by Gwenda Bond
“My dad’s on trial tomorrow. Bronson told me.”
“I know,” he says, looking in the fridge instead of at me.
“Look, I don’t need you to be on mopey Kyra duty. You can go to sleep.”
“I will,” he says, “as soon as I get some water.”
“Why’s Justin up so late?” I ask.
He whirls from the fridge, shuts it behind him. “What do you mean? Justin sleeps like the dead. Like a baby.”
“Well, he’s in Bronson’s office.”
Oz swings back the way we came, and I follow, even though it’s none of my business. When we get to the office, the light’s out. No one’s there.
“He was here. I swear.”
Oz moves further into the office. I follow him. There’s nothing on the table where Justin was sitting before… Wait. There is. Oz walks over and plucks a pen off. He holds it in the air. “This is his.”
He slips it into the pocket of his plaid pajama bottoms. “I’m sure it was just some scholar nerdery that couldn’t wait. But you won’t say anything?”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s asking me. Earlier Justin said Oz trusts me. Oh, Oz, you shouldn’t. “To Bronson? Don’t worry. Your – his, whoever’s – secret is safe with me.”
“I’m heading up to bed,” Oz says, “after all.”
He’s going to talk to Justin. I say, “Good night.” When I don’t make a move to leave, he frowns but leaves me behind. He’s on a mission to interrogate his friend.
I slip over to the desk, and punch in Bree’s number. I wait through the rings, counting them, and, as I’m about to give up, someone answers.
“Hello?”
It’s Tam. Tam answers.
I sit there, thinking of what to say. Then I hang up… not in shock exactly. But surprised, and knowing I should call back. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be there. I let the receiver stay where it is. If they find out my plan, they’ll want to help. That can’t happen.
I’m on my own from here on out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tam Nguyen replaces the receiver of the phone on Bree’s desk. The cord snakes across the floor of her bedroom and out into the upstairs hallway. They had to dig a long extension line out of a closet filled with extra camera pieces and miscellaneous gear and hook it to the phone in her mom’s room, to get it to reach all the way in here.
Bree smacks his shoulder for the second time. “I told you,” she says. “I told you to let me get it. I should never have invited you over here.”
“Kyra’s my friend too. It might not even have been her.”
“This is almost exactly when she called last night. Tam, that might have been our only chance to stop her from doing something stupid. We shouldn’t have gone downstairs.” Bree sighs, the weight of several worlds in that sigh, and lowers her head onto her crossed arms on the desktop. Not looking at him.
He wants to reach out, run his hand over her black curls. He wants to reassure her it will be OK, though he doesn’t believe it will anymore. But he’s had a hard time thinking of much else – besides worrying Kyra’s going to get herself in deeper than even she can swim out of – since the visit to Enki House. What the sages showed him is why he’s here.
Instead of a hair touch, he settles for one on her shoulder. He tries to make it as light as possible. “Hey,” he says.
She peers up at him, her hair falling half in front of her face, her eyes so green it nearly hurts. How in the world has he missed this? All these years?
“What?” she asks. Those green eyes drop to his hand.
“Why don’t I… I don’t know, make you some tea or something?” Tam asks. “You might feel better.”
Bree shakes her head, eyes wide with disbelief. She shrugs his hand off her shoulder. “Do you even know how to make tea?”
Tam is quiet. He does know how. He learned how to make it from his dad, one of the few family traditions he brought here with him. Tam’s dad has tea when he needs to be calm, to think. That’s what made him suggest it.
“Fine,” Bree says. “I’ll make it. You stay here. I need a minute.” She gets up, stops in the door and says, “If she calls again, do not answer. I’ll get up here to answer.”
He nods.
As soon as she’s gone, he strides around the room, idly taking in her art on the walls. He stops in front of a fresh canvas, heavy paint. It’s of a murky, water-filled tank with several long sage bodies inside, one head visible above the rim. Is that a black heart in the air above it? Stretching so it’s almost unrecognizable, so it fills the air of the chamber? It is. He has no idea what it means.
