“Security will be on alert?” Mom’s voice is tense.
“What kind of father would I be if I didn’t look out for my daughter when terrorists threaten to undermine the safety of our city?”
“Is that from tomorrow’s speech?”
“You could tell?”
“Maybe a little less dramatic with the delivery.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Eve and I were discussing the gala. We need to find dresses.”
“And a date.”
“Well, I know who I’m going with.” She pats his arm.
“What’s the name of that intern in your office? Charlie?”
“Chad,” Mom says.
“Good kid.” He sips from his water glass. “Eve should go with him.”
I blurt out, “I’m not going.”
That gets their attention.
“Of course you are,” Mom says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” I point my fork at the TV. “You’re talking about dresses when someone just attacked the city, and I’m the one being ridiculous?”
“Eve.” Dad’s voice is low. Mom and I both ignore him.
“There are traditions,” she says, “and standards you don’t appreciate—”
“I have deadlines you don’t appreciate.”
“We’re all busy.”
“The Art Guild jury is the same day as the gala. I’ll be up to my eyeballs in preparations.”
She crosses her arms. “What will people think if you’re not there?”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“Enough!” Dad slams his knife down on the table. The candle flame dances. “You’re going to the gala and that’s that.”
“What about my art?”
“Your art,” Mom says. “That’s all you ever think about. Do you ever stop to consider what’s best for our family?”
Dad takes a deep breath. “Girls, there’s enough drama going on out there, we don’t need more of it in here. Eve, I don’t care if you go with Chad or Charlie or some schmo off the street. You’ll be at the gala and you’ll be on your best behavior.”
Mom rests her hands in her lap and raises an eyebrow.
He picks up his knife and fork. “And we’ll figure out how to make the timing work for the jury exhibit.”
Mom purses her lips and takes a drink from her glass. “Well, maybe not a schmo off the street.”
My pulse pounds in my head. I’m about to argue my case again, but Dad’s ringing phone interrupts. He stands and turns his back to the table. “Yeah?” He puts a hand on his hip. “Are you sure?” Runs his hand through his hair. “I want a thorough search. Keep me posted.” When he turns again and looks at me, his face is grave.
I peer through the windshield, my fingers digging into the seat as memories play out like a movie in my head. I’m eleven years old. It’s night and we’re driving home on the 101. I’m in the backseat, my stomach full of spaghetti and soda, and I’m watching streetlights tick past. Each one flashes a sliver of light across the dashboard, the seats, my legs. The car zooms around the big curve at Pima, pressing me into my seat belt. I can just make out the dark edge of the McDowell Mountains. I touch one finger to the window and block out a star. The road straightens and the streetlights blur. There’s a jolt. A bang. A squeal. Then the wall and a heaving crush of metal.
The last time I was in a car with my parents, we crashed.
They died.
Dad catches me looking at him in the rearview mirror. I can’t take my eyes off him.
A car cuts us off. He pounds the horn. I brace myself against Mom’s headrest and double-check that my seat belt’s clicked.
“Parker, please.” Mom’s hand grips the dash, but her voice stays calm. “Take it easy.”
“Guy almost clipped us.”
“We aren’t in a hurry.”
He catches a break in the traffic and speeds us over to the far lane, where things are moving. I look out the side window and try to breathe.
“Slow down,” Mom says. “I think he’s getting carsick.”
Dad looks at me again and the car slows. A little. “What were you doing at the mall?” he asks.
“Parker.”
“We have a right to know.”
Mom points at the dash. Dad shakes his head. “Fine. We’ll talk later.”
Traffic backs up, then stops altogether. Up ahead, barricades merge all the lanes down to one. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Checkpoint,” Dad says.
“For what?”
Mom gives me a look. Dad doesn’t answer. We creep along, letting some cars in, keeping others out, until finally it’s our turn. Soldiers with semiautomatics slung over their shoulders guard the road. One carries a long-handled mirror. Another holds the leash of a mean-looking dog. A third leans into Dad’s window while the other two walk slowly around the car.
