by Cody Wagner
“Well, as enjoyable as this may be,” Mr. Cooke said, “we’re going to continue on with our daughter.”
At that, Mrs. Cooke put her hands on Cassie’s shoulders and literally turned her the direction she, Mrs. Cooke, wanted to go. With a little push, Cassie began walking. Mr. Cooke followed suit.
I shook my head as if I was waking up from a ten-day nap. Cassie couldn’t be left alone. Not like this. Besides, I needed to talk with Mr. Cooke. I had to find out more about him. Cassie mentioned he was a campaign manager or something. Did that mean he was political?
Putting on my oblivious hat—which wasn’t too hard—I skipped behind them and said, “Great! Where are we going?”
Mrs. Cooke stopped. She turned in slow motion as if stuck in a tar pit. Smirking, she said, “We’re going to the Classroom Center. You’re—”
Before she could tell me I wasn’t invited, I said, “Lead the way! I can’t wait to tell you all about Cassie and how she’s doing.”
That one got Mrs. Cooke’s attention. She waffled for a minute, obviously divided between one-upping me and getting the dirt on Cassie. Finally, she said, “Very well. But you’re to walk behind us.”
We proceeded to the Classroom Center like a makeshift centipede. Mrs. Cooke, the queen, led the way. She was followed by a glowing Mr. Cooke. Cassie marched behind him. I followed her like the peasant. Part of me expected Mrs. Cooke to hand me a shoe shine kit and tell me to get to work.
I didn’t care, though. I had to do this.
As we trudged through the snow, Cassie looked at me over her shoulder and whispered, “You can go.” She was clearly concerned for me, but I didn’t care about my safety. It’s not like the Cookes were going to do anything to me here at Sanctuary.
I shook my head, grinned like I was enjoying myself, and said, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Cooke?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Cooke held up a hand. Without turning, she said, “Tell me about Cassie’s progress.”
My face started to burn. Mrs. Cooke made everything into a power struggle. Still, I had to appease her. Clasping my hands together, I spewed a stream of positive lies, including, “She’s definitely the valedictorian of our class.”
OK, that was probably true, and I kept going. “She was also a key member of an anti-bullying group. They made real strides.”
That was true, too, and I realized every good thing I said about Cassie ended up being true. I let myself sink into a feeling of awe and bragged about her healing. “Her healing progress is off the charts. On the . . . um . . . Gerbrichter scale, she should be at a five, but her score is a six-point-five.”
Cassie threw me a What the hell are you talking about? look. Sure, the statistic was made up, but Mrs. Cooke nodded. As long as I mentioned “Cassie” and “healing” together, I could have said anything.
I was in a groove and went to make up another stat, when Mrs. Cooke held up a hand. “That’s enough. You may now ask my husband one question.”
“Huh?”
She made a noise in her throat that insinuated I was stupid. Still facing forward, she said, “You honored my request. Your reward is one question.”
My clasped hands gripped each other until they hurt. She was treating me like a dog! I’d obeyed her order, and this was my treat. I took a few deep breaths, feeling sorrier and sorrier for Cassie.
“Time’s up.”
“What?”
Mrs. Cooke stopped and turned to face me. At first, I was thrilled she actually looked at me. But she wore that condescending smile again. “I gave you the opportunity to ask a question. You didn’t take that opportunity. You lost it.”
She nodded at Mr. Cooke. “Gabe should be helping enforce this behavior as well. But he’s all talk. You should hear him when we’re home. He acts like he knows how to take charge.” She rolled her eyes. “But throw him in a situation, and he’s worthless. Don’t ask me how he got to where he’s at.”
Her comment didn’t seem to faze him one bit. Keeping his voice perfectly calm, Mr. Cooke said, “I keep my eyes sharp and work hard.”
“Like I believe that.”
Mr. Cooke stopped. “I’m not a child. Your little power game doesn’t work on me.”
She cocked her head, but after a tense pause, she must have decided to avoid a fight and proceeded to lead us around the Classroom Center in our single file formation. When we approached the Admissions Building, she said, “Now let’s try this again. You may ask a question.”