But when she still isn’t back, he checks where he’s wanted to all night. This is why he came here, instead of asking her to his house. Not that Bree would have agreed to leave the phone. She faked a fever so she could stay home sick from school today, and wait beside it.
Tam opens the closet door and paws the clothes aside. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a violation of her privacy – the kind of thing the Skeptics would say is a civil rights violation. But they’re… friends. And he has to find out if the sages were messing with him or if what he saw was real.
Plus, it’s not as if Tam, average citizen, is equivalent to a secret Society raid or a Man-in-Black showing up to take hard drives or reams of printouts. He’s not going to take anything.
He’s just looking. That’s what art is for.
What he saw in the vision was Bree drawing, and what she was drawing – him – and then her stashing the sketchbook away in here before Kyra came in the room.
Yahtzee.
There are several sketchbooks propped against the back wall. He takes the first, listens to make sure the coast is clear, and flips it open on his knees. Him. The next page is him too. And on the next one, another image of him. This should be creepy, but it isn’t.
Bree draws him how he wishes he could think of himself. How he wants and wishes to be. He tears one sheet out of the sketchbook and folds it, puts it in his pocket. Then he replaces the sketchbook, and shuts the closet.
He sits on the bed, waiting, trying to take in the rest of her art. But he can’t look away from the one of the sages in the tank, even though it’s clearly unfinished. She’s managed to capture how it felt, the sliminess of their touch. Even though the visions they give are gifts. Clearly gifts, though it sure didn’t feel like one at the time.
What did she see? He’s curious. She’s been short with him ever since Kyra took off. Concern, he’s been telling himself. That’s all it is. But what if the sages showed her something of him too? Something that makes her not see him that way anymore.
He’s such a fool. And Kyra. Her dad’s trial is tomorrow. No way she’s gone belle of the Society ball. She’s up to something, and it’ll be unbelievable, and it’ll be crazy, and it might get her killed. That’s the other thing he’s worried about. He doesn’t know how he and Bree are supposed to handle that.
Bree comes back, and he can only be happy that she is here. She brings two cups of tea. She could kick him out, but she isn’t.
“Do you want to stay?” she asks. “In case she calls again?”
“Sure,” Tam says. “I don’t care about getting in trouble this week. We have to watch out for her. That’s more important.”
Bree takes a sip of tea. He can tell from the heat of the cup in his hands that it’s too hot. He wants to lift hers away, protect her from burning her tongue. He sits his down on the nightstand beside her bed.
“Did you guys get back together?” Bree blurts the question, tea sloshing onto her fingers.
Tam can’t bear to watch that, so he does lift the cup out of her hands. He sets it next to his own.
“No,” he says. And then, “No, we should never have been together. It would never have worked.”
Bree raises her eyebrows skeptically. “It seemed to work well enough.”
“People change.”
“They do?” she asks, as
if she wants his opinion on this.
“Sometimes people are stupid, and then they wise up,” Tam says. When she keeps looking at him that way, he makes his first mistake. Well, not his first. His millionth. “Sometimes they don’t see what’s right in front of them.”
“Maybe what’s right in front of them is too easy to see,” Bree says. She’s studying that raw painting, the unfinished one he is so drawn to. “Maybe no one should care what’s right in front of them. Kyra never has.”
“And look where it’s gotten her.”
She scowls. “You can’t really be blaming her?”
Just like that, he knows he’s blowing it. What is he doing?
“Well, she hasn’t made the best decisions,” he says, though he wants to say anything else.
Bree is on her feet. “Get out if you feel that way. Just get out.”
“No,” Tam says, “that’s not what I meant. I shouldn’t have said that. Why are we fighting?”
She sighs again. Picks up her tea, drinks from it with no care for whether it’s still too hot.
