School's Out--Forever

by James Patterson

  “What if it’s defective?” Anne looked stricken. “What if it never pops? What if it’s my first turkey and our first Thanksgiving together and it’s awful and dry and we all hate it?”

  “Well, no doubt that would be symbolic of our whole lifetime together,” I said solemnly, then made a “kidding” face. “Uh, maybe you could supervise Zephyr with setting the table? He looked a little lost with all the extra silverware.”

  Anne looked at me, nodded, glanced again at the oven window, then went into the dining room.

  “How’s that stuffing coming?” I asked Nudge.

  “Okeydokey,” she said, fluffing it in a pot with a large wooden salad fork. She read the package again. “I think it’s done.”

  “Looks good,” I said. “Just set it aside. There’s no way to make sure all this stuff comes out ready at the same time.”

  “Cranberry sauce is good to go,” Iggy said, jiggling the can so it slid out with a wet plop into a bowl. “I could have made some from scratch.”

  “I know.” I lowered my voice. “You’re the only one here who can cook at all. But let’s just go with the program.”

  “I want a drumstick,” said Total, from right under my feet.

  “Get in line,” I told him, and went over to Fang. I watched what he was doing for a minute, and he turned to me with an “I dare you to say something” expression.

  “You’re an artist,” I managed. He turned back and surveyed the neat rows of marshmallows lined up across the casserole of mashed sweet potatoes.

  “We’ve all got crosses to bear,” he said, and went back to work.

  I leaned down and looked into the oven again. “Anne? The little white thing popped up. I think it’s ready.”

  “Oh, my God!” Anne exclaimed from the other room. She rushed into the kitchen and grabbed some oven mitts. “It popped?” She was lunging for the oven door when suddenly she turned to me. “What if the popper thing is wrong? What if it’s not really ready?”

  I looked at her. “Take the turkey out of the oven.”

  She breathed out. “Right. Okay.”

  Sheesh. Grown-ups.

  80

  Fifteen minutes later, we were all sitting around the dining-room table. Everything looked very schmancy. We had a white tablecloth and cloth napkins. Candles were lit. The food was on the table, looking like all the pictures on the packages.

  Gazzy was holding his fork and knife upright on the table, and I frowned at him and shook my head. He put them down.

  “How about we go around and each give thanks individually?” Anne said. “Ariel? Why don’t you go first?”

  “Uh . . .” Angel looked at me, and I smiled tightly.

  Just do your best, sweetie, and don’t give anything away. She gave me a tiny nod.

  “I’m thankful for my family,” she said, gesturing at all of us. “I’m thankful I have a dog. I’m thankful I have Max to take care of me.” And then, as if realizing that Anne was sitting right there, Angel added, “And I’m thankful that we’ve had this good time here. I really like this place.”

  Anne smiled at her. “Thank you. Now Zephyr?”

  “Um, I’m thankful for all this food,” said Gazzy. “And you know, my family. And being here.”

  “Krystal?”

  “I’m thankful for food and my brothers and sisters,” said Nudge. “And I’m thankful I have big brown eyes and long lashes. I’m thankful that we could stay here for a while. I’m thankful for MTV. And gummy worms.”

  “All right,” said Anne. “Jeff?”

  “Uh, what Zephyr said.” Iggy’s fingers drummed on the table. “Fnick’s turn.”

  Fang looked like he’d rather be at the dentist. “Me too. Family, food. Place to stay.” His dark eyes met mine and his face flushed, like he was having one of those heat attacks.

  My turn. I was thankful for stuff—but not anything I wanted to mention in front of Anne. Silently I was thankful for all of us being together and being healthy. I was so thankful we had Angel back, and that we were free and not at the School. I was thankful we weren’t being attacked by Erasers at this very minute. Bad things had happened to us, could happen again, but weren’t happening now, and I wasn’t stupid enough to take it for granted.

  “Uh, I’m thankful that we’ve had this time here,” I said. “It’s been really great. And, you know, thankful for my family, and for having plenty of food.”

