by Sarah Cross
“Do you know what could have happened to you out there? You need to leave this kind of work to professionals—people who are trained to do this! You can’t just . . .”
My mom comes running into the kitchen like the house is on fire. She’s only half made up; one set of eyelashes is significantly thicker and blacker than the other. She stopped mid-mascara to get the details and punish me—that’s how bad this is.
I am so dead.
My dad stops yelling at me long enough to fill her in, and the two of them rewind the footage so my mom can get all the sordid details. She clutches the remote, watching and rewatching the segment, her forehead knotted with instant rage.
“Yale?” she snorts. “That’s your excuse?!”
“Uh . . .”
Crap.
“It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than stupidly risking your life to get into an Ivy League college, let me tell you that. You need to show good judgment if you ever even want to leave this house again, Avery—do you understand me?”
“I was trying to . . .” I’m having trouble articulating what I want to say. But I feel like I have to make them understand, at least partially. “I wanted to do something good. And I did, okay?”
“If you want to do something good, you need to concentrate on your schoolwork and on not getting in trouble,” my dad says. “Leave being a hero to the professionals. That’s not your responsibility.”
“What if the rescue crews didn’t find them in time, and they died? We ran into a mountain lion and—”
“A what?” my mom shouts.
“And if we hadn’t been there, it would have attacked one of the kids. You can’t tell me I don’t have the training to do something I just did! You have no idea what I’m capable of!”
Damn it. I’ve crossed the line from articulating why I did it to pissing my parents off royally—especially my mom. But even my dad’s looking explosive. My mom starts shouting about no more going out at night, they’ll nail my window shut, send me to military school! Hell, maybe I can go with Nicholas. And I’m yelling back: “Just try to lock me up! See what I do then! See what I do!”
My heart’s racing. I don’t want to fight with them; I want them to understand, to be proud of me. But it’s too late. We’re at the point where backing down means giving in and admitting you were totally wrong. No compromise, no apologies—just groveling. And I won’t do it. We saved those kids; we were capable and we knew it, even if no one else did. It was the right thing to do.
“Go to your room,” my mom says, flushed and breathless, eyes radiating warning, “while we figure out what to do about this. And don’t you dare sneak out.”
I storm upstairs, slam my bedroom door so hard that the frame cracks. And for the first time, I don’t care about the damage, don’t care how they think it happened. I’m through explaining.
So now it’s irresponsible to save lives? What the hell do they even know about it? I’m not doing drugs; I’m not joining a gang or dropping out of my crappy school or stealing cars or chugging a six-pack and then puking all over the front lawn.
Their lives could be so much worse.
Like, what if they didn’t have me anymore? Couldn’t tell me what to do anymore?
They’ll never understand who I am. I’ll never be free here. Even if they knew my secret, they’d overreact, smother me. Get overprotective, freak out. Or maybe they’d be afraid of me, and try to fix me: their bone-shattering, gravity-defying, superstrong son. We’re barely the same species.
I shove open my window and climb out before they think to check on me, leaving everything behind except my wallet (flush with cash from my last blowout action-figure sale to the eBay kids down the street), and a worn, silver-and-white business card.
I buy a prepaid cell phone and dial the number my fingers have been tracing for the past few weeks: escape. I’m sick of hiding. I need to belong somewhere; I need to be myself. I’m not going to waste my talent, pretending to be less than I am when there are bigger things out there waiting for me.
“Hello?” Leilani’s voice.
“It’s Avery,” I say. “Can I talk to—”
“Of course! One moment, please.”
I’m hiding behind a Dumpster in the loading area behind one of the big box stores, nervous that I’ll be found before I can do this—that my parents are already out looking for me, that they’ve called the police. Or that some reporter will stumble across me and take my picture.
I’m also scared to go through with it—to really join Cherchette, to leave everything behind. The prepaid-cell-phone packaging is fresh in the garbage out front. I ripped it in half and threw it away no more than five minutes ago.