“Identification.”
Dad hands over his ID. The soldier swipes it through a scanner. “Parker Ogden?”
“Yes.”
The guard leans in. “Rebecca Ogden?”
Mom nods.
“Need a verbal reply, ma’am.”
“Yes.” Mom’s voice cracks.
Then it’s my turn. “Daniel?”
“Yeah.”
“What is your destination, Mr. Ogden?”
“Home.”
“Confirm your address.”
“Thirty-seven twenty-seven Del Mar.”
The soldier gives each of us a once-over. His eyes are hard, like he’s seen some bad stuff go down. When he looks at me, I don’t flinch. I’ve seen a lot of bad stuff, too. The guard with the dog passes behind him and says, “All clear.”
The soldier hands Dad his ID card and waves us forward with two fingers.
“Out in force,” Dad mutters as he rolls his window back up. The car accelerates and he merges back into traffic.
“What did you expect?” Mom turns a little in her seat. “Doing okay back there?”
No, I’m not okay. I’m in a car with my dead parents. They just picked me up from a bombed-out disaster. There are checkpoints guarded by soldiers with guns. I’m in the freaking twilight zone.
The road rises. A blazing orange sunset fills the horizon and glitters across the ocean. I grab Mom’s headrest and lean forward. Docked boats bob in a harbor. Farther on, a seawall sticks out into the water. At the end stands a lighthouse. We’re in California? The freeway turns and I crane my neck to watch the water disappear behind us. High-rises take over the skyline again. Neon signs and flashy billboards advertise Phoenix businesses. Pest control. Boat rentals. Seaside property.
Not California. But definitely not the Phoenix I know.
Dad turns the car onto a street lined with trees and pulls into the driveway of the fourth house on the right. It’s blue, with a grassy front yard. A boat sits on a trailer to the side of the garage.
I’ve never seen the place before. It makes the foster home look even worse than the dump it is. Was? I don’t even know.
Dad pulls the key from the ignition and the dome light clicks on. He exhales and lets his head fall forward. Mom reaches over and touches his arm.
His hair is thinner than I remember. His eyes more tired. He pats Mom’s hand before going around to help her out.
Mom’s even more different than Dad. She uses her cane to push herself out of the seat, her other hand holding on to Dad’s. What happened to her? I remember her running alongside me when I learned to ride a bike and dancing with Dad in the kitchen. She was never like this.
I close the car door for her. She taps the necklace around my neck. “Told you it would protect you.” We both look at the iridescent square hanging from the leather cord. Her eyes are the same. And her smile. She reaches for my forehead, but she holds back. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.” I wince, hoping she doesn’t touch the bruise.
I watch them walk toward the house. Someone’s gonna jump out of the bushes with a camera
and tell me none of this is real, right? That it’s all a joke and I’m still a loser orphan in a crummy foster home. Look how we fooled you. Made you hope. Ha.
But no one jumps out. There is no camera.
Mom turns on the living room light and goes into the kitchen. Dad walks halfway across the room and stops, his hands on his hips. Along the walls are pictures of the three of us, and some of just me, all of them taken in places I don’t recognize, doing things I don’t remember. Rafting down a river. Standing like a superhero on top of a tree stump. Chasing birds on a beach. Asleep in the backseat with my head against the window.
It’s like a completely different life.
A completely different me.
I put my hand on the wall as the realization hits.
It is another me. But how?
“Are you going to tell me what you were doing there?” Dad crosses his arms.
I have no idea what to say. I don’t even know where “there” was.
“We thought you were on your way to school,” he says. Mom joins him at the doorway. “I think we at least deserve an explanation.”
“I…” My brain scrambles for something to tell them. All I come up with is, “Everything’s kind of a blur.”
“It’s one thing to hear the emergency announcement. But when the phone rings and they say your son is hurt?” He shakes his head. “You were supposed to be with Germ, going to school. Not at a parade on the other side of town.”
