Could she mean Magpie? Was it naïve of me to think Magpie would just give up and let me go? After all, we know too much about each other. I know he’s into drug dealing and taking advantage of street kids, and he knows what I did to Simon in that alley. But it’s not possible that he tracked me all the way to Concord. Is it?
“Are you doing okay, Hank?” Sophie looks like she wants to check me again for signs of a fever. “Ever since you left the school, I’ve been worried about you.”
“Oh, sure,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m fine, really.” She’s a sweet lady, but I just want to be done talking to her. In fact, I want to bolt out of this room. “Thanks for letting me know about my, uh, friends.”
The auditorium door slams shut again, jarring me to the bone, and there’s a flurry of voices as the rest of Cameron’s band files into the room, pulling Cameron away from Hailey to set up. The lead singer is this skinny girl dressed all in black with straight blond hair, dyed pink at the tips. She gives Hailey a superior smirk, like she’s proud that she’s taken Hailey’s place in the band. Whatever. There’s no way she’s as good.
Ms. Coleman shoos us out of the auditorium so Cameron’s band can set up. Out in the hallway, we say good-bye to Sam and Ryan and they take off, leaving Hailey and me alone together. Her cheeks are red after her exchange with Cameron, and her green eyes flash.
“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest. “You want to go downtown?”
“Yes. Need ice cream, stat,” she says and manages a tight smile. “By the way, what did the janitor want? I saw her talking to you.”
“Nothing. She just kind of likes me, I guess.”
“Of course she does.” Hailey reaches over, so easy, and takes my hand. Hers is warm and soft and fits perfectly into mine. “She’s a sweet lady, but a little crazy,” she says with a shrug. “That’s what people say anyway.”
“Yeah.” But I know she’s not that crazy. Still, it’s not possible that somebody really did come looking for me, not here in Concord, Massachusetts. Is it?
Don’t think about it.
12
Helen’s Restaurant is packed with the after-school crowd. A hum of laughter and conversation floats in the small space like smoke, punctuated by scraping forks on plates, the clink of soda glasses behind the breakfast counter. We sit in a booth across from each other, and Hailey orders a strawberry sundae with extra whipped cream. I’m not hungry, so I just get a root beer.
“Don’t judge me,” she says, her spoon poised above the sundae.
“Why would I do that?”
“Danielle is always lecturing me about what I eat. Drives me crazy.”
“I wouldn’t judge you,” I tell her, wondering what ice cream has to do her health, making a mental note to find out. “Anyway, tell me about Cameron,” I say, glad I have something to take my mind off what Sophie said.
Hailey licks a few drips off her spoon. “It’s kind of a long story.”
I tie a double knot in the paper left over from my straw and smile at her. “I’ve got time.”
So she tells me about how her parents and Cameron’s parents have been best friends and next-door neighbors since the two of them were in kindergarten. They grew up like cousins, with both families really close. His family helped them through the scary time when Hailey got sick, before they knew what was wrong. Then they started a band freshman year, with Cameron on lead guitar and Hailey on vocals. The band fell apart after last year’s doomed—her word—Battle of the Bands, but the two of them were still close friends. This past fall, they decided to try dating. It didn’t take.
“I don’t know. He started getting serious right away, you know? But I realized it wasn’t like that for me. He’s more like a brother than a boyfriend. So I broke it off. And he was really crushed. Things haven’t been the same between us since.”
Hailey hands me an extra spoon. I take a bite of her sundae, sweet cold strawberry, and although it’s good, I realize hot fudge would have been my choice. Another new detail I know about myself.
“And what was that thing he wants you to do for him, the thing you owe him, or whatever?” I ask, setting the spoon back on the table.
Her mouth twists to one side and she frowns. “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. A couple weeks ago, I went to this party and had way too much to drink. It’s not something I do very often because it’s really bad for me, but I was stupid. Had a sucky day or whatever. Anyway, I was even more stupid to try and drive myself home. I was in my own neighborhood when I took a turn too sharp, and smashed right into a tree at the end of my street. I was totally freaking out. So I went hammering on Cam’s door because I didn’t know what else to do. His parents and mine were out together at a play in the city. So he came out and saw the car. One of our neighbors had called the police, and we knew they were on their way.