Oh God. I hear the scrape of the phone as someone picks up on the other line. I squat down and prop my head between my knees, nauseated as hell.
“Avery!” Cherchette says. “I am stunned, absolutely stunned by your recklessness—you and your little group. What were you thinking? Do you really want to get caught over something so stupid?”
W-what? What is she talking about? “It isn’t stupid,” I manage.
“It is, and you have truly outdone yourself this time. The press is sure to pay more attention now. How long do you think you have before someone uncovers your secret? Enough playing. It is time for you to come home.”
I’m silent. My head’s throbbing. More of the same. Stupid . . .
“Where are you? I will pick you up. Avery? Hello?”
“No, you won’t,” I say. “Not until you . . .” I suck in a deep, raw breath; I don’t even know what I want anymore. “It wasn’t stupid. I know what I’m doing.”
I throw the phone down, crush it under my heel because I know I’m lying, and because I know she’ll call back. I’ve never felt more lost, more uncertain about what to do or where to go. I want to hurl this Dumpster across the parking lot. I want my heart to slow down.
I want . . .
Catherine’s doorbell is broken so I bang on the door instead, rattling the screen, not afraid of her dad today because the black pickup truck is gone. I hope she’s home, I hope she called off work after being out all night . . .
The back of my T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I scrambled through fields and backyards and the back lots of strip malls to get here, scared I’d run smack into Cherchette or my parents if I dared to show my face on the street.
The TV’s on and I hear it click off; I hear voices and then little feet running before a door slams somewhere inside. Catherine opens the door a few seconds later, still in her pajamas, surprised to see me.
She hesitates. “Avery . . . you can’t come to my house.”
I shake my head, like I don’t know why and I don’t care why. “Are your parents home?”
“No, but . . .”
I walk past her and she doesn’t stop me; take a seat on the sunken brown couch, eyeing a box of Lucky Charms and two half-empty cereal bowls on the coffee table. The milk is gray from all the melted-marshmallow colors mixing together in it.
I sigh, knead my temples like something physical is going to make this feeling go away. “So how are you?” I say, as if I’m not the one who barged in here, desperate for company.
“Um, I’m okay. Look, if you need to talk, we can go somewhere . . .”
“I’m hiding,” I say. “My picture was on the news, when they did the segment on the rescued scouts. I dunno if you saw it . . .”
“I saw it.”
“My parents are really mad about it. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I think I ran away.” I push my fingers through my sweat-drenched hair, one step away from ripping it out. Catherine’s watching me with her head tilted awkwardly, one bare foot resting on top of the other. Her ankles are showing below her too-short, candy-cane-striped pajama bottoms. “But I’m glad you came with us last night. And that mountain-lion trick . . . I don’t know what the hell you did but that was unreal. Amazing.”
“Good thing it worked,” she says, sinking dow
n next to me. “Otherwise you would’ve had to be like Batman and punch it in the face.”
“Um.” I screw up my face at her. “Batman does not punch animals.”
“The hell he doesn’t. Look it up sometime.”
Hmm. I consider this: why would Batman beat up animals? It makes no sense. Wouldn’t he have, like, knockout gas he could use on them instead? I’m not sure whether Catherine’s lying, but it’s a welcome distraction while it lasts.
“Probably you don’t know because you don’t actually read anything,” Catherine says. “You probably get all your info from cartoons.”
“Not true. I read stuff online.”
Catherine groans. “Wait.” She disappears down the hall and returns a moment later with a stack of books and graphic novels. “Do you see this? This is a book. Book—four-letter word, you should love it.”
“I don’t really like where this is going . . .”
She spreads them out on the coffee table. “I did something I didn’t want to do—now it’s your turn. If we’re going to be friends you can’t be an illiterate moron. Pick one. We’ve got future dystopia, Uncanny X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga, golden-age Batman, homeless drug-addict kids with miserable lives—”
“That one sounds tempting.”
