“They want her?” I repeat. “What for?”
“Skye didn’t know. She had to leave fast because she saw the cat and she was trying to catch it.”
“What cat? This was a visible person? Not one of Bing’s friends, right?”
Mouse nods.
Still I wonder. It sounds pretty weird to me. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor, Mouse,” I say firmly. “No matter what this Skye person says.
“We need help!” I call, half running across the street, waving my arms.
One tall shopkeeper switches his open sign to closed and goes in his store. Another shrugs at me and continues sweeping. The rest ignore me. Only the black birds look up.
“One thousand dollars for a second chance,” a man with a bushy beard calls hopefully.
“We need a doctor, please!” I tell him. “Or a cell phone.” Maybe it’s only India’s cell that doesn’t work. It could need to be charged or else my mom didn’t pay the bill.
Or maybe there’s a white courtesy phone. Sparky will know what to do!
I scout around until I spot a white phone tucked into a kiosk and I head for it. But when I pick up the receiver, all I get is a fast busy signal.
“Sparky?”
The line doesn’t connect. The fast beeps continue. Wait a minute. Sparky said something about the heart factor. I don’t want to accept his offer . . . could the phone know that?
I scoot back to Mouse. “Does it hurt a lot?” I ask.
“Only if I move it,” she says as I notice a woman with fuzzy black hair and a big hook nose go into her store and come out with a round metal bin.
The woman is heading toward us, the bin in her hand. I hurry to meet her. When I get close I see there are cell phones inside, maybe twenty in all.
She smiles at me, then launches into a long explanation in a foreign language—Russian, I think. The only words I recognize are my own name: Finn Tompkins. She gestures to the cell phones like I should take them.
“Thank you,” I say with a sudden, aching gratitude, searching my pockets for something to give her in return. All I have is my Rubik’s Cube and my house key—which isn’t any good to anyone except maybe the guy who took our house. I hand her the puzzle cube.
She stares at it with fascination. Then I see her digging in her pocket. She pulls out a big stack of laminated cards and riffles through them until she finds the one she wants.
She sees me watching her and hands me the card.
Century Awareness Training—Games, the card says in English and in Russian. It has pictures of dozens of games with instructions and tips for how to win.
Sure enough, the Rubik’s Cube is on there. I hand it back to her to read as I fish out a cell phone like my mom’s and push the on button. The display doesn’t light up. I push down longer and wait. Nothing happens. No beep. No lights. No digital display.
Dead as a can of tomato soup.
I grab another . . . it doesn’t respond either. And another and another. I look up at the woman, who is happily turning the yellow and red squares of my Rubik’s Cube.
If only I could call my mom. If only she could come.
I’m down to the bottom of the bin. There are only two cells left.
Hey, wait a minute. The heart factor. I really want to talk to my mom. Shouldn’t one of these work? I take a deep breath and try the second to last cell. I hold down the on button and it sputters to life. My hand shakes as I dial Mom’s number. “Please, please let her answer.”
The sound of connecting circuits is the most beautiful sound in the world. The digital display window flashes my mom’s cell number. The phone is calling Mom!
But when I blink the numbers rearrange. The new phone number is unfamiliar.
“Enter your name,” a mechanized voice commands.
I push the letters that spell Finn Tompkins and wait. The phone beeps again and the computerized voice informs me, “You are not an authorized user.”
The line is dead. The phone turns off. It will not turn on again no matter how many times I try.
I pick up the last phone, then look around for a tree like the McFaddens’. There is one that is sort of similar. I stand under it and push the on button, but this cell is dead too.
Mouse is across the way, watching me, trying to understand what’s going on. Where the heck is India? Wasn’t she supposed to be here?
What did that girl Skye mean when she said they wanted her? Was India offered a position too? Did she take it?
The Russian woman is still engrossed in my Rubik’s Cube, oblivious to what I’ve been doing.
“Hey,” I tell her, “I need help.”