  Anne paused, as if waiting to see if anyone would add anything. “My turn, then. Thank you all for helping make our Thanksgiving meal. I never could have done it myself.”

  You ain’t whistling Dixie, I thought.

  “To me, it’s even more meaningful that we all worked together to make our dinner,” Anne continued. “I’ve never had children, never been that domestic. But these last weeks with you here, well, I’ve gotten a real idea of everything that I’ve been missing. I like the fact that my life is centered around yours. Amazingly, I like having a household of children.”

  Total licked my leg under the table, and I almost yelped, then heard him chuckle softly.

  “It’s chaotic, and tons of work, and expensive, and I get called to the school, and every night I fall into bed completely exhausted and know that I have to do it all again the next day.” She looked around at us and smiled. “And now I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  As speeches went, it was a pretty good one, I’ll give her that.

  “So I sincerely hope that this Thanksgiving is only the first in a long line of Thanksgivings we’ll share together.” Again she smiled at us, letting her gaze linger on Angel. “Because I would like to adopt all of you.”

  81

  “Yes, let’s give thanks for what we have by leaving it,” the Gasman muttered.

  “Gazzy, I told you—you don’t have to come,” I said.

  “Of course I have to come,” he said, tying his sneakers—new ones that Anne had bought.

  “I just can’t believe it,” said Angel, bouncing a little on my bed.

  “It’s what we’ve all waited for,” said Nudge, sounding wistful. She looked over at Iggy quickly. “I’m glad it’s happened to you, Iggy. I mean, it would be nice if it happened to all of us, but for the first one, I’m glad it was—” She stopped, as if realizing she was running on.

  “Thanks.” Iggy was sitting tensely, shoes and coat already on. His face was flushed, and his long, slender fingers drummed nervously on his knees.

  Last night, after some of our Thanksgiving bloat had eased, Fang and I had told the others about possibly finding Iggy’s parents. They’d all been stunned.

  “Do you want to go see them?” I’d asked Iggy.

  “Yeah, of course!” Iggy had said, then his eyebrows came together. “I’m not sure.”

  “What?” Nudge shrieked. “How can you not be sure?”

  “It’s what we’ve talked about before,” Iggy said, looking self-conscious. “I mean, I’m blind now. I have wings. I’m a weird, mutant hybrid, and they’ve never seen anything like me. Maybe they would want the original, all-human me, but . . .”

  That was exactly what I was thinking. Personally, I thought that even if we found info on my parents, I probably wouldn’t want to go ring their doorbell. And they probably wouldn’t want me to either.

  “I understand,” I said. “But it’s up to you. We’ll support you, whatever you decide.”

  “Let me sleep on it,” Iggy had said.

  “No prob,” I’d said.

  So he’d thought about it and decided to go, and here we were.

  Fang opened my bedroom window wide. Nudge clambered onto the windowsill and launched herself into the air. The sun lit her tawny wings as she caught the wind and rose into the sky. One by one the rest of us followed, with me going last.

  It felt weird to be flying out in the middle of the day, but today was special. Today we were taking Iggy to see his parents, his real parents.

  I had no idea what would happen. Today could be filled with un
believable joy or tearful heartbreak. Even if it ended with happiness for Iggy, the rest of us would get the heartbreak. Because we would be telling him good-bye. Which for me was too painful to begin to comprehend.

  We hadn’t really talked about Anne’s offer to adopt us. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t even worth thinking about. I wondered if any of the younger kids felt differently, and guessed I’d find out sooner or later. Probably sooner.

  After twenty minutes of flying, we were across the street from the house Fang and I had gone to several days before. It was the day after Thanksgiving, so we hoped they would both be home.

  “You ready?” I asked Iggy, taking his hand in mine. The only way I could get through this was to not think about the bigger picture. I could take only one second at a time.

  Iggy nodded stiffly, his sightless eyes staring straight ahead, as if by looking hard enough, he could make his parents’ house come into view. He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I’m scared.”

  I squeezed his hand and whispered back, “If you weren’t, I’d know you were nuts. But I think if you don’t do this, you’ll wonder about it forever.”

