“Mrs. Peters.” Mom shakes hands with the social worker.
“Luke was here,” Mrs. Peters says, a cautious expression on her lean face. She’s petite, with a pixie haircut and long lashes.
Mom’s smile holds and she doesn’t seem to register that Mrs. Peters used the past tense.
“I explained the situation in full detail. He took the news very well, in my opinion. However … he has decided to take some time to let it sink in before considering a meeting with you. I’m sure you can understand.”
Mom’s face breaks into a thousand pieces. “Why? Why doesn’t he want to meet me? Did he agree to do the DNA tests? They will prove I’m his mother.”
“You have to understand this is a very difficult time for Luke. I warned you this could happen. The best thing we can do is give him time to come to terms with everything.”
“I’m sure if I could just talk to him, he would—”
“Mrs. Guerrero, this isn’t something we can rush.”
“But he’s alone, and he doesn’t have to be. He has a family. Besides, he already knows Marcela. They’re friends. I think this is ridiculous.” Mom sounds like a spoiled child. I hide my face behind my hand.
Mrs. Peters sighs. “I assure you he’s well taken care of and I’m certain he will come around. We just need patience. I’m sorry. Your eagerness is understandable, but Luke’s wellbeing should be the priority. For all of us.” She says the last few words with emphasis, reminding Mom that Luke should be her priority as well.
Before Mom can say anything else, Mrs. Peters extends a hand forward. “I’ll be in touch with you.”
Mom looks heartbroken, her face a clear indication that the situation isn’t computing in her brain. She can’t fathom why Luke doesn’t share her eagerness. She sees only her gain and not his loss. I feel sorry for her, but more sorry for Luke.
Her eyes cloud over and I shiver. She will probably start walking like a zombie again and the nightmares and box under her bed will renew their scheduled program. I’d better make sure we have enough Sleepytime tea at hand.
It’s Friday, and I’m late for class. I speed-walk down the hall, turn the corner in a hurry then freeze. Luke is standing by the door to my classroom, waiting.
For me? He looks up and his blue eyes sparkle with the answer. Yes, he’s waiting for me.
“Hi,” he says.
This is the first time I’ve seen him since the funeral, since he learned the truth. The anger I expected to find on his face isn’t there. What I find in its place is something I have no name for. There’s too much there. Confusion. Disappointment. Doubt. Sadness. Hope?
“Can we talk?” he asks.
He doesn’t wait for my answer, just walks away, knowing I will follow.
We get into his Land Rover SUV and drive away from school without saying a word. I inhale the brand-new car smell and think of awkward things not to say.
After a few blocks, he parks the car by Boeing Creek. A man plays Frisbee with his dog, several joggers run on the outlining path. We watch them through the windshield.
“At the funeral, you already knew, didn’t you?” Luke asks.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t my place.” I’m staring at the glove compartment, and even if it grew teeth and threatened to bite me, I wouldn’t tear my eyes from it.
“And you left it up to a stranger?”
I can’t argue with that one. He’s right.
“You should have told me.” An undercurrent of anger rides his tone.
“I wanted to, but I wasn’t … brave enough,” I admit.
Luke chuckles. I look his way, surprised. He seems genuinely amused. “You weren’t brave enough? That’s a first.”
His amusement dies and he lowers his eyes, lost in a new thought. A curtain of golden lashes hides the sky-blue of his gaze. “Don’t do that again, okay? If we’re to be in this together, just tell it to me how it is. I promise to do the same.”
I’m not in the habit of being open and neither is he. I guess he intends to change that. That should be interesting.
Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “They say that since I’m only sixteen, I can’t live alone. I’m staying with a foster family. They’re all right, but it’s weird,” he says.
Outside, the Frisbee flies across a patch of white clouds. The golden retriever jumps high in the air to catch it. Sharp canine teeth flash for a brief instant before they snap closed. It feels as if they just pierced through the fragile membrane of my reality. I know where this is going. Luke lived by himself with that man, no mother or other relatives in the picture. I guess that explains why no one came forward when “Dr. Smith” became an overnight dad.