“Because we’re exhausted. And we’re worried about her.” Bree eases back down. “She’s not going to call back. I have no idea what she’s up to. The only thing I can do… I’m going to see if I can get Mom to let me go with her. To the press room. Maybe I can see Kyra there. I can try to talk to her…”
“You’re a good friend,” Tam says. He sits down, bumps his shoulder into hers.
“You too,” Bree says. “When you’re not a lost cause.”
Tam thinks of the vision the sage gave him, of the sketch in his pocket, and he still can’t believe Bree made it. That she sees the part of him he wants to believe is real. He has to be that person. He has to prove that he is to himself.
“I’ll go with you,” he says.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I leave the curtains open so the light will wake me early. The cue isn’t necessary. After a couple of hours, I’m wide awake and filled with nervous energy. I feel almost like I did buzzing from surviving that first encounter with Set. But this time it’s on a different frequency. A bandwidth I’m vibrating on, like a tightrope walker on the shakiest of high wires.
I wait for the faintest hint of morning. Shower. Get dressed. Be quiet about all of this. Step out into the hallway and listen. And wait.
When Ann arrives and comes upstairs, I go back in my room and shut the door until she heads back down. She doesn’t come in. I’m listening so hard that I hear the brinnng of the old-fashioned alarm clock I spotted the day before on Bronson’s dresser. Creeping into the hallway, I will Oz and Justin’s doors to stay closed, and Ann to stay downstairs, where I can smell the beginnings of breakfast.
I stand with my ear near Bronson’s door, and detect the shower running. Slipping inside, I move as fast as I can. His clothes are laid out on the bed, and I search the front pocket, hoping… But there’s nothing in it yet.
Darting over to the dresser, the worst is confirmed. The little blue eye and the gold bars of his stripes sit in front of the framed photo of him with Gabrielle. He won’t put them in his jacket pocket until after he’s dressed. I can’t risk taking the key now, because he’ll miss it. Right away. And I’ll be sunk.
I leave the room, and slump against the wall outside for a second to regroup. This was a possibility I considered, and so I should keep going. I head downstairs.
Ann is beating some eggs in a bowl with a fork, bacon already frying on the stove. “You’re up early,” she says. “You must have rested better.”
“I did,” I say, and wonder how the dark circles don’t give me away. I pour a cup of coffee. Which she allows, though her frown tells me she doesn’t like that I drink it.
“So, do we all eat breakfast together?” I ask.
“Not usually,” she says.
“Oh.” My disappointment bleeds through.
“But if you want I can make something more substantial? Force the boys to the table.”
“And Bronson?”
“You should call him Grandpa,” she says. “You’re the sun in his sky at the moment, so I’m sure he won’t mind.”
I go and sit at the table, sucking down the coffee. Funny that Bronson took in Oz and Justin, but that they don’t seem to do much family stuff, even fake family stuff. Both of them look confused when they come out of the kitchen and take the same seats from the night before at the dining room table. If anything, they’re even stiffer than they were then. It telegraphs that group breakfast really is way out of the ordinary.
“Good morning,” I offer.
They nod, and Oz studies me for a second as if he’s trying to puzzle out what’s going on. If anything is.
Bronson joining us saves me from further scrutiny. “Ann informs me we’re having breakfast together today,” he says, with a glance at me.
“I felt like some company,” I say. “I hope it isn’t trouble. Big day, you know?”
Bronson shrugs out of his coat, hangs it over the back of the chair at the head of the table. “I thought you’d want your space today. But Oz and Justin can stay here with you, if you don’t want to be alone. That would be fine with me.”
The kind concern in his words convinces me he’s being sincere. Maybe he does like having me here. Still, I can’t imagine being the sun in anyone’s sky. I’m not used to adults indulging my whims because they think it’ll make me feel better. Like that, I’m back around to not trusting him again. I’m only going to get one shot at this, and that means there’s zero room to slip up.
I stare down at the white circle of the empty plate in front of me. “I wanted to go with you… over to…”
“You can’t be there, Kyra,” Bronson cuts me off. I look up at him. “It’s not a good idea. But I’m sure the boys won’t mind staying here.”
