I grab my backpack and close myself inside the bathroom. I shower down, lathering and rinsing my hair. I dry off and dress quickly in a pair of jeans and my orange Crush t-shirt. I wipe the fog off the mirror and stare at myself. The color is so much lighter than I’m used to. I don’t look like me, and for the world I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.
“You gonna come out of there?” Luka calls.
No, actually, I’d rather not. But since I can’t hide in here forever … I take a deep breath and slowly step outside.
Luka wolf-whistles.
I blush.
“Ready for a cut?” he asks, wielding the scissors.
As much as I’d like to say no, I’ve had enough change for one day, thank you very much, the scissors are unavoidable. The more different I can look from the picture flashing about on TV, the better. I gather my hair into a long, wet ponytail at the nape of my neck and squeeze my eyes tight. Luka holds my hair in his palm and makes several slices right below the ponytail holder. When the slicing ceases, he holds up the ponytail no longer attached to my head. I take out the hair band and give my head a shake. The picture on the television screen showed a girl with long, dark hair. The girl in the mirror has chin length light brown hair. She is practically unrecognizable.
Luka tips his chin closer to my ear. “Mission accomplished.”
Chapter Seven
Goodbye
We eat bananas and beef jerky for lunch and spend the day pacing, speculating, studying the files, and fidgeting with the TV antenna. We’ve found a couple news stations, but the reception is so fuzzy we can barely make anything out.
One station airs a rerun of President Abigail Cormack’s victory speech after she won the election in November. My dad had us all stay up late so we could watch it together as a family. It’s a tradition—something we’ve done every four years—for as long as I can remember, a lot like Dad’s morning newspaper read-aloud routine. The Ekhart children will be nothing if not informed. But November had been a dark period—the month Dr. Roth asked me to keep a dream journal in exchange for information about my grandmother. I’d been so consumed with the quick deterioration of my life that I hadn’t paid much attention to anything our new president had to say.
Today, however, I find myself leaning closer to the screen, straining to hear the president’s words through the static. Everything she says sounds good on the surface, but my current circumstances have prompted me to turn her face-value statements inside out, and what I find underneath does not bode well.
“In these increasingly turbulent times, with the threat of war looming and political unrest abroad, we need to set down our differences. We need to cast aside those things that burden us. Those things that hinder us. We need to step past party lines and rise up together—united as one country. For we will only be as strong as we are united, as powerful as our weakest links.”
The crowd—democrats and republicans alike—rise up for a standing ovation.
She begins speaking about new initiatives and lofty plans and a fresh vision for our country. The audience is enthralled. They eat every promise from the palm of her hand. I vaguely remember my dad being impressed after it aired the first time, and he’s very rarely impressed.
Luka jabs the power button on the remote and the television shuts off.
President Cormack’s declarations must have rubbed him the wrong way, too. I stare at the black screen, chewing over her words. Is our president really concerned about weak links, or is she simply afraid of anyone who is different? It’s that kind of philosophy that got me locked up at the Edward Brooks Facility. It’s that kind of philosophy that birthed a place like Shady Wood. I recall the rooms filled with the living dead—rows upon rows of emaciated adults lying comatose in hospital beds, all in the name of rehabilitation. The image haunts me.
Luka peeks out through a crack in the vertical blinds, letting in a sunbeam. It’s not a common thing in Northern California. I lift up my hand and place it in the thin stream of light. I’d give anything to be outside. When Luka lets go, the blind swings back and forth, chopping apart the sun, then extinguishing it altogether. He joins me on the bed, sitting on the edge near my feet. I’ve never seen Luka’s wrist without his hemp bracelet. So when he slides it off and thumbs the three small stones woven in place, I’m a little more than attentive.
“Where did you get it?” I finally ask.
“My mom gave it to me when my visions first started.”
“What are the stones?”