“They said I could move in with you.” Luke clears his throat, as if the words left a lump there. “What do you think?”
“I … um … it’ll make Mom happy.” My answer sounds forced and shallow, but I don’t know what else to say. It’s the truth. Yesterday, after Luke refused to meet with us, Mom went back to moping and fell asleep in front of the TV following one-too-many glasses of wine.
“I’m asking you, Marci. What do you think about it?”
“I don’t count. Haven’t for a long time.”
My skin tingles. I can feel his eyes scrutinizing me, trying to figure out what I mean. I stare at the cloud that looks like a broken heart.
“No one else counts. Not to me,” he says.
I find myself examining his face, trying to figure out if this is the same person I’ve known since kindergarten, wondering if I ever really knew him. His usual pretense is gone, his words are straightforward, sincere. I guess he does intend to change things.
Is it possible that, like me, he puts on a different façade to hide the real Luke? If so, maybe this affair will turn out all right.
“Well,” I say, “I think it would be … awkward.”
“Amen to that … sister.”
Slowly, a smile stretches across Luke’s lips. His eyes twinkle and the smile grows into a grin, which turns into a hearty laugh. Soon I’m laughing with him. And we hold our stomachs, like five-year-olds tickled by a silly joke. When our giggles die out, the air between us feels lighter and full of possibilities. I have a brother and maybe there’s still hope for our broken family.
Chapter 12
As Xave and I dismount his bike in front of Howls, my clock reads exactly midnight. Riding side-saddle has made my butt and legs stiff, not to mention the cold February air. I shake my limbs and rub my backside.
Xave snickers. “Very ladylike,” he says.
“Shut up.” I smack his arm. “We had to go and get involved with criminals who ask you to dress up. How very James Bond.”
“Clark swears they’re not bad guys.”
“Yeah, and I was born fully clothed.”
“If you were born wearing anything like that dress, then I have no complaints.” Xave gives me a look similar to the one he gave me when he picked me up. My skin tingles as if his eyes were feathers traveling down the length of my body. I smack him again because I can’t insult him. My mouth has suddenly gone dry.
I hate dresses. With a raving passion. I have no idea where James is taking us, but it has to be somewhere fancy. So much so that he, himself, provided the clothes Xave and I are wearing to make sure we look the part. How he knew my exact size is disconcerting. I have to admit that whoever picked the dress has good taste, even if the plunging V-neck line is cut too low for comfort. I would have never picked white, but it makes my olive skin pop in a really nice way.
Xave looks different in his tuxedo, and if someone were to twist my arm I might even say he looks handsome. But I’m not about to mention that and risk stretching the awkwardness that has plagued our relationship lately. The way he’s been stealing glances my way, making comments about my appearance and, worst of all, acting like a moody toddler at the drop of a hat has been unsettling enough already. I’m afraid
I know where this is headed, and the idea just doesn’t compute in my brain. Xave is like a cousin to me, right?
I take a few steps away from him, half-smile at his comment and wiggle my toes. “I really, really hate high heels.” A country song plays inside the bar, its muffled sound drifting outside, loading the air with its sad melody. I clear my throat. “Where are they?”
“Over there.” Xave points to the road ahead. Under the canopy of a large tree, a van sits almost unnoticed in the darkness.
We approach at an unhurried pace. When we reach the van, the side door slides open. Oso waves us in. He wears a long-sleeve black t-shirt, black jeans and black boots. I frown. Is this a joke? Why are we dressed up and he’s not?
He shuts the door behind us. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust.
“Glad you decided to join us,” James says.
I blink and stare into the back of the van. It’s crowded, filled with people and what looks like surveillance equipment. All the blinking lights, knobs and computer monitors mesmerize me.
Aydan sits at the controls, wearing jeans, a turtleneck sweater and a beany—all black. Across from him, Clark looks like his twin.
