by Calla Devlin
Thirty-Six
I find Mom in the kitchen heating up take-out leftovers. “Right on time,” she says. “I like your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow. “Hmm, he said he is.” She gives me her lopsided smile.
I can’t help but smile back, and I feel light in a way I haven’t in ages. Mom laughs at me. “I guess he is, then.”
“It was nice to finally meet him. Has Emma come around, or is she still giving you grief over him?”
“You knew?” I ask. Emma and I try to be quiet, especially when it comes to discussing boys. God, what else does she know?
“You’ve been mooning over him for years. Of course I knew. Why don’t you clear off the coffee table and see if you can find a good movie?”
Mom prefers aliens and spaceships to romantic comedies because she grew up watching bootleg Star Wars videos, and that got her hooked. She finds dramas depressing and comedies are fine, depending on the cast. She’s as finicky about film as she is about food. She and Josh will get along well. I settle on something we saw at the Kabuki a couple of years ago, one she loved and I’d happily watch again. I’ll do anything to make her feel good—anything.
After we eat the mu shu, I curl up next to Mom and almost fall asleep. She strokes my hair. This is what it must feel like to be a cat, to want nothing more than food and affection and sleep.
We both startle at the knock at the door, hard and insistent.
Uncle Miguel rushes through as soon as Mom opens it. We need to make him a key.
He raises both hands in the air. A surrender. “Raj here wouldn’t tell me what the news is, but I wore him down enough to know that it’s good.”
Mom jumps up but doesn’t speak, too scared to even guess. I stand, too, but my legs feel wobbly. I realize I’m shaking. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Finally, news about Dad. Now I’m almost too terrified to listen.
I look at Uncle Miguel’s broad smile and at Raj, who is practically giddy. “We have him! He’s safe! We’ll get you two on a plane to Germany first thing in the morning. You can meet him at the base there. He’ll need to see a doctor and have a full debriefing.”
“A doctor?” I ask. “What’s wrong with him?” Mom wipes the tears off my cheeks. I didn’t even realize I was crying. I’m still too worried to absorb the news.
“It sounds like he may have a couple of cracked or broken ribs. Otherwise, he’s okay.”
Mom pulls me toward her and wraps her arms around me. Uncle Miguel hoots and bear hugs us both. Dad is safe. No one’s pointing a gun to his head. He’s out of that terrible room with the small, filthy mattress. He’s free. We’ll see him tomorrow. I take a deep breath and allow myself to feel the relief.
“How’d you get him out?” I ask. More than anything, I want reassurance that I didn’t make things worse with the video. That I’m not responsible for his broken ribs.
“Let’s sit,” Raj says.
Mom stacks our dinner plates and picks up a blanket and some stray pillows.
“Charlotte,” Raj says, “I don’t want to condone what you did. It could have had dangerous ramifications. Your father could have been hurt even more. He could have been killed. What you did was stupid. Really, really risky. But it worked. Broadcasting it in Russian brought in some good tips and leads. We probably would have found your dad, but this definitely made it happen sooner. Still, don’t do anything like that again.”
I may be hallucinating from all of the anxiety of the past few weeks, but I think Raj Singh just winked at me when he said that.
“What about Will Baxter?” I ask.
“These guys didn’t have him,” Raj says. “Another group does. We’ve never been able to pinpoint his location. It was easier with your dad. Most of the roads leading in and out of the village were destroyed, so we knew they had to be within a certain radius. Then the tips came in. Your dad was the only remaining hostage. His abduction was more opportunistic. Will Baxter’s situation is different. They were watching him. They chose him.”
We’re all crying, me and Mom and Uncle Miguel. I can’t help but feel sorrow for Will Baxter’s family. I’m so relieved about Dad, and so sorry for them.
“I’ll be back at seven tomorrow morning,” Raj says. “Pack clothes for Jeremiah, too.”
“I have a story to write,” Uncle Miguel says. “Remember, I get the exclusive interview with the family. Don’t go talking to other reporters or posting your own video, okay?” He hugs us again.
“Deal,” I say.
“He’s safe,” Mom says after they’ve both gone. Her voice is soft and filled with relief. She can’t stop smiling, which only makes me smile more. She squeezes my hand.