“Jade, onyx, and red jasper.” He touches each one as he gives their name. “They’re supposedly protective stones. Red jasper is known to protect against fears in the night. Jade guards against misfortune. And onyx …” His green eyes meet mine. “Some people believe that the absence of light can be used to create invisibility.”
I can only imagine what my dad would say to that. “Did she believe it would work?”
“I think she wanted me to feel safe.”
I wait for him to slip the bracelet back on. Instead, he folds up the hem of my jeans and wraps it around my ankle. The feather light touch of his fingertips against my skin has my pulse skipping several beats. “Maybe you can borrow it for a while.”
My body goes warm. I can’t tell if it’s an emotional reaction from Luka’s sweet gesture, or if the bracelet really does have protective powers. I touch the stones, then fold down my jeans. The warmth remains.
We feast on dry cereal and raisins, talking about everything and nothing. Luka asks me questions—all kinds. About the places I’ve lived and the books I’ve read and the things that make me laugh. I’m positive I’m boring him, but he listens like he’s riveted. Like the things I say are the most interesting things a person could hear.
I ask him questions, too. He tells me about the time his first and only pet—a Bernese Mountain dog named Jack—ran away. He tells me about his first trip to the ER, when he ended up with thirteen stitches on his right elbow after attempting a barspin on his buddy’s BMX. He tells me about his favorite birthday to date—when he turned eight and his dad not only bought him a surfboard, but taught him how to use it. Luka rode his first wave on his fourth try and never looked back. The thrill was addicting. Listening to him talk about it makes me want to surf. He says someday he’ll teach me. I’ve never been more eager for someday.
Later in the afternoon, Luka starts to doze. I let him. After the lack of sleep he’s gotten over the past two days, he has to be exhausted. I lay on my stomach next to him, safely tucked away on my side of the mattress. When his breathing turns soft and rhythmic, I can’t help myself. I stare, fascinated by the relaxed way his arm curls over his head. The long, dark eyelashes fanning his cheek. The straightness of his nose, the flatness of his abs, the thin strip of exposed flesh between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his jeans.
My heart thrums faster.
Luka stirs.
I look away. I will not have him waking up to me staring. How creepy can a girl get? I page through the dream journals, my mind rabbit-trailing in a thousand different directions—my parents, Pete, Leela, Luka, and where I’d be if he hadn’t gone to Dr. Roth for help. I envision Dr. Roth swinging on the noose and then my grandmother, shackled inside a white box of a room, and suddenly, I am somewhere else. I’m still lying on the motel’s bed, because I can feel my body against the mattress. But I must be somewhere else, too, because the bed is surrounded by a bright circle of sentinel-like creatures.
Each one radiates the same light that Luka threw out with his hands, only their entire bodies glow with it. Beyond the circle is the man who calls me Little Rabbit. The man who no longer has one scar, but two. The second one is angry and red, running the length of his once unmarked cheek. He’s surrounded by an entire army of white-eyed men, and he’s directing them like a puppeteer, flinging out his hands so they charge at me over and over and over again, gnashing their teeth as they attack. The bright light keeps them away.
But sure
ly, it is only a matter of time before one of them breaks through.
“Tess.” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Tess!”
My eyelids flutter. The light and the army disappear. I am lying in bed, surrounded by nothing but cheap motel décor. I sit up so fast my head spins. Somehow, the clock reads 8:55. I’m not sure how it’s possible, since I’m positive I never fell asleep. I was never unaware of my body on that bed. Yet three whole hours passed like a snap.
“Are you okay?” Luka asks, his hand on my arm.
My heart beats wildly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Luka’s face fills with the same suspicion I felt when he shrugged off my question about his nightmare. He will want to know what happened, but how can I tell him when I have no idea what happened myself? Was that real, what I saw? I scoot off the bed and pick up the phone from the nightstand. “It’s time to call Leela.”