Germ? Parade?
“Were you painting?” Mom asks. “Tagging? Or whatever you call it?”
“You promised you’d be careful.” Dad runs a hand over his face. “You know every inch of that place had to be covered by Spectrum.”
“Spectrum?”
“I know,” he says, holding up his hands. “Don’t start. But I’m not the one in the hot seat this time. You are. So whenever you’re ready to tell us why you lied, we’re all ears.”
I cross my arms but that doesn’t feel right, so I stuff my hands into my pockets. Brent never asks me to explain. He just beats the crap out of me until I swear I’ll never do anything ever again. Not even breathe, if that’s what he wants. Whatever it takes to make him stop pounding on me. I wish I knew what to say here, but I have no clue why he—I—wasn’t at school. I don’t know squat. I look again at the kid grinning in the photos. Who is this other me and what am I doing here instead of him?
My parents—my not-dead parents—stand there, waiting for something I can’t give. It’s too much. The walls feel like they’re closing in. I don’t know what else to do but push past them and run down the hall, away.
Once I find his room, I close the door and fall onto my knees, dizzy. Bury my head in my hands and try to breathe.
This can’t be real. It isn’t possible. You don’t just get sucked through darkness to a different world. That kind of thing only happens in science fiction movies.
When my head stops spinning, I look around. Feel the carpet under my hands. Breathe in the air. It’s all real. I don’t know how, but it is. I’m really here.
The room is spotless. Even the bed is made. My room at the foster home is piled up with all kinds of crap. This guy, though? Total neat freak.
The walls are covered in posters and art. Crazy stuff, like graffiti you see on the sides of buildings and in alleys. Lots of other things tacked on the walls, too. Police tape. A broken skateboard. There’s a nightstand with a lamp and, over by the window, a desk with lined-up books. Art? Poetry? Comics? Well, comics are okay, I guess.
I pick up the MP3 player from the desk, put the earbuds in and press PLAY. Guitars scream, but the song title scrolling across reads Mozart Piano Concerto No. 10. I don’t know much about classical music, but that’s definitely not Mozart. It’s decent, though. Kind of like the stuff I listen to. I let it play while I continue to hunt.
There’s a pair of shoes under the bed—skater kind—and a notebook with ink and pencil sketches. The top two dresser drawers are full of junk. Probably where he stashes everything when he cleans his room. I find some money in there and shove it into my pocket. The desk is full of pens, folded-up pieces of paper, photos of people I don’t know. That leaves the closet, which—surprise—is full of clothes. T-shirts mostly. Sweatshirts. Jeans. Some shorts. More skater shoes and a skateboard. I check the trucks and wheels. It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden, but this’ll do if I need to get around. I set it down and look up. Tucked high, almost out of sight, is a duffel bag. I test a lower shelf, then step on it like a ladder. Reaching, I can barely touch the edge of the bag. I stretch higher, grabbing with the tips of my fingers. One of the earbuds falls out, but I keep reaching, wishing my arm would grow longer. My fingers pinch the fabric and I tug the bag toward me, inch by inch, until I get my hand on it and pull. The whole thing comes crashing down. I turn to catch it, then jump back, smacking into the wall behind me. There’s a skinny blond guy standing at the door, watching. He takes one look at my face and doubles over.
“Dude,” he says, gasping, “that was epic. Your face!” And he laughs so hard he looks like he’s gonna pop.
I set the bag down and tell my fists not to punch him.
“Didn’t mean to scare you like that, Og.” He steps toward me, catching my hand in his and leaning in to clap me on the shoulder. “But you kinda deserved it, you jerk. Scared the crap out of me this morning. When I saw that second one go off, I thought for sure you were toast.”
He was there.
I watch him go to the desk, flip the chair around and sit in it backward. Who is this guy? He picks up a Hacky Sack and tosses it from hand to hand. “Sure wasn’t the plan they told us, huh? Hey, you going out?” He nods at the bag.