She seems to understand the tone of my voice. She nods, her dark eyes thoughtful, her face genuinely sorry. She points to the phones hopefully.
I shake my head no. Everyone understands no, right?
She nods and gathers them back into her bin. They clank as they hit the bottom. She hands my Rubik’s Cube back, with one side complete.
“What about you?” I call to the other shopkeepers. “We need help . . .”
But they avert their eyes and return to sweeping the stoops, washing the windows, lettering new signs. The black birds are perched on their shoulders, blue jays scavenging near their feet and finches flying in a cloud around them.
When I get back to Mouse, she’s shaking her head in a tiny, firm no. “We’ve been here longer than you have, Bing and me. We’ve been watching. Skye is right. We don’t trust them either.”
Mouse has a point. There’s something too eager about them, too hungry. The only one who is nice is the Russian lady.
“Finn?” Mouse asks. “What are they selling? Bing can’t figure it out either.”
“I think they want to sell us another day like we just had.”
“How can you sell a day?”
“They sell the chance to be in that fancy house again.”
Mouse nods. “How come we only got to stay there one night?”
“Just the way it works here, I guess. Mouse, can you walk?”
She’s usually full of energy, jumping and hopping instead of walking. It’s strange to see her move so carefully. She seems to be okay, except for that arm, which is hanging a weird way, making me think Bing is right, it is broken. I heard an EMT speak at school one time. He said something about making a sling.
I don’t have anything to make a sling out of except my hoodie. I take it off, and tie the long sleeves around Mouse’s neck so she can rest her arm if she needs to.
She moves forward on stiff legs. “I have to walk without bumps,” she reports.
“All right then,” I tell her.
Just behind me I see a cluster of vultures like black hunchbacks hopping toward us. “Git!” I holler, and they scuttle back to their perch on the rooftop.
I see in Mouse’s eyes that she understands why the vultures are here.
“Bing says to forget about them,” Mouse tells me, grabbing my hand with the hand of her good arm.
“That Bing,” I say. “He’s all right.”
CHAPTER 15
BIRDS
That wild tunnel ride was bad. Seriously, I could have been hurt!
I figured it was an earthquake. They’re worse near the epicenter, which must have been under the house, because things in that shopping district place didn’t seem damaged.
I’m glad Mouse isn’t here, because she’d be driving me nuts, asking a billion questions. Everything has to make scientific sense to her, then she spends half her life talking to a friend who doesn’t exist. Go figure
Mouse and Finn were supposed to meet me. They have these white phones around and this announcement came on the loudspeaker. “India Tompkins, please pick up the white courtesy phone.” I picked it up and this like recorded voice said: “You are early. Please wait one hour and fifty-six minutes at your current location to connect with the following persons: Finn Tompkins. Mouse Tompkins.”
Two hours! Who’s going to wait around for two ho
urs?
First thing I did was I met this guy, Mickey, with the black bird that reminded me of that old song my mom plays on the guitar. Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly. As soon as I saw those black birds I knew he was okay. The other shopkeepers wanted me to come to their shops too, but I liked Mickey. He had nice eyes and he gave me a good deal.
I would have stayed talking to him longer, only I needed to get back to my cool house so I could check with Maddy. Today is probably Ariana’s party. Maddy will freak if I’m not there.
What I don’t get is, why is this happening? I don’t mean science why. But why why. It’s so random. My mom always says you don’t just end up someplace like it’s magic. You make decisions that got you there.
But Mom is wrong about this. This just happened. I swear.
I asked Mickey about the earthquake, but he said he didn’t feel it. He said he had a dream house once and an earthquake hit then too. Isn’t that crazy? Then he explained I need to buy a ticket. It costs fifty dollars, which I just happen to have . . . Isn’t that cool the way that worked?
The sign said it cost one thousand dollars for one day! But he let me have it for fifty.