“He is.” I’m going to have my family back together, and we have the chance to be whole. The three of us. Not two—just me and Mom, with Dad missing. Not four, with the ghost of baby Lena filling the apartment. Three never felt like a complete number before. Now that it does, I can’t stand the idea of us being apart. I look at Mom, knowing that she’s with me for good. Dad might be free, but can he give up his dangerous stories? “Do you think he’ll still want to travel so much?” I ask.
She thinks for a moment. “Not for a while. We’ll keep him here for as long as we can, especially if Miguel can assign him something more interesting than the city council. But we’ve never been enough to keep him home. I’ve accepted this about your father. It’s who he is. He loves us, though. More than anything.”
“I know.”
She kisses the top of my head. “And so do I.”
I hug her tight. When she pulls away, she looks serious again.
“After we get your father, let’s go to St. Petersburg. I want to show you where I grew up and where the folktales come from. It’s springtime.”
“The White Nights,” I say.
“Well, it’s too early for that, but the three of us can take a boat ride on the river. There’s so much I want you to see. It finally feels like the right time. I know you’ll miss more school, but under the circumstances, I think it will be fine. She tries to smooth my curls, an impossible task. “What do you think? Want to take a family vacation? We can stay with my sister. Tatya Rayna will be so happy to see us.”
My eyes fill with tears. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by all of this. My heart is having a hard time catching up. Mom’s birthplace, home to the Snow Maiden and the Firebird. “I’d love that. Do you think Dad will want to come straight home, though?” It’s hard to imagine how he’ll feel until we see him. I can’t believe that will be tomorrow.
Mom laughs. “Your father would never pass up a trip to St. Petersburg. He loves that city more than I ever did. My family will take good care of us.”
* * *
When I hear the knock at the door, I’m worried it’s Raj with bad news. Something went wrong. An ambush, or maybe Dad’s injuries are worse than they thought. My muscles tense, and that familiar jolt of anxiety runs through me.
“It’s probably Miguel.” But when Mom opens the door, it’s not him. “Josh, you’re back.”
He steps in looking unusually bashful, which is adorable. Just yesterday, I felt crushed by loss, and it was hard to find a hint of hope. And here we are now.
“Sorry to interrupt, but, Charlotte, I need to talk to you.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I say, barely able to contain my smile. “They found my dad!”
I rush to him, and everything feels right as soon as his arms circle my waist. I hear the thump of his heartbeat before he whispers in my ear. “We did it, didn’t we?”
I pull away, and he’s smiling as big and goofy as I am. “Yes. Turns out we didn’t get him killed after all.” I look at Mom. “Is it okay if we take a walk?”
She smiles. “Yes, you’re officially no longer grounded. But be back in an hour because we need to pack.”
It’s late, much later than I realized, and the fog is gone. A clear sky greets u
s. The stars, dimmed by the city lights, shine faintly from above. Josh takes my hand and leads me toward Golden Gate Park. We weave through hungry-looking people waiting for tables at the cluster of neighborhood restaurants. An elderly neighbor carries a bag of persimmons. The streets grow less crowded the closer we get to the park.
“I wasn’t exactly being fair to you,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He slows his insanely fast pace. If I wasn’t a runner, I’d be winded from trying to keep up. “I asked you to trust me, and you did until Isaac messed everything up. But I don’t blame you for that. The point is, you did trust me with something super sensitive. I owe you the same.”
The weathered pine trees welcome us, and we walk past the giant ferns with curling tendrils that always remind me of a Dr. Seuss illustration. He points to the left, and we plop down on the lawn in front of the Conservatory of Flowers, even more magnificent at night.
“Okay,” I say. We sit cross-legged and facing each other. I take his hand.
“Do you remember that girl Hailey, the one who transferred over the summer?”
“Yeah, blondish hair, small, played volleyball. She was in our sophomore English class.”
“That’s her. A couple of girls on the team were taking pictures of her in the locker room, you know, while she was changing. They started texting them around. They never posted them, but they were going to.”
“How do you know?”
“They told Hailey. I ran into her after school. She’d just left practice. She was losing it. She couldn’t stop crying. I asked her who did it. At first, she wouldn’t tell me, but she finally did. She refused to tell the coach. I broke into their lockers, which is a great skill to have, by the way. I took both girls’ phones. One of them had her laptop. I took that, too.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Hailey and I went to the beach. We threw them onto the Great Highway and drove over them until they were totally smashed to bits.”
“And you took the blame,” I say. I didn’t think it was possible to like him more, yet my heart swells.
“Well, I was the one who stole them. It was my idea. I do that: come up with ideas that get other people in trouble. I don’t mean to, though. I’m trying to help. I did stop those girls.”