*
My heart doesn’t settle down. Not when we call Leela and not when we prepare for her arrival. We make quick work of packing up our stuff, put all of our garbage in the two plastic bags from Walgreens, and check the place meticulously for any clues we might leave behind that would tip off the housecleaning staff that Motel California was unknowingly aiding and abetting a highly, deranged and dangerous, escaped mental patient. Luka stuffs the leftover food in our bags and waits by the window, staring out into the darkness.
My palms have turned clammy, my fingers cold. I wring them as I pace back and forth in the small room, hoping the red jasper stone on Luka’s hemp bracelet works. Hoping it will protect us from all the things that go bump in the night. On this night in particular, when a whole lot of things could go bump.
Luka shifts the blind. “She’s here.”
Headlights do not cut through the parking lot. When we spoke with Leela on the phone, Luka told her to cut them before pulling in. He takes my hand, his grip steady and sure, and we step out into the chilly nighttime air. Our breath escapes in tiny, white puffs. Everything in me wants to sprint, but Luka sets a calm pace. A non-rushed, unsuspicious, maddening stroll. When we finally get to Leela’s car and climb into the backseat, nobody speaks. I think we’re all shocked that our plan worked. At least so far.
Luka breaks the silence first. “Nobody followed you?”
Leela shakes her head, her knuckles whitening as she grips the steering wheel at ten and two.
“Do you think anybody suspected anything?”
She shakes her head again.
I exhale my pent-up breath, then inhale deeply, hoping to still my nerves. Her car smells like sugar cookies. This is Leela’s favorite smell. For Christmas, I bought her a small box of sugar cookie-scented car air fresheners. One dangles now from her rearview mirror. Our eyes meet in the reflection. There are a million things I want to say, a million apologies I want to make, but they all get stuck in my throat.
“Your hair,” she says.
I touch it self-consciously. I forgot how different I must look.
“It looks amazing!”
My smile is uncontainable. So is Leela’s. The wall between us crumbles. Despite everything—the immense danger we find ourselves in, all the unknowns before us—I am happy. I have my best friend back, even if only for a little while.
Luka pulls me down with him in the seat, to the height of small children. Between the dark and our hunched frames, nobody would suspect two teenagers in the back seat. “Make sure to go the speed limit. Not too fast or too slow.”
Her hands tremble as she shifts the car into drive. Bits of gravel crunch beneath the tires. Every loud pop makes her flinch.
“Why don’t you tell us how it went.” Luka knows Leela better than I’ve given him credit for. If anything will set my jumpy friend at ease, talking is it.
She releases a shaky breath and dives in. “Great. Better than great, actually. I cut up an onion in my car before I went inside the station. You know, to make my eyes all watery. I’ve always been really sensitive with onions.”
A fresh wave of affection swells inside my throat.
“By the time I stepped inside, tears were already streaming down my cheeks, and as soon as I sat down in my uncle’s office, I burst into sobs. I’d say I deserve an Academy Award, but I was so nervous and worked up at that point that it wasn’t really hard to break down. I was legitimately sobbing.”
There is something so safe about hearing Leela’s familiar chatter from the front seat, even if it’s about something as crazy as this.
“I told him that I was afraid to tell the truth when the police first interrogated me, but I might know where you went. That’s when I explained about your grandmother and how you were always talking about her and how scared I was that you were going to try and find her and that something bad would happen to you.”
We were hoping this bit about my grandmother would serve two purposes—give Leela a reason for showing up at the station and throw the police off our scent. The story will be made extra believable if the authorities put two and two together and figure out that Luka and I broke into Shady Wood last week. The nurse we tied up and stuffed in the supply closet had to have reported the incident by now. “Do you think he believed you?”
“I think so. As soon as I said it, he thanked me for telling him the truth and then he left super fast to go report it. That’s when I grabbed the key from the top drawer in his desk. I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. I had no idea how long he would be gone. When he came back, I apologized over and over again for being your friend.” Leela shoots me a sheepish look in the rearview mirror. “And for not reporting the information sooner. I ended up crying all over again. By then, I was feeling a little sorry for him. My uncle’s never been too comfortable with emotion and there was a lot of it coming out of me.”