I knew this was part two of her training. If I spoke up immediately, it meant her stupid tactics were working. Therefore, I wanted to keep my mouth shut. Or tell her to shut hers. But I told myself getting information was more important than appearing whipped to some idiot lady.
Still, I directed my comment directly at Mr. Cooke. Maybe he’d answer even if Mrs. Cooke cut me off. “What do you do for a living, sir?”
Without looking back, he said, “I’m a campaign manager.”
“For who?”
I knew I was pushing it by asking a second question, but Mrs. Cooke said, “For Senator Joseph. I assume you know of him?”
She turned and gave me an innocent gaze, like she was genuinely curious. Of course she knew I was familiar with Senator Joseph. Every kid at every healing camp in the country knew about him. She was just rubbing in the fact her husband worked for a homophobic group.
However, I was supposed to be on Senator Joseph’s side and figured her statement might be a test, so I smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am. Congratulations to your husband.”
She put a hand over her heart. “Senator Joseph is wonderful, isn’t he?”
I thought it was a rhetorical question, but she waited for a response. Mrs. Cooke wanted to hear me rave about Senator Joseph. I was fine with that and said, “Oh, yes! And it’s great he hasn’t visited here yet, isn’t it? It means Sanctuary is legit. You made the right decision sending Cassie here.”
Mrs. Cooke didn’t expect a compliment. She watched me for a second, trying to see through my charade. I guess my act worked, because she put on a thin smile and said, “We’ll see.” Then she turned and kept walking.
I grinned to myself. It was as good a response as I could have expected. I was sure she wanted to go on and on about Senator Joseph. Seeing that we agreed, though, there was no power to be gained by continuing. I even managed to play up Sanctuary a bit. Go me! Even Cassie broke character and threw me a quick smile.
“Where to next?” I said, feeling proud of myself.
Wrong question.
Mrs. Cooke stopped. This time she didn’t face me. “That’s not for you to decide. You are here simply because I’m allowing you to be here.”
“And I don’t believe a word you said earlier, young man.”
It was Mr. Cooke.
I flinched. So did Mrs. Cooke. She turned and looked at him. “Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.” Apparently, she had believed me and thought he was calling her stupid.
“Yes, I am entitled to my opinion,” he said, turning to look at me. “Your comments about Senator Joseph sounded like a blatant attempt to defend this place. If anything, it made me suspicious.”
I didn’t know how to respond. He was absolutely right, and his being under control made the statement way scarier. Was he ordered to turn on Sanctuary? Did I just give him ammo? I cussed to myself, realizing I should have been more guarded given the fact he was the first glowing person I’d ever talked to.
Before I could do anything, Mrs. Cooke cleared her throat, demanding the floor. I thought she was going to say something to me, but she looked at her husband. “Everything makes you suspicious.” She was clearly trying to knock him down to build herself up. Before he could respond, she continued, “I’m bored with this conversation. It’s time for lunch.”
Although I hated her, I had to agree with Mrs. Cooke. She was changing the topic, and that was fine with me. I shook my head and said, “Yay, I’m starving.”
Mrs. Cooke ignor
ed me. “We are heading to the cafeteria now.”
I began walking when Mr. Cooke gestured at me. “We doesn’t include you.” He straightened his tie. “We’re going to have some family time now. And I still don’t believe you. Good bye.”
I remained rooted to the frozen ground as they marched off toward the cafeteria. Cassie didn’t dare look back, but her gloved hand gave me a tiny wave.
It was a solid minute before I could move. That whole ordeal was terrifying. I hadn’t expected Mr. Cooke to fight his wife like that. I’m not sure why, but I thought he’d be subservient. I guess I figured anyone glowing would act like a slave, but that wasn’t true; Mr. Cooke was opinionated and intimidating. It’s like he had an entire personality of his own. I guess Senator Joseph did, too. That made the Siren so much more imposing. She wasn’t just making people zombies. Other than the glow, it was utterly impossible to tell they were under control.