“Don’t knock it; it has pictures. And, um, this one is full of depressingly awesome poetry.” She slides it toward me, her hair hanging in her face, almost like she’s embarrassed.
The poetry book is the most worn-out. The corners are split apart and fraying, like she’s read it a hundred times. I pick it up and flip through it. Hmm. Poems are short at least.
“So if I read some of these, we can talk about powers?”
She nods happily and we shake on it. Okay. Deal. Not that I agree with that illiterate-moron part—that was way too harsh. I stack the beat-up poetry book and the comics next to me on the couch.
“So how’d you get that mountain lion to leave us alone?” I ask. “Can you talk to cats? I mean, you were speaking English to it.”
“I don’t think it understood my words. I don’t usually talk to them. That was more for your benefit, so you knew what I was doing and didn’t freak out and try to come to my rescue or something. It’s more of a mental nudging, like . . . trading messages and impressions.” She frowns. “Sorry if that sounds weird. I’ve never tried to explain it before.”
“No, I think I get it,” I say. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who’s scared of you. Lions and tigers run away, too.”
Catherine flops a pillow around on her lap, biting her lip like she’s guarding against too big a smile. “I’ve never tried to bond with a big cat before. I was scared, but when it worked, it was like . . . wow. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
Outside, the twittering of birds is interrupted by the impatient rumble of car tires over gravel, rolling to a stop. Catherine curses and grabs the cereal bowls, dashes to the kitchen and throws them into the sink, swirls the milk and mushy cereal down the drain. “My parents aren’t supposed to be back for another three hours!” Her voice is shaky, almost shrill, as she goes through the motions of putting the dishes away.
“Maybe it’s just someone turning around.” I go to the window and peer out—then drop to the floor bank-robbery style.
There’s an ice-blue Aston Martin in the driveway.
I force myself to the window for a second look. Cherchette’s alone, striding across Catherine’s uneven driveway, a shiny wrapped package in her arms: metallic silver paper, glittering in the sun, topped with a flouncy red bow.
Catherine comes back, wiping her wet hands on a towel—and stops. She sees me crouched and instinctively lowers herself to the floor. “What is it?” she whispers.
“Something bad. I didn’t want to involve you. But somehow she—”
We feel the house shudder then, hear the grating metal creak of a manual garage door being raised.
Catherine curses. The walls are thin so we can hear Cherchette’s voice, although not what she’s saying. The fact that she’s speaking at all—in that soothing, sweet, sugarcoated tone—puzzles me. Who’s she talking to?
“Not again. Why won’t she ever . . . ?” Catherine grits her teeth, turns to me. “You have to go. It isn’t about you; she’s been here before. This is something I need to deal with.”
Before I can argue, Catherine yanks me up by the elbow and marches me out the door. “I mean it,” she says firmly. “If I find you here afterward, I’ll kick your ass. Not everything is your problem.”
“Fine, I’m going,” I say, looking all offended. I storm down the street, not glancing back until I hear her run across the driveway, bare feet scattering the stones. Then I haul ass right back there and hide outside the garage.
I don’t feel right about this; Cherchette’s pissed—at me, at all of us. And now she shows up with a present, like it’s somebody’s birthday? Something’s going on here, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving Catherine alone.
21
THERE—HOW DO you like it? A present for you and your sister.” Cherchette’s squatting neatly beside a small boy—maybe eight or nine?—who’s curled up on a dirty mattress in the Drakes’ garage. She’s in pearls and high-heeled boots and a designer suit; the boy’s so scrawny his elbows bulge like knobs on a tree; he’s wearing dirt-streaked jeans and a several-sizes-too-big Incredible Hulk shirt: the one I bought for Henry. My throat closes up.
It’s a heartwarming, messed-up picture, full of possibility: a socialite lavishing attention on a stray. Like when celebrities visit suffering children and they just glow next to them, and you think for a sec that, yeah, something is going to change, these kids’ lives are going to improve, just by virtue of having been touched by someone so special.