“Why didn’t everyone know? Seems like this would have gotten around.”
He pauses a second and squeezes my hand. “In a few of the pictures, Hailey was completely naked. That’s a felony. So none of us are supposed to talk about it. Hailey’s parents had her on the waiting list at one of the private schools, and they managed to get her transferred. The other two girls are still here, but they were kicked off the volleyball team. They got in really big trouble. And I was suspended for two weeks for theft and vandalism. No charges. Now you know. I should have told you earlier.”
I kiss his left cheek first, and then the other, before meeting his lips. “You did the right thing,” I say.
“By telling you?”
“Yes, but also by destroying their stuff. You saved Hailey.”
“That was the goal.” He takes my other hand, and we form a circle. An electrical current could pass through us.
“I’m going to be gone for a little while. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. A week or two probably.” I tell him about Germany and St. Petersburg and boating down the Neva River.
He smiles at me, and I feel like I’m the only thought in his head. It’s a beautiful, wonderful thing, to feel wanted and loved. I kiss him again.
“I’ll be right here.”
Acknowledgments
First, my deepest thanks to my agent, Faye Bender. Thank you for being my champion, partner, and dream maker. I consider myself the luckiest author in the world. I can’t quantify my gratitude and fondness.
I am so fortunate to have found a home with Atheneum. Thanks to my brilliant editor, Reka Simonsen, who not only understands exactly what I’m trying to accomplish in a novel, but has the wisdom to push me a step farther. It’s been a wonderful journey. Thanks to the amazing Simon & Schuster team, especially Michael McCartney, Clare McGlade, Aubrey Churchward, Audrey Gibbons, Katy Hershberger, Emily Hutton, Michelle Leo, Emma Ledbetter, Julia McCarthy, and Justin Chanda. To Wendy Sheanin, friend and fellow Californian-in-exile, a million thanks.
To my writing group: Jennifer Wilson, Catherine Knepper, Kali VanBaale, and Yasmina Madden. You make me a better writer and a better friend and Iowan.
To my family, especially my daughters, Lulu and Tillie. This book is for you. I’m so proud to be your mom. My sister Robyn, for believing in me. The Yenters and the Rongerudes for endless encouragement, especially Amy and Ben.
Kelsey Crowe, Mike Brown, and Georgia Brown, thank you for being my home away from home. Kelsey, you are my soul sister and I’m so glad we can share this journey as authors. To Pearl Piatt, Glen Price, and Abbey Piatt Price for decades of friendship. Abbey, your writing music kept me inspired for hours on end. To Amy Tang and Gabe Jenkins, I’d donate an organ to live in the same neighborhood again. Our autumn weekends mean so much. To cherished friend and reader Holly Herndon, thank you for the support and visits.
To friends Stacey Murphy, Brenda Tucker, Reena Krishna, Andrea DeLara, and Michael and Denise Tutty: thanks for the calls and visits and meals. They sustain me. MAPsters, I don’t ever want to work with anyone else. Thank you for being such wonderful colleagues.
To the booksellers, bloggers, teachers, and librarians—champions and heroes—thank you for sharing my book with teen readers. Everyone has a story inside them and I’m so grateful to share mine.
About the Author
Calla Devlin is the author of Tell Me Something Real. A Pushcart nominee and winner of the Best of Blood and Thunder Award, her stories have been included in numerous literary journals and in anthologies, including Because I Love Her: 34 Women Writers Reflect on the Mother-Daughter Bond. Originally from California, she now lives in Iowa with her family Visit her at calladevlin.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Calla Devlin
Jacket illustration copyright © 2017 by Getty Images/Jan Stromme
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Devlin, Call
a, author.
Title: Right where you left me / Calla Devlin.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Atheneum Books for Young Readers, [2017] | Summary: When seventeen-year-old Charlotte Lang’s father is taken hostage while reporting on the aftermath of an earthquake in Ukraine, Charlotte, a photographer most comfortable observing life, and her mother, a reserved Russian immigrant who expresses caring through pastries, must repair their strained relationship and find a way to rescue Charlotte’s dad. Identifiers: LCCN 2016052122
ISBN 9781481486996
ISBN 9781481487016 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Hostages—Fiction. | Kidnapping—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Photography—Fiction. | Journalism—Fiction. | Newspapers—Fiction. | Russian Americans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D488 Ri 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016052122