Things are a little different in the streets now. None of the movie screens have us on them anymore. They have other people being welcomed to Falling Bird. Who cares about strangers’ lives and their trophies for lacrosse and stuff? Oh well, I’ll be back in my new home soon. I just wish I could find it.
Mickey gave me a map. I had to walk down the road where all the shops were, up a big hill and down the street with the big homes. The thing is the houses look way different. I think this is mine—it says 401—but my initial isn’t on the rock path anymore. The door is painted pale pink instead of lime green. The flowers in the yard are these big white flowers. Mine were small and purple. I totally loved the smell of them too.
Wait, though, I see my cool mom in the window. She looks different. Her hair is up in a French twist. I wonder if she has a new stylist. I wave to her, but she doesn’t see me.
The door has no knob, no knocker, and no bell, as if everybody who is supposed to be inside is already. Maybe that part isn’t different. The door was open when I came in before, so I didn’t notice.
I knock. No one answers.
Finn’s and Mouse’s places are different too. At home it takes a year to remodel, but here it takes what . . . an hour? I bang on the window, my bracelet clinking against the glass.
Still nothing.
Then I hear a motor hum behind me. When I turn, an electric cart with sky blue upholstery is gunning toward me. The driver steers the cart up on the lawn and squeaks to a halt. He is wearing a midnight blue uniform with a patch of sky blue and a puffy white cloud with his name, Dean, embroidered on it. He has bright, almost neon, blue plastic gloves and an officer’s cap. He’s big and burly like he spends a lot of time with barbells, but his skin is smooth and young and he has kind eyes—two slivers of green in his square face.
“What are you doing, miss?” he asks.
I tell him about the earthquake and how I fell out of my house. I dig out my ticket and hand it to him. I am totally in the right here.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, young lady,” he says, taking my ticket and tearing it in two. “It’s worthless. Soon as we crack down on them, they find a new loophole. You wouldn’t think they’d have much motivation to steal here.” He shakes his head. “No matter where you are, there are crooks, I guess. One or two at every level.
“You know what they use the extra bucks for? Birds. Why they want more birds, I don’t know. Cats I could understand. Birds, I’m at a loss. Bird strikes is my best guess. Just jealousy. That’s what that’s all about.”
“Jealousy?”
“People want what they can’t have. They make decisions they can’t live with. I’ve been sending in Form fifteen-thirty about them all year, but nobody’s done anything about it yet.”
“Um, excuse me.” I pick up the ticket pieces. “This isn’t stolen. I paid for this. See what it says here. Will admit one to your dream home.”
“Yeah, I see.” He nods, flipping the ticket piece over. “And look here, did you read the fine print? Void where prohibited.”
“So?” I shrug. “It always says that.” But wait . . . fine print. I don’t like the sound of this phrase. Isn’t that what Mom said got her in trouble with our house?
He crosses his muscular arms. “And where do you think it’s prohibited, miss? Take a wild guess.”
“I dunno,” I mutter, though my stomach doesn’t feel so great.
“Here.” He taps his metal-toed boot on the grass and shakes his head sympathetically. “Sleazebags.”
Wait. This can’t be true. I couldn’t have wasted our last fifty dollars. What will I tell Finn and Mouse?
“I can get my money back, though, right?” I croak.
“Don’t bother,” he advises. “Isn’t worth messing with scum.”
“Oh yes it is!” I shake my finger at him. “I’m getting every dime back. You watch.”
“Nobody messes with India Tompkins.” He winks at me. “All right then. Hop in and I’ll take you where you want to go, Miss India.”
I angle my head toward the house. “Can’t I go inside first?”
He sucks air into his mouth, seals his lips, and shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”
I give him a flirty smile. “You sure?”
He cocks his head and smiles back. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am.”
Dean is nice. If I didn’t need to get my money back, I’d totally keep talking to him, maybe ask him more about this place, but I have to get down to business here. “We should go then.”
He smiles warmly, as if I’ve completely won him over. “You’re a feisty one, missy.”
