
She eyed me. “You still haven’t apologized.”
“That’s ’cause I’m not sorry.”
I half expected her to yell at me again, maybe take another swing. But she didn’t. Instead, she came close to laughing. “Keep kickin’ that hornet’s nest, Ritter!” Then, when I didn’t respond again, she added, “We’re cool.”
I cleared my throat, knowing I was pushing my luck. “You ever gonna tell me what’s on that piece of paper?”
Her laugh died. Then she put down the book, stood up, and cupped my face. She’d never done that before. It startled me, but her skin felt warm against my cheeks, her palms soft …
… but not nearly as soft as her kiss.
How long had I imagined this moment? I didn’t know. But I did know that the reality went way beyond my imagination.
>
The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but they were a totally amazing few seconds!
She pulled back and draped her arms around my neck. Her face was so close to mine that I thought I might lose myself in her eyes. She smelled like soap and—well—girl. Tentatively, I put my hands on her waist.
It felt right.
“Come back alive,” she whispered, “and I’ll tell you then.”
Walking out of that little room was the second hardest thing I did that day.
I hit my own room next. It was almost eight a.m., and I found the Burgermeister zonked out on his bunk, a huge shape under a thick blanket, snoring like a 747. I let him sleep and felt around for my duffle bag, which contained the clothes and other stuff I’d packed the night before.
It wasn’t there.
My heart sank. I wished I could say I hadn’t seen this coming.
So I headed for the Shrine.
On the way, I peeked into the infirmary. The beds were all empty—a nice change—and Amy was on duty. She sat at Ian’s old desk, just staring into space. It had been a week since Ian’s death and, as far as I knew Amy, never a big talker, hadn’t spoken a word since his funeral.
God, how I hated this place.
Farther along Haven’s main corridor stood the Brain Factory. Its big door was closed, though I knew Steve was in there. Burt said that his brother had taken to eating and sleeping there, working—always working—on the Anchor Shard. And, for now, Tom was giving him his space.
Different people grieve differently. My mom once told me that, not long after my dad died.
My mom.
I found her in the Shrine. While Emily slept on her little cot, my mother sat in the dark with my duffle bag beside her. When I parted the curtain, she met my eyes.
She looked desperate.
“You’re not going,” she said.
“I have to,” I said.
“No.” She shook her head—hard.
“Mom. …”
She stood up fast, her eyes blazing the way they do when she’s really, really mad. “No!” she said again, loud. Emily stirred and, seeing this, my mother pushed me back through the curtain and out into the empty hallway.
“You’re not going!” she said again, this time in a hard whisper.
“I have to,” I repeated.
“Why? Because some mystery woman in a dream told you to?”
“They aren’t dreams.” I knew I sounded defensive. But this was my mother, and old habits die hard.
“Of course they are! You’re all just too blind to see it. Even Tom. You want so badly to believe that there’s some higher power watching over you that you’ve bought into this … fantasy! Well, I’m not going to let you kill yourself over a dream! Someone else can go. You’re staying here!”
I felt my anger rise. “Mom,” I said, with what I figured to be amazing control, “I’ve got a job to do. I’m sorry, but a lot’s changed since I left home. The days when you can tell me what’s allowed or not allowed are over.”
Even in the bad light, I saw her face redden. “William Karl Ritter, I’m still your mother,” she said, her hands on her hips, her mouth set in a hard, straight line.
That pose used to scare me to death.
“Yeah,” I told her. “But you’re not my boss. Not anymore.”
“You’re thirteen years old!”
Am I?
Out loud, I said, “So what?”
Lame.
“So what?” she echoed, glaring ferociously. “Look, I realize you’ve had a wonderful time these past months playing soldier—”
And with that, my control snapped. “Playing soldier!” I screamed—yeah, screamed—“People are dying, Mom! They’re dying all the time! You think Ian was the first? He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Nobody here is ‘playing’ anything!”
“Which is why you’re not going!” She pointed a trembling finger at me. “You disappeared for months! For months! Leaving behind a note that didn’t do anything but terrify me more! Do you have any idea what you did to your sister and me?” She gestured around us. “And to think you’ve been living here, in this rathole, like some kind of animal … and a mile from where I work! All of this time, just a mile away!”
“I didn’t have a choice!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you think I wanted to come home? I thought about it every minute!”
“Then why didn’t you? Why didn’t you just … come home?”
“You know why.”
“No, Will, I don’t,” she said, all challenge and motherly fury. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
As I stepped up close to her, I noticed that we were the same height. When had that happened? But, of course, I knew the answer.