“Did you get the IDs?” Luka asks.
“I think there are a few that might work.” Leela passes her purse back to us. “As soon as I left his office, I went downstairs to use the restroom. The coast was clear, so I opened up the evidence locker, grabbed all of them I could find, and ditched the key.”
Luka pulls out a Swiss army knife from the front pocket of his bag. It has a miniature flashlight attachment he uses to study each of the IDs, searching for two that might pass as us, while I wonder over the fact that it worked. The plan was not an elaborate one. Or even a particularly smart one. But it was all we had, and somehow, we succeeded.
At least so far.
In the front seat, Leela fills us in on everything we’ve missed at Thornsdale—the police interrogations, the crackdown on the students, the wild rumors that are circulating about Luka’s coinciding disappearance, and whatever she knows about our families. My dad has been suspended from his job and my home is under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Pete has not yet returned to school. She keeps peeking at the rearview mirror as she talks, as if unable to acclimate to our new appearances. I listen while studying each face on the IDs.
Fifteen minutes in, I think I’ve reached a decision. I hand the card to Luka.
He peers at the picture. Lily Evans is twenty-one, the youngest in the bunch. There’s no way I can pull off anything older. I mean, I can barely pull off seventeen. Her eyes are slightly lighter than my navy blue. Her chin isn’t as pointy, her nose is a little wider, and her honey-brown hair hangs past the frame of the photograph. This, I think, is a good thing. Perhaps whoever looks at the ID will attribute the difference in facial features to the change in hairstyle. She has the same fair skin and the same big eyes and we also happen to be the same height.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think I’ll have to get used to calling you Lily.” Luka hands an ID to me.
Jacob Denton. Age twenty-five. It’s an age that would make me nervous if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes how well he pulled off being a doctor when we broke into Shady Wood last week. There’s something about the way Luka carries himself—with authority, like his father. If any seventeen-year-old boy can pull off a man in his mid-twent
ies, it’s this one sitting beside me. Plus, his buzz cut adds a maturity to his face that wasn’t there before. He looks older somehow, more serious without the shaggy hair.
I study Jacob’s picture. His face is thicker, his hair longer. Both of which are easily explained away by weight loss and a haircut. The essentials are there—green eyes, dark hair, and olive skin. Jacob’s face, of course, does not measure up to Luka’s, but perhaps people will think he’s simply not photogenic. “Jacob, huh?”
“I prefer Jake.” He flashes me that crooked smile of his and takes back the ID when red and blue lights swirl in the back window. Luka clamps his hand over mine and pulls me all the way down to the floor. Everything in me seizes—my heart, my muscles, my lungs.
“Oh my gosh, what do I do?”
Luka tells Leela to pull over. Trying to out-race them will do nothing but confirm our guilt and get us all arrested. So Leela does. And the squad car races past us. None of us speak. Luka and I do not move. We crouch in the car on the shoulder of the dark highway, our hearts crashing into the silence. When the police car is long out of sight, Luka and I sit back on the seat and Leela pulls onto the road.
We don’t say much after that. We’re all too busy catching our breath. I wish Leela would resume her chattering, but I’m pretty sure the flashing lights gave her a miniature heart attack. My sense of urgency grows. We need as much space between us and Northern California as possible. And yet, with the urgency comes dread. Because what if this car ride is the last time I get to see my friend? What if I never see my family again? I’m used to moving around, but not without them.
By the time Leela pulls into a parking space in the parking lot of Eureka’s Greyhound Bus station, my teeth chatter with nerves.
“Thank you, Leela,” Luka says. He reaches up and gives her shoulder a squeeze, then takes his bag and steps out of the car to give us our privacy, but not before giving me a telling look. We have fifteen minutes to get tickets and catch the bus. We can’t miss it, especially since the next one doesn’t leave until later the next morning. Time is of the essence. Even so, he knows I need to say this goodbye.
The Awakening Page 5