“He said to tell them he was driving, but I said no, I couldn’t do that, because then he’d get in trouble. ‘Not as much as you,’ he said. And he was right. So I did it. I let him get in the car, in the driver’s seat. And when the police came, he said he’d swerved to avoid hitting a dog. The police totally bought it. But the thing is, he has a junior license, he’s not supposed to have a passenger in the car, that’s one of the rules. So his license is suspended for sixty days.”
“Well the license thing, that’s not your fault,” I say, hating that Cameron has any excuse to manipulate her. The waitress comes by and gives me a refill on my root beer, without me even having to ask.
“No, but it still comes down to this: he did me a huge favor and kept me from getting a DUI on my license, and probably having to pay a huge fine and go to driving classes. So I do owe him. To a point anyway.” Hailey’s spoon clinks against glass as she scoops up the last few spoonfuls of melted ice cream.
“I don’t know. It sounds like he’s totally taking advantage of the situation.”
“No doubt about that. Anyway, let’s not talk about this anymore.” With a flourish, she takes the last bite of her sundae and then licks her lips. She has no idea what this does to me. Or maybe she does and just wants to torture me a little. I fight the urge to grab her, right here in this booth, and kiss the last traces of whipped cream off her lips.
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your uncle’s house,” she says.
“My uncle?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say that’s where you’re staying?” She looks at me for a minute like I’m a bug under a microscope. “Seriously, sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything about you, Hank. Mr. Mysterious. Who the hell are you anyway?”
“I have no idea,” I say, flashing a charming smile to show her I’m kidding. “It’s just that, uh, he’s more like a friend of the family than an actual relative. I just call him uncle. Uncle Thomas.”
“Is he your teacher, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“For homeschooling. Does he teach you?”
“Oh.” I clear my throat, shuffle my feet under the table. “No, I do it myself. On the computer and stuff. That’s how it works.” God, I hope that’s how it works.
She squints at me, but then shrugs, like she’s accepted my explanation. Whew.
“By the way, I told Ms. Coleman your situation, with the homeschooling and all, to make sure it’s okay for you to be in the Battle of the Bands. I didn’t want them kicking you out at the last minute or anything.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“And she said it was okay. She’s cool like that. Plus, she really likes you.”
Whew, again. “Good.”
To celebrate these small victories and also because I can’t hold back any longer, I kiss her. And she tastes delicious, like strawberries and whipped cream and Hailey.
Letting myself get lost in the moment, the knot in my gut relaxes. Hailey makes me feel like I’m worth something and that I’m safe here. Surely here in this good place with this amazing girl, nothing bad could happen and nobody could hurt me. Not even Magpie. I want
to believe this, so bad. And so for the moment, I do.
Riding on the back of Thomas’s motorcycle on the way to the library the next morning, there’s this comfortable hum in my chest. The air is getting warmer and smells like black dirt and new grass. I have a great place to stay with Thomas. I’m making music with Hailey and falling for her more every day. Concord is a nice town, and with the exception maybe of Cameron, it’s full of really nice people. It occurs to me I haven’t felt the beast attack my insides for days. Not since waking up at Thomas’s place last week. To me, that’s huge.
Thoreau wrote that we should suck the marrow out of life. Okay, so this may not be the life I started with. But it’s a good one at the moment, so why not go ahead and seize the day?
For about an hour, I hum to myself, re-shelving books in the nonfiction stacks at the library. But then I have to bring a cart of books into the Thoreau room and I stop short outside the room, where the head and shoulders statue of Henry David sits on a pedestal. My heart sinks in my chest.
Thoreau’s statue-blank eyes aren’t saying anything to me about sucking the marrow out of life or seizing the day. What they’re saying instead, is: what the hell are you doing, Hank, allowing yourself to settle into a life where you don’t belong? Have you gotten so unbelievably selfish that you’ve forgotten all about your sister?