“Because,” I said, through gritted teeth. “You … couldn’t … protect … me.” She looked horror-stricken, but it didn’t slow me down. “If I’d come home and told you about the Corpses and the Undertakers and the war … you’d have called me crazy.”
She shook her head so hard I thought it might snap off her neck. “No! I wouldn’t have! I really wouldn’t!”
“You’re a grown-up and grown-ups don’t believe! You know it and I know it! Helene went that way and she ended up in a nuthouse … until the Corpses almost got her. There are plenty of kids here with similar stories, or worse. This isn’t a clubhouse, Mom. And the war is real. If I’d come home, they’d have killed me. Then, just to be safe, they’d have killed you and Em, as well. ’Cause that’s what they do!”
Where her face had been red, it was now ashen. She stared at me with a look of such betrayal that I thought it might kill me. But, of course, it didn’t.
“Mommy?”
We both turned. Emily stood in the Shrine’s darkened doorway, bleary-eyed, the curtain draped over her tiny body like a shroud.
“Honey. …” my mother said. It was almost a sob.
I knelt down in front of my little sister. “Don’t worry, Em. I have to leave for a while and Mom’s just nervous about it. Let me get you back to bed.”
“It’s okay, Mommy,” she said, ignoring me. “Will’s a hero.”
When my mother said nothing, Emily’s face crumpled. But I kissed her nose and, as usual, the gesture made her giggle—a little. Then I scooped her up and carried her back into the Shrine, tucking her in. She went willingly enough, but wouldn’t shut her eyes. Instead she watched me as I stood, picked up my duffel, gave her a final smile, and slipped back out through the curtain.
My mom hadn’t moved.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”
I looked hard at her. My every instinct was to apologize. But Tom had once told me: “Never apologize for the truth.”
Still, what the heck? She was my mom!
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I put down the duffel and stepped forward to hug her.
But she turned her back on me.
For several sixteen-ton seconds I stood there, my arms spread. “Mom?”
She didn’t move. In fact, if she’d heard me at all, she gave no sign of it.
Finally, I stepped back and collected my duffle. Then, wordlessly, I walked away.
It sucked.
“Okay, lil bro, what’s up?” Sharyn asked.
We sat side by side on the train from Philly to DC, both of us dressed to impress: me in black pants, a dark-blue shirt, and a badly knotted necktie; Sharyn in a gray skirt and white blouse. Her short cropped hair was freshly washed, and she wore—for the first time—makeup on her face.
“I’m fine,” I lied. It was a bad lie, too. It sat on my tongue as if glued there. Lies do that sometimes.
Tom would have pressed me, but that wasn’t his sister’s style. If you wanted to talk, she’d listen. But if you didn’t, well that was cool, too. It was something I’d always liked about her.
“At least you look like you, Red,” she moaned. “Care to guess how much I hate this skirt?” The word came out like a curse.
“A lot?”
“I m
ean, jeez! I look like a … a …”
“Restaurant greeter?” I suggested.
“Well …”
“A rep at a high school jobs fair?” I suggested.
“Huh?”
“How about the president of the senior class?”
“Ack!” she yelped. Yep, that was the word: Ack. Then she covered her face and complained through her fingers. “This isn’t me! I don’t even have Vader! How am I supposed to do this without Vader?”
Vader was her wakizashi, a Japanese short sword—her most prized possession.
“Tom’ll take good care of it,” I said.
“That ain’t the point,” Sharyn replied. “The point is that I know why I’m sulking. Why are you sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Well, somethin’s on your mind. Come on, Red. Spill!”
Okay, maybe she was more like Tom than I thought. So I gave her some of it, “Helene kissed me.”
She burst out laughing. “Well, it’s about time!” Then, when she saw my horrified expression she laughed harder. “Dude, it’s always been you two! Every kid in Haven’s known that for months … ’cept for you and Helene. Well, probably mostly you!”
“Great,” I muttered.
“Take it easy. The Undertakers ain’t a schoolyard. Ain’t nobody gonna give you grief ’cause you and Helene finally hooked up. Just glad for you, is all.”
And it was true. I might get some ribbing from Chuck or Burt. Alex, head of the Monkey crew and not my biggest fan, might fire a shot or two. But that would be the end of it.
Well, except for the whole “relationship with Helene” thing.
Jeez.
“So,” Sharyn said, leaning close. “Was it a solid kiss? Both lips, I mean.”
Time for a strategic subject change.
“Lemme ask you a question.”
She grinned. Sharyn knew a hasty evasion when she heard one. “Shoot.”
“What do you got against Jillian?”
Her smile vaporized. “Old crap,” she said.
“None of my business, right?”
“No, it’s cool. It’d do me some good to get it out. It’s the stuff you don’t say that eats at you, ya know.”