“No, I was just…checking something.” I toss the MP3 player on the bed, crouch down and unzip the bag. It’s full of spray paint cans.
“That’s a serious knob you got on your head.”
I look up. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
“Does it hurt?”
I search through the bag, looking for who knows what. “Yeah.”
“Is that all you can say now? How hard did you smack your melon, anyway?” He looks at my face and stops smiling. “Sorry, dude. I’m just happy to see you, you know? After…all that.”
I toss the bag back into the closet and sit on the edge of the bed. Looks like I’ll have to get answers from this clown. My gut tells me not to bring up how I got here or that I’m a different Danny. Not yet, at least. “All what? It’s pretty much a blur for me.”
“How much do you remember?”
I shrug. “Nothing?”
“Seriously? Well, it went like this: We got there, we did our thing, and the place went boom.”
“Didn’t you get hurt?”
“My ears keep ringing, but that’s it. I was way over on the other side, remember?” He studies my face. “You don’t, do you?”
I shake my head.
Two taps on the door and Mom looks in. “Oh, hello, Germ. I didn’t realize you were here.”
Germ. Dad mentioned him. He catches me looking at him and makes a goofy face. “Hey, Mrs. O.”
“I was just checking on Danny,” she says, walking over to me. Her left leg seems to be the weaker one. “How’s my peanut?”
Germ snorts.
“Don’t you start, Jeremy Bulman, or I’ll call you nicknames, too.” She looks at my forehead. “Doing okay?”
I reach up to touch the bruise but she smacks my hand away. “Leave it alone.” She holds my chin and turns my face for a better look. “It’ll take a while for that to go down.” She smiles at me so long it gets a little awkward. “Okay,” she finally says, “you boys be good.” And she shuffles from the room, closing the door behind her.
I reach up to search out the most painful parts on my forehead. Germ imitates Mom. “Don’t go touching your owies, Peanut.”
“Feels like it’s crawling with ants.”
“Here.” Germ walks over. “You scratch and I’ll tell you if y
ou’re getting close or not.”
Good plan. It works. A couple of well-placed scratches later, the ants have stopped crawling, except at the center of the goose egg, but that part doesn’t itch so much as throb.
“Can you believe school’s gonna be open on Monday? Sucks.” He kicks the Hacky off his shoe. It falls to the floor and he tries again. “But hey, all the girls are gonna swoon when they hear you were hurt. God, I can just see Angela Sweeney now.” He holds the Hacky Sack up like a head and his voice goes high. “Ooh, Danny, let me make it all better.” He gives it the grossest pretend kiss ever. I laugh even as I wonder who the heck Angela Sweeney is.
“Seriously, Og-dog. Girls are gonna lie down at your feet. You should milk this for all it’s worth.”
“Whatever.” I shake my head. I don’t know about this Danny, but girls have never dug me.
He kicks the Hacky Sack. “So what do we tell them?”
“About what?”
He gets to ten and it lands two feet away. “About this morning.” He motions for me to stand. It’s been forever since I tried Hacky. He does three kicks off his right foot and passes it to me. I do two and it flops to the carpet.
“I don’t think we should tell anyone anything.” I scoop it back up and launch it to him. He gets to twelve before it falls.
“People will ask why we were there.” He lobs it back to me and I kick it. Maybe I can match his ten.
“My parents did.” Five. Six. “I didn’t know what to tell them.” Seven.
“You didn’t mention RD, did you?”
Eight, and it drops. “What’s RD?” I grab the Hacky with my heels and kick it up.
Germ catches it on his knee and starts his own count. His face is scrunched with concentration or anger, I can’t tell which. “You don’t remember Red December?”
“I…” God, this is hard.
“Dude.” He tosses the Hacky to me and I catch it with my left foot. Lob to the right. One. Two. Three. “Anarchist group?”
Four. Five.
“Wants to overthrow the government?”
Six. Seven. Eight.
“This morning was our last job with them?”
My feet stop kicking. The Hacky drops to the floor.
While You Were Gone Page 3