Trying to ignore a sick feeling spreading in the pit of my stomach, I finish up the shelving and then sit my butt back down at the library computer. I don’t want to look through the Missing and Exploited Children database anymore, and I hate that I can’t live a normal, everyday life and just be happy. But I have no choice. I have to keep searching for the truth. Not for my sake anymore, but my sister’s. And if someone has come to Concord looking for me, I might not have a lot of time.
Picking up where I left off, I look at every single kid in the database who vanished from Delaware. Then Florida, Georgia, Hawaii. So many faces, so many missing kids, so many broken families. The faces all seem to blur together. But I continue, on to Idaho. Then Illinois.
Illinois.
That’s when it happens. That’s when I see the face. My face.
It’s me, but somehow it’s not me. Same face, same hair, but I’m smiling, confident. A high school picture. High school kid who looks secure in his existence. A guy who seems to know exactly who he is. Or was. A guy named Daniel Henderson. My heart seizes up in my chest.
Daniel Henderson. I say the name to myself, whispering it out loud in the library.
Daniel Henderson, the listing says. From Naperville, Illinois.
So this is me. My real name. I think back to the image I had of my dad, calling my name in Walden Woods. The name I couldn’t quite hear him calling was Danny. Yes, that sounds right. I am Danny Henderson from Naperville, Illinois. It says my birth date is May 12, which means I’ll turn eighteen in just a few weeks. I must be a senior in high school. Will I miss my own graduation? Was I going to college?
I hold on to the edge of the table, not breathing. Bracing myself, I wait for all of Danny Henderson’s memories to come rushing back into me, filling every empty space inside with life and memory and realization.
But nothing comes. I can’t believe it. Nothing comes.
I’m not Hank, but Danny. So why do I still feel like Hank?
I look over at Thomas, where he sits at his desk, entering information into his computer. I’m not ready to tell Thomas. I need to take time with this, need to get a grip. Where the hell is Naperville, Illinois? Will I remember, if I research the town where Danny Henderson lived?
I take a break, wander around the room, and stretch my legs. My heart is pounding against my ribs like I’m going to have a coronary. Can’t take too much of this all at once. Can’t seem to absorb it. I go down to the candy machine. Buy M&Ms. Make myself eat them slowly, one at a time, by color. Red, blue, yellow, green. Then I return to the computer and sit down.
Search: Naperville, Illinois.
There’s a website for the town. I look at pictures of the downtown area. There’s a riverwalk. It’s a big town with four high schools, one of them mine. But which one? Pretty houses in the suburbs, sort of like Concord. Danny Henderson lived in this nice suburban town, about forty minutes west of Chicago. Maybe I rooted for the Bulls. The Bears. The White Sox or the Cubs? My gut says Cubs, but I can’t be sure.
There’s a link on the website to the local newspaper called the Naperville Sun. I take my disappearance date, April 10, which is listed on the Missing and Exploited Children site and I search the archives of the Naperville Sun for a couple days before my disappearance. There are articles about local politicians, church suppers, and ads about local stores having sales. Nothing seems familiar.
That’s when I see the headline on the sports page, and a dim lightbulb of memory switches on somewhere in a dark back hallway of my brain.
NAPERVILLE SOUTH BOYS TRACK TEAM FACES RIVALS
The track team is posed in one of those year-book-type pictures with the guys standing in two rows, wearing team uniforms with numbers. The taller guys are in the back. I scan their faces and stop. One of them is me. Not smiling, just standing there like I want the photographer to take the picture already so I can leave. And then there, right under the team picture is another photo, an action shot featuring some dark-haired guy with arms pumping, legs flying like something’s chasing him. His face is a grimace, eyes wide, mouth open like he’s sucking air. The guy is me.
Senior Daniel Henderson trains for spring track season at Naperville South. Henderson excelled last year and is expected to challenge or break longstanding school records this season. The Naperville South runners will face off against their rivals from Aurora West this Saturday at home.