I follow him to his golf cart and climb in on the passenger side. He puts the cart in gear and maneuvers it skillfully down the wide street. It feels good to sit down. I lean back on the cushion and enjoy being driven. I didn’t realize how tired I was.
The cart is way fun, but the ride is too short. We’re already back at the familiar alley crowded with shops. Dean pulls the cart to a graceful halt and waits for me to get out.
He salutes as if he’s in the military. “Give ’em heck, India,” he says as he backs his vehicle around.
I smile and wave as he takes off, and then suddenly it hits me. “Hey! Wait! You can’t just leave me here!
“Wait! Wait!” I shout, my legs spinning under me, I’m running so fast. I’m gaining on the cart too, but it’s impossible to keep up this pace. Dean doesn’t turn around. He can’t hear me. “Wait! Stop! Dean? Dean person?”
My chest aches. I have to slow down and when I do, the cart zips out of sight.
Something inside me begins to crumble. And then suddenly birds are everywhere. A mass of feathers, beady eyes, and sharp claws.
Beaks clip my ear, my shoulder, the back of my head. Birds peck my arms. Birds dive for my eyes. Big black birds, sharp-eyed blue jays, and vicious brown hawks surround me.
“Bird strike!” somebody yells.
CHAPTER 16
PLUM-COLORED PANTS
The birds are gone. I think it was that white cat that scared them away. I take my hands from my face, wondering where the cat is now. I don’t see her.
The look on the hawks’ eyes as they dove for me was mean. I have pecks on my arms, little torn pieces of skin, and one hawk ripped a hunk of my hair. My wrist is bleeding. I mean seriously, those birds wanted to kill me.
What did I do wrong? This is so completely unfair. I need to find Mouse and Finn. We need to get out of here. Weren’t they supposed to meet me? It’s just like Mouse to wander off. She probably saw some sign she wanted to read.
All I see is a pile of feathers and popcorn on the narrow alley. There aren’t a lot of people, unless you count the shop owners. A man wearing the midnight blue uniform is maneuvering a trash can on wheels over to th
e feathers and popcorn. He sweeps it all into neat piles.
The popcorn reminds me of Maddy. She loves popcorn. She probably insisted Ariana have it at her party. Ariana’s party must be over now. They had it without me.
I wave to the guy. “Hello, um, sir!”
“Bonjour,” he says.
Oh great, he’s French. How do I say I need help in French? I’m supposed to know this. “J’ai assist,” I say.
He hands me a broom.
Terrific . . . I just asked him if I could help him.
Then I spot Mickey walking toward me. “India.” His face is full of concern. “What happened?”
He’s a scummy guy. He probably caused the bird strike. That’s what Dean said. I trust Dean, right?
“India,” Mickey calls again in his singsong voice with his black greasy hair, his yellow teeth, his motorcycle black eyes, and his pointy beard. I glance over at him—his eyes are mesmerizing. I can’t look away.
“I have something to tell you,” Mickey reports, beckoning in slow mo. “It’s urgent.”
I get right in his face and shout. “I want my money back! And call your stupid birds off.”
“What are you talking about? What birds?”
“The birds that attacked me.”
“Our birds aren’t vicious. Who told you that?” he asks.
“Somebody I trust,” I say. “I want my money back.”
“Oh no!” His mouth freezes in a perfect O. “You didn’t let them mislead you. You still have your ticket?”
“Void—void where prohibited. That’s what the fine print said. You lied!” An alarm goes off inside my head telling me not to get into this with him, but I can’t help myself. People shouldn’t get away with cheating you. How dare he!
“Oh.” He shakes his head and his eyes well up with tears. “You didn’t believe him, did you? Not my beautiful India.” The beady eyes of the crow perched on his shoulder are fixated on me.
Why didn’t I see what a grease ball he is? I know why . . . it’s because of his eyes. They are large, deep, singer-songwriter eyes.
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