“I like the paper,” the boy says. His voice is rough and raspy, like it doesn’t get used much.
“Go on, see what’s inside,” Cherchette urges, a lipstick-pink smile on her face.
The garage is filthy: the cement floor is run through with cracks and stained with oil, bags of garbage are piled everywhere, and broken furniture, boxes, and a cobwebbed Christmas tree take up the rest of the space, turning the place into a claustrophobic cavern.
But that’s not what sticks with me.
As the kid in the Incredible Hulk shirt leans over the package, unwrapping it with the utmost care, his straggly, dirty hair falls forward to reveal pointed ears. A long feline tail, sparsely coated with fine golden hair, twitches limply against the mattress.
There’s a plastic water bowl next to him—like the kind you would use for a dog.
What the hell’s going on here?
Catherine’s staying back, hands on her hips, working herself up to something—I can see it in her face. But . . . what?
I wish she’d told me about this; I wish I knew what this was about. For now all I can do is watch and wait. Try to get a feel for the situation.
The boy folds the wrapping paper carefully, sets it beside him like it’s a present in itself. He grins big as he lifts a huge LEGO castle out of the box. “Cool,” he says.
“I have so many more gifts for you at home. I would bring them here but I don’t think your parents would like that,” Cherchette says with a pout.
“No . . .”
“There’s a girl who lives with me who is just like you. She also had to hide away from the world. Her teeth are like a piranha’s. And her skin is like a shark’s. But where I live, she is free to show herself and make friends. She is not a monster, she is special. How does that sound?” Cherchette’s voice is warm with reassurance. The boy is nodding along.
“It sounds nice.”
Catherine breaks the silence then; she grips her hips with two tight fists. “We’re not interested. And stop talking to him like he’s five.”
“I’m sorry—did I offend you?”
“He’s small; he’s not retarded,” Catherine says. “You can’t just buy him presents and expect him to fall for y
our lies.”
“Always so hostile.” Cherchette tsks. “I am only concerned for your welfare, and Charlie’s. You should want your twin brother to be happy, not to remain here when a better life awaits.”
Wait—what??
This little kid is Catherine’s twin?
“He’ll have a better life,” Catherine says, stalking forward. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Oh—your pitiful coffee-shop job?” Cherchette purses her lips. “You think you can support two people with that pittance? Where will you live—outdoors? How will you ensure that he is not discovered?”
“As long as he’s away from you, he’ll be fine.”
“I am offering you both a lifeline,” Cherchette says, “and you are foolish not to take it. You insist on having things your own way, and in the meantime your brother leads an animal’s life. I have been patient with you, I have tried to make you understand—but the time is up, Catherine. We both know where you belong.”
“Get out!” Catherine shouts.
Cherchette smoothes her narrow skirt as she stands up. “Charlie, darling, how would you like to sleep in a warm, clean bed tonight, in a beautiful house, with good things to eat, and friends and games to play with, and a swimming pool to swim in and a trampoline? Doesn’t that sound heavenly? Wouldn’t you like your sister to be there with you?”
Charlie nods, his eyes glittering, entranced by Cherchette and her promises.
Catherine’s face is flushed with anger. Tears spring to her eyes. “It’s too good to be true and we both know it. Charlie isn’t going to fall for that any more than I would.”
“Charlie and I are leaving,” Cherchette says. “With or without you, Catherine. But I suggest you join us. Or else he will miss you very much.” Cherchette takes the boy’s tiny hand and something in Catherine snaps.
Claws splayed, she leaps at Cherchette.
Ten claws slam into an unyielding ice wall—a shield that built itself in fast-forward: from fog to rock-hard in a split second. Catherine crumples, gasping like she got the wind knocked out of her, cradling her left hand. One of her claws is broken off. Blood trickles from her injured finger.