I’m about to protest when I notice that James is also dressed up, sporting a tux that fits him like a glove and actually makes me think of Bond’s sophistication and good looks. I grin, itching to ask him if, by the way, he’s truly Bond … James Bond. My grin dies when—for some weird reason—an image of Dad flashes across my eyes, the way he looked in his wedding picture. He would have been about James’s age now, if not for that freak car accident.
I shake myself as Oso squeezes into the driver seat. Blare sits next to him, wearing a blond wig and ignoring us. The seat hides the rest of her body, but if the hair is any indication, she must be dressed up too.
James invites us to sit in the back seat. As we pass, Clark pulls on Xave’s jacket and wolf-whistles.
“Don’t touch me, you perv.” Xave slaps his hand away.
Xave and I stuff ourselves in the narrow seat and end up hip to hip. I squirm.
Oso starts the van. As we drive away from the bar, James explains, “This is a reconnaissance mission. You and Xave have two simple tasks. One, do as you’re told. Two, pay close attention.”
“Above all don’t freak out,” Clark offers with a sarcastic grin.
“What you will learn tonight,” James continues in a serious tone, “is nothing to joke about.” He gives Clark a disapproving glance that sobers him up. “This is serious. A matter of death and survival. If you aren’t prepared to be … terrified out of your skin, then we can stop. Right here, right now. You don’t have to come. Do you understand?”
Xave and I nod.
“Do you understand?” James asks, louder this time.
“Yes,” we both respond.
James’s eyes burn holes into mine, into Xave’s. He stares us down for what feels like five whole minutes. Then he asks, “If you saw a monster, would you scream?”
The quiet, deep rumble of his voice and the intensity of those gray eyes—which right now look black—put my hackles on end. Xave fidgets, tugs his shirt and smooths nonexistent creases.
“Xave?” James asks pointedly.
Is James really expecting an answer to this ludicrous question? Where is he taking us? Hannibal Lecter’s mansion? Are we invited to be someone’s dinner? What the heck?
“What do you mean … a monster?” Xave asks.
“Frankenstein, Dracula, Predator,” James whispers.
Xave blows air through his nose, smiles. “Um, I guess if I saw something like that I’d think it was a dude in a costume. So no, I wouldn’t scream. I’d laugh … or something.” His smile dies, as James’s expression appears anything but amused.
“What about you, Marci?” James’s eyes turn to me.
The humming in the back of my head intensifies. My stomach roils, as if a snake has made its lair in there. I’ve suspected for a long time that there’s more to the shadows than meets the eye. But monsters? Is James joking? Nausea tightens my insides. Fear floods me. Somehow I sense that what James wants to show us is real, and I won’t like it. Silence festers like an incurable disease.
Finally, I say, “I—I wouldn’t scream. I would … bite my tongue.”
James nods. Clark, Aydan, Oso and even Blare stare at me, tight-lipped.
“You follow her lead, little brother,” Clark tells Xave. “You follow her lead.”
Chapter 13
Oso pulls the van over. In the back there are no windows, and it’s too dark to see through the windshield. I have no idea where we are, or why we’ve stopped.
Aydan swivels his chair and beckons James. With quick hands, he attaches a small pin to James’s lapel, then turns back to the computers and punches a few keys. One of the four monitors comes to life, displaying an image of Aydan’s back.
“Okay,” he says, “try to point the thing at as many faces as possible. I’ll record everything. And Blare,” he reaches for a small box, “these earrings are for you.”
Blare takes the box. “They’re hideous!” she exclaims.
“Sorry, darling. They didn’t come in crossbones. I did what I could,” Clark says.
She gives him the finger. “Screw you.”
When another monitor comes to life, showing an image from Blare’s perspective, Aydan rubs his hands together. “It’s showtime.”
“C’mon.” James slides the door open and gestures for us to get out.
“Be careful,” Oso admonishes.