With detached curiosity I stare at this Daniel Henderson, huffing and puffing his way through a race, examine the contorted face of a stranger. I feel nothing.
But then slowly, a sensation creeps up on me, like a ripple circling from a stone thrown in a pond. It grows into a wave, starting somewhere in the roots of my hair, reaching tendrils into my scalp and neck and face, and I feel the flush, a red burn spreading over every surface of my skin. And then, with a deep shudder to the bone, to the brain, to the heart, I switch places and I become that boy.
Cold April air rushes down my throat, prickles my lungs. Arms and legs pump like pistons and I’m a machine, oblivious to everything but my muscles on fire, my body propelling itself through space, weaving past the other runners, toward the finish line.
Except that in truth, I’m not running around the high school track in Naperville, Illinois, at all. I’m bolting for the library door. Sprinting past Thomas, who looks up in surprise.
His voice, too loud for the library, is like sounding an alarm: “Hank, what’s wrong?!”
I almost fall down the concrete steps, vision bombarded with black-red flashes as the beast roars to life from its pit inside me. But it’s not just one beast, not anymore. It divides itself into a billion smaller versions of itself, each with curled claws, red eyes, rising, choking, leaping at my throat, trying to kill me for starting to remember what is crucial to forget.
Down the sidewalk, toward town. Feet pounding on pavement. Left on Thoreau Street, right on Walden. Cross Route Two. Arms pumping, keep moving. Running until I reach Walden Pond. Running along the path that rings the pond, then branching off and bolting into the woods. Crashing through the underbrush. Still running, sweat streams down my face into my mouth, salty. Past the railroad tracks, deeper into the woods. Trying to outrun the snarling beasts, desperate to find the calm that comes with running.
And somehow I find a way to outrun the terror by forcing myself back in time, before the memory of lights swirling red and blue, before the pink ballerina broken, before the blood.
Settling my body into the cadence of running, the steady inhale, exhale pattern that keeps my heart from beating out of control, I begin to remember my life.
The last good day was cold for early April. M
y breath came in white clouds as I went for my morning run around the neighborhood, nothing too long or crazy, just a chance to stretch my legs and wake up my brain. When I got home, I wheeled the green trash barrel to the curb, like I did every Friday morning of my life. The sky was milky and the air smelled like snow, but I was sure it wouldn’t dare snow, not this weekend. The next day was the big meet against Aurora. That night, I had plans.
The recycle bins went next, overflowing with empty cereal boxes, newspapers, and soup cans. Every week, I counted the empty wine bottles. More than three meant that Mom had a bad week.
After I showered and got dressed for school, I came downstairs and found my mother standing at the kitchen stove, cooking us cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon. I remember the bacon crackling in the pan, how it smelled, how Mom looked at me with her eyes all soft, and the warmth of the kitchen. I remember home.
“Okay, Danny, here’s the info,” she said, pointing to a sheet of paper stuck to the fridge with magnets. “This is the hotel where we’ll be and here’s Aunt June’s number in Evanston. Call her if you need help anytime with anything.” She turned to me like she still saw a five-year-old standing there. Never mind that I was going to turn eighteen in a month and was six inches taller than her.
“Mom, we’re going to be fine,” I said. “It’s just one weekend, and it’s only Galena.”
“I know, but it just feels strange to leave the two of you alone,” she said, running fingers through her wavy blond hair like she did when she was nervous, which was basically most of the time.
The main reason they wanted to go to Galena this particular weekend was because they got engaged there, exactly twenty years ago. They were obviously trying to bring some magic back to their marriage. I wished them luck on that. Seriously.
“Relax, Mom,” Rosie called from the family room, where she was practicing leaps across the carpet in her pink sneakers. “You’ll give yourself a myocardial infarction.”
Rosie. My sister. Age nine, crazy smart, always dressed in pink. She had this weird habit of throwing big words into normal conversations.
Being Henry David Page 12