That brought on a familiar thought: How much of that was his real personality? If Mr. Cooke weren’t under control, how different would he have acted? I had no idea, and my mind went in a different direction, as I wondered how the Siren was going to use him. Was this some sort of preemptive attack on Sanctuary? Or a reconnaissance mission?
My hands started sweating in my gloves, as I thought about Mr. Cooke bringing down the school over Christmas. Especially after the fight I’d just had with my parents. The idea of being sent home right after that confrontation made me sweat even more. My fear worsened when I thought of hundreds of students being forced from their refuge during the holidays. Especially Cassie.
All those thoughts boiled to a froth in my brain until one thing became clear:
I had to do something. Now. No more hiding. I couldn’t make excuses anymore. I’d procrastinated because the Siren had been ignoring Sanctuary. Well, someone was controlled right on the freaking campus.
Without giving myself time to balk, I took off running and didn’t stop until I was in my room. My feet left muddy slush prints all over the tile floor, but I didn’t care. I tore open the desk, and without removing my gloves, grabbed a pen and piece of paper. Putting the pen in my right hand, I scrawled a tiny note:
Mr. Gabriel Cooke is being controlled by the Siren.
My entire body trembled as I scrutinized the note, making sure it couldn’t be traced back to me. That’s why I’d used my off hand to write. Also, my gloves would prevent any fingerprints. Then, I tore the top, bottom, and sides off the page, so it was only as big as the sentence I’d written. Now it was impossible to guess the size of the original paper.
The desk lamp sat right in front of me, and I flicked it on, held the paper in front of the bulb, and examined it. No watermark showed through the page. This was as anonymous as it was going to get. My sweatshirt stuck to my skin with sweat when I stood up and stared at the door.
“Do it!” I said to myself.
For once, I listened on the first try. The floor was slippery as I made my way out, but I took off running. Only I didn’t go into the Admissions Building. That was too risky. Instead, I made my way around it to the faculty parking lot. One spot had a metal sign reading “Principal John Wolcott.” My panic escalated when I saw a gray sedan parked in the spot.
I didn’t have any excuses to wuss out.
Pumping my hands into fists a few times, I sprinted to the car and dropped to my knees, hoping I was invisible. Then, I folded the paper in half, wedged it in the space between the driver’s side handle and the door, and took off running again.
I almost turned back a thousand times to retrieve the note, but I didn’t. I made it all the way back to the dorm parking lot without stopping. I looked at the gray sky, heart pounding. This was huge. Enormous! For the first time, Sanctuary would know a Seeker existed, even if they didn’t know my identity. Little scenes, mostly involving hidden cameras in Wolcott’s car, started invading my head, and I almost turned back again.
But I didn’t.
I kept moving until I stood in the hallway outside my room. My lungs were on fire from the cold. My throat froze from the wind. For a second, I worried I’d get strep throat. Then I saw Mrs. Cooke and Tracey emerge from the girls’ bathroom together, and the pain evaporated.
Mrs. Cooke had her arms folded across her chest, and her face was red with anger. “Well, I never!”
Tracey, not intimidated at all, said, “I was right in the middle of washing my hands, and you expected me to stop so you could go first?!” She rolled her eyes. “Just use a different sink.”
“Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Cooke gestured at her clothes, which had water spots all over them. “You’re going to pay for the dry cleaning.”
Tracey laughed mockingly and said, “Pay for this.” She flipped Mrs. Cooke off then strolled into the foyer.
Mrs. Cooke stood there, speechless, like she’d never been usurped by a teenager before.
“What a horrible, wretched child,” she finally managed to say.
If I weren’t so freaked out from my excursion, I would have done a happy mental dance. Tracey still held a spot on my awful list, but anyone who could get to Mrs. Cooke like that deserved a fist bump or something. Anything to drop the awful woman down a peg.
Somehow, I managed to give Mrs. Cooke a sympathetic face. “Yeah, Tracey Bridges isn’t a good person.”