I figured he’d sentence me to house arrest for the day, but it was worth a shot.
“And miss the only treason trial of our lifetimes?” Justin asks. “Of course we don’t mind.” Though he doesn’t sound that put out.
“If here’s where we’re most needed, of course that’s where we’ll be, sir,” Oz says. He doesn’t kick Justin under the table, but he may as well have.
“Fine,” Justin mutters.
“Good,” Bronson says, and leans back as Ann comes in with breakfast.
Plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Which we are all apparently allowed to eat openly today, as part of the special occasion of breakfast together. I have to force down every bite. The moment of truth arrives soon and with little fanfare. Bronson rises, his hand starting for his jacket.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
I hop up and grab his jacket like I’m the world’s most thoughtful granddaughter, carrying it for him just because. I struggle to stay casual, as if every part of me isn’t screaming: I have it. Right here in my hands. This is going to work.
Oz and Justin stay at the table, I suppose to allow us privacy. What I haven’t come up with is what to talk to Bronson about while I do this. It’s not as if my pickpocket skills exist. I need him distracted.
“You’ll be home late tonight, then,” I say.
“Probably.” His concern comes back. “Kyra, what is it?”
I drop his coat over my hands, holding onto it and thinking fast. “Will you tell Dad something for me?”
“The decision will be made today, but the sentence won’t be carried out immediately,” he says.
Right, I think, there’ll be a whole day between. All the time in the world.
“You don’t have to worry about not having a chance to talk,” he continues. “We can arrange for you to see him tomorrow.”
“I still want you tell him something. In the meantime.” I dip my head. “Turn around, I’ll help you into your coat. I used to do this when I was a kid. I had to stand on the stairs and lean forward, and Dad would stand at the bottom. He was so much taller than me.”
Bronson frowns.
“Never mind,” I say, s
haking my head. “It’s stupid. Dumb nostalgia. I’m not usually like this. An emotional mess. I promise I won’t be like this if you let me stay here.” I hold out the coat to him, and pray to all the gods and to none of them.
“Of course, you’re staying. You’re family. And it’s not silly at all.” He pivots, showing me his back. He holds his arms out. “Like this?”
“Like that,” I say. “Will you tell him...?”
“Yes?”
I pluck the eye out of the front pocket, and stuff it into my pants pocket. “Just a sec,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder – and sees nothing he shouldn’t.
His stripes are still in his jacket where they should be, and hopefully the weight is near enough to normal he won’t check. The key is light, and this should be a busy day for him. That’s what I’m banking on, that he’ll have no reason to use it or notice it’s gone.
I position the first sleeve for him to get his arm into, and then the other. He shrugs the coat up over his shoulders.
“Tell him…” I pause, “…that if we could do things over I know we’d both do them differently. That we can’t, not anymore, but that I love him anyway. Tell him that I’ll find a way to watch out for Mom.”
Bronson faces me again. “I will. I’m sure it will help him to know that.”
He leans forward and kisses my forehead, as if we really are family. In our own twisted way, we are. The key in my pocket proves it.
I manage to get out of Oz that the trial starts in the afternoon. After breakfast, we go downstairs to hang out in a basement rec room that has actual dust in its corners and on the cases of its library of VHS tapes (enormous plastic behemoths with rolls of videotape inside; I miss the days of instant streaming). Justin excuses himself instead of joining us, saying he’s working on a research project. Oz does not seem to believe this, but he also doesn’t try to stop him.
Which means Oz and I are on the not-dusty, but clearly not-often-used couch together. Oz let me choose the movie, and I picked an old action movie that’s set in the future. It’s about a guy trying to prevent his future self from committing a crime. There’s a creepy lady spouting predictions in a tank, and I want to tell the hero that is something that never seems to turn out well. The lady makes a prophecy about the guy. Another problem I don’t want to think about.