  “I know. I know I have to do it. But . . .”

  He didn’t have to say any more. Fourteen years ago, his parents had lost a perfect little baby. Now Iggy was almost six feet tall and blind, and “genetic hybrid” was the kind description.

  He shook his head and put his shoulders back. “Let’s do this thing.”

  The six of us crossed the street. It had clouded over a bit, and the wind was cold. I pulled Angel’s coat tighter around her chin and tucked in her scarf. She looked up at me solemnly, her blue eyes expressing the same hopes and fears we were all feeling.

  I rang the doorbell. We were wound so tight it sounded like an enormous gong. A few moments later, the door opened, and the same woman as before looked out at me. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she remembered my face but not from where.

  “Uh, hello . . . ma’am,” I began, in that smooth handle-everything manner I have. “I saw you on TV, where you said you’d lost your son?”

  A look of sadness crossed her face. “Yes?”

  I stepped back so she could see Iggy. “I think this is him.”

  Okay, so I’m not known for subtlety.

  For a second the woman frowned, about to get angry at me for yanking her chain, but then she looked at Iggy and her frown changed to a look of puzzlement.

  Now that I saw them both together, the similarities were even more obvious. They had the same coloring, same body type, same cheekbones and chin. The woman blinked. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She put her hand to her chest and stared at Iggy. I gave Iggy’s hand another squeeze—he had no idea what was going on and just had to wait in painful suspense.

  Then a man appeared. The woman stepped back and motioned silently to Iggy. Though Iggy looked very much like the woman, he did share some features with the man as well. They had the same nose, the same shape mouth. The man stared at Iggy, then looked around at all of us.

  “Wha . . . ,” he said, looking stunned.

  “We saw you on TV,” I explained again. “We think this might be the son you lost, fourteen years ago.” I put my arm through Iggy’s and pulled him forward a little bit. “We call him Iggy. But I think his last name is really Griffiths, like yours.”

  Iggy’s fair face flushed, and he lowered his head. I could practically feel the pounding of his heart.

  “James?” the woman whispered, starting to reach out to Iggy. She stopped and looked at her husband. “Tom—is this James?” she asked wonderingly.

  The man swallowed visibly. He stepped back from the door. “Please, come in, all of you.”

  I started to refuse—we never went into strange places where we might get trapped or caught. But I realized that this was where Iggy might stay, forever, and if I thought it was a trap, then we better get the heck out of here.

  So I swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

  As the others filed into the house, I shot a glance at Angel to see if she looked at all concerned or suspicious. But she just walked right in, so, with a tight feeling in my chest, I followed her.

  The inside of the house was nice, but not as fancy or big as Anne’s. I looked around, thinking, This might be where Iggy will live from now on. He might eat dinner at that table and listen to that TV. It was starting to seem as if we’d fallen down the rabbit hole, you know? Weird, half-wolf mutants chasing us? Totally believable. The idea that Iggy might be moving into a normal existence? Totally mind-blowing.

  “Um, sit down,” the woman said, watching Iggy.

  He hesitated until he felt me sit down, then he sat next to me.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” said the woman. She sat on Iggy’s other side, and she finally seemed to get it that he wasn’t looking around, wasn’t meeting her eyes.

  “Um, I’m blind,” said Iggy, his fingers plucking nervously at the hem of his sweatshirt. “They, uh—well, I can’t see anymore.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the woman, looking distressed. The man sat across from us, and I saw a look of pain on his face.

  “We don’t know what happened,” he said, leaning forward. “You—our son was taken out of this house fourteen years ago. You were—he was only four months old. There was no trace. I hired detectives. We—” He stopped, as if the memory was too painful for him to go on.

  “It’s a long, weird story,” I said. “And we’re not one hundred percent positive. But it really does look like Iggy’s the baby you lost.”

  The woman nodded and then took Iggy’s hand. “I feel he is. You might not be positive, but I feel it. I can tell. This is my son.”

  I couldn’t believe it. How many times had we had this fantasy? Now it was all coming true for Iggy.