Once outside, I look around. We’re in the almost empty parking lot of a Mexican restaurant. If we had disembarked in China, it couldn’t be more bizarre. The restaurant is closed and there isn’t much else around.
Blare steps out through the passenger door. When I see her, I do a double take. She looks stunning, nothing like the Medusa monster I met the other night. Her every curve is revealed like an individual art piece; her dress fits as if a master artist painted it right on her skin. She has long, well-toned limbs, and a graceful air I would have never suspected. Her blond wig falls onto naked shoulders in loose curls and—if I didn’t know better—I’d say it was her real hair. The brow ring is gone and the black lipstick has been replaced by a deep red tint, creating a dramatic effect on her pale features.
My hands self-consciously tug at my dress and I feel like an ugly duckling. I’m taken by surprise by the ridiculous reaction and even more by the surge of anger that electrifies me when I notice Xave ogling her.
I want to … slap him. Instead, my eyes shift to James, the retreating van, and the restaurant’s neon sign that reads “Casita Mamita.”
James pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and clicks the remote control. The sound of popping locks directs my gaze toward a black Lincoln LS. Blare and James walk toward the car with purposeful steps. Xave and I just stand there, watching like a couple of idiots. With a nasty backward glance, Blare says it all. We snap out of it, follow and get in the car.
As James drives out of the parking lot, he checks his watch. “When we get there, the others will be nearby in the van.” He looks at us through the rear-view mirror. “The party is by invitation only. Everyone is expected to bring a date, so a little bit of acting will be required on your part. Do you think you can handle that?”
Blare huffs. “For these two? It should be effortless.”
The heat of a blush ignites my cheeks. My stomach turns upside down. The passing buildings and lampposts become terribly interesting all of a sudden.
Cool it.
I dare turn my head a little toward Xave and catch a glance out of the corner of my eye. It seems he’s developed a passion for lampposts, too.
After a fifteen-minute drive, the view outside changes considerably. Dark alleys and dingy bars aren’t everything IgNiTe has to offer. We’re in some fancy neighborhood. The kind I’ve only seen on television. There are huge iron gates, security cameras, impeccable landscapes in every house … or I should
say mansion. No wonder we had to ride in this car, except now I’m not sure it’s fancy enough.
Xave and I elbow each other, point and gawk. When James comes to a stop at a huge gate guarded by two mean-looking guys in suits, we compose ourselves and act cool and collected.
James rolls down both front windows and gives a small wave. The two ogres on either side practically stick their heads in and peer at each one of us with narrowed eyes. Their noses flare like hound dogs’ and the humming in the back of my head picks up a couple of notches.
Inhale. Once. Twice.
The one on my side gives me a smile full of complicity, as if we’ve known each other for ages. I smile back, doing my best to match his expression. They wave us in, just like that. I thought James said the party was by invitation only. What did the guards do? Sniffed the fancy stationery to make sure we have an invitation?
As we move up the long driveway, bumpered by two rows of perfectly trimmed hedges and many strategically placed spotlights, James turns and says, “Good job.” It seems like a harmless comment meant for both Xave and I, but—from the way his gray gaze lingers on me—I know there’s a deeper compliment in there meant just for me.
Blare shakes herself and rolls her shoulders, as if chilled. “Disgusting.” She sounds as if someone just poured a bucket of slug slime down her impossibly tight dress.
The driveway takes us to a majestic mansion, capping the top of a hill. The place is gigantic, and even though I understand squat about architecture, I know you have to have some serious money to own a place like this. Not just any “Joe Blow Millionaire” can afford this type of luxury.
Xave and I exchange puzzled looks. I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. How does James and his miserable, shabby posse fit in with this filthy-rich bunch?
As we step out of the car, a man wearing a white coat and black bowtie takes the Lincoln and drives away. James pulls me aside. Xave and Blare look surprised by his hand at my elbow, leading me away from them. Begrudgingly, Blare takes the hint and pulls Xave with her, walking with slow, easy steps toward the main entrance.
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