“Tracey Bridges? That’s her name?” She looked up as if mentally storing the information. Then, without saying anything else to me, she walked down the hall. I figured she was going to our room, but she kept on going.
I found myself blurting, “Where are you headed?” It was stupid to question her like that, but I wanted to chase them down and spy some more.
Mrs. Cooke stopped, and again, didn’t turn to look at me. “How parents can raise such rude children nowadays, I do not understand.”
I stood silent, when she said, “If you apologize for your rudeness, maybe I will answer your question.”
I shook my head, seething. I hated this woman. I hated her with every fiber of my being. But I shoved every ounce of pride down into my feet and said, “I apologize. I just came in from a run, and I’m not quite myself.”
Mrs. Cooke took a long, deliberate pause. She looked at her gloves, straightened them, and pulled her hat down about a millionth of an inch. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “We are staying at a hotel tonight. As a family. Cassie will rejoin you in the morning.”
I wanted to ask which hotel, but Mrs. Cooke was done speaking. Already, she’d made her way to the door without saying good bye. Before I did something rash, I told myself Cassie had spent entire summers at home. If she could survive weeks at a time there, she could make it through one night at a hotel.
Nodding to myself, I went into my room, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. What would happen when Wolcott saw the note? He’d either discard it, take it as a threat, or have a world class freak-out. I turned over, imagining worst-case scenarios. Most of them involved my taking Jimmy’s spot: getting dragged to Wolcott at all hours of the night, missing out on life to attend meetings, and being hunted down by the Siren. In one particularly nasty thought, I stood in front of the school on a giant podium, coated in red paint, as everyone pointed at me. How Carrie.
Then I thought of Cassie and my mood changed. Her safety was more important than my stupid worries. Suddenly, I hoped Wolcott would see the note. They’d do something to help. They had to.
Finally, after hours of torturing myself, I fell asleep. The dreams I experienced were just as bad as the daydreams. For once, I was glad to wake up early, when the door opened the following morning, jarring me out of a particularly gruesome nightmare.
I jerked upright and saw Cassie entering, alone. She stared off at nothing, clearly distracted.
I hopped down from my bunk bed.
Cassie flew back against the door, screaming. “You scared me to death!”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just worried about you.”
She squinted at me
. “Why? I’ve spent tons of time with my parents.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never really met them before. Now that I have . . . man. How was it?”
She shook her head and messed with her gloves. Her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. She tugged at the bottom of her coat. Then, from out of nowhere, she burst into tears. The grief hit so hard, her shoulders shook and everything. Just as she started sagging to the floor, I pulled her into a hug.
She withdrew, flinching in pain.
“What’s wrong?”
She just looked at the floor.
I glanced down at her ribs. Last year, I injured myself, and when my mom hugged me, I’d reacted just like Cassie did now. I covered my mouth. “Did they hurt you?”
She didn’t answer.
I realized my hands were fists. “Did they hurt you!?” When she didn’t answer again, a stream of cuss words flew out of my mouth, all directed at Mr. and Mrs. Cooke. At some point, I started crying, too. I knew Cassie’s parents were terrible, but I didn’t think they abused her. I wondered how often this had happened, but didn’t dare ask. Instead, I watched as Cassie pulled off her gloves and jacket, climbed gingerly into her bed, and pulled a blanket over her head. She was trying to heal in a makeshift cocoon.
“I want to be alone,” she said. “Please.”
Part of me didn’t want to leave her there. But I also understood that she needed time. I could comfort her after she regained herself.
My drawer was right next to me, and I quickly threw on some warm clothes. Then, I went to the door and opened it. Before leaving, I stopped. “Just know there are people here who care about you.”
I heard a hiccup and that’s all, so I left.
My mind raced as I walked outside. Mostly, I thought of all the horrible things I wanted to do to Cassie’s parents. This explained her weird behavior with them. It explained so much, like Cassie’s mood swings, especially after phone calls home. Then, another brain wave came to me. My note must not have worked. Wolcott didn’t get to Mr. Cooke in time to stop him from lashing out at his daughter. My plan had failed.