  “I have to say—I think you’re right.” The man cleared his throat. “He—it sounds funny, but he really looks just the same as he did when he was a baby.”

  Any other time, Gazzy and Fang would have been all over that, riding Iggy and teasing him mercilessly. But they sat there stone-faced. It was starting to sink in, what was happening, what was about to happen.

  “I know!” Mrs. Griffiths sat up suddenly. “James had a small red birthmark on his side, toward the back. I asked the doctor about it, but he said it was fine.”

  “Iggy has a birthmark,” I said slowly. I’d seen it a hundred times.

  Iggy wordlessly pulled up his shirt on the left side. Mrs. Griffiths immediately saw the birthmark. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, my God!” she said, tears starting to run down her cheeks. “Oh, God. James! It’s James!” In the next moment, she had leaned over and pulled Iggy into a tight hug. One hand stroked his strawberry-blond hair. Her eyes were closed, and her tears left a wet spot on Iggy’s shoulder. “James, James,” she whispered. “My baby.”

  My own throat was closing up. I glanced over and saw that Angel and Nudge were both fighting tears. Jeez. It was turning into a real weep-fest.

  I cleared my throat. “So, well, you think this is James, the son you lost?”

  The man, tears in his own eyes, nodded. “That’s my son,” he said, his voice breaking.

  I hate stuff like this, where everyone’s overwhelmed and weeping with joy and emotions are splashing all over the place. Ugh.

  “Wh—who are you?” Mr. Griffiths asked me, as his wife pulled back to look at Iggy’s face. He gestured at all of us.

  “We’re—friends,” I said. “We—were taken too. But you’re the first parents we’ve found.” I hadn’t meant to say that. What was wrong with me? Usually I was much stealthier and more secretive.

  Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths looked even more surprised and concerned.

  “So, uh, what now?” I asked briskly, rubbing my palms on my jeans.

  The two grown-ups shot quick glances at each other. Mr. Griffiths gave his wife a subtle nod, and she turned to me. “James belongs with us,” she said firmly. “I t
hought I’d lost him forever. Now that we have him back, I’m never letting him go. Do you hear me?” She looked positively fierce, and I held up my hands in the universal “Whoa, Nelly” gesture.

  “No one’s going to try to stop you. I think he’s James too. But you know he’s blind.”

  “I don’t care,” said Mrs. Griffiths, looking at Iggy with love. “I don’t care if there are a million problems. We can handle anything, if we have him back.”

  Okay, that might cover the whole wing wrinkle. . . .

  “Iggy? Do you want to stay?” I asked.

  His face flushed again, but underneath his reserve I saw the hint of an unbelieving happiness. My heart squeezed painfully, and I thought, I’m losing him.

  Slowly Iggy nodded. “I guess this is where I belong.”

  I patted his arm. “Yeah,” I said softly.

  “Do you have—things?” asked Mrs. Griffiths. “We’ll move a bigger bed into what used to be your room. I haven’t changed anything in there—just in case you came back to us someday.” She touched his face gently. “It’s a miracle. I can’t believe it. If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.”

  Iggy smiled faintly. “I don’t have much of anything, actually,” he said. He held up the small backpack that we’d filled with a few crucial supplies from Anne’s house.

  “Fine,” said Mrs. Griffiths. “We can get you anything you need.”

  Spoken like a real parent.

  82

  And that’s how one of us found his real parents. I won’t bore you with the whole heartrending good-bye scene. Suffice it to say that mucho tears were shed. There was much going on in the “lamenting” department. I really don’t want to talk about it.

  Okay, I’ll give you one little insight. I’d grown up with Iggy, known him my whole short, horrible life. I’d known him back when he could see, helped him learn how to fly. He was less obnoxious than Fang, quieter than Nudge, and a better cook than any of us. He was the Gasman’s best friend. And yeah, friends move away, and it’s sad and then you get over it. But there were only five people in the entire freaking world that I cared about and trusted, and I had just lost one of them. I’d had to walk away knowing that Iggy was standing in the doorway as if he could actually watch us leave, watch us leave him behind forever.