by Rachel Ward
Nan’s kept some of the clippings from the papers — gives me chills looking at them. My mum and dad, so young, as young as I am now, staring out from the front page. They were only kids when they had me. Well, Dad never even knew about me. He died before Mum knew she was pregnant.
If only I’d known about all this. I could’ve asked Mum, we could’ve talked about it…. All she ever said to me about the numbers was that they were secret. I could never tell anyone their number. And the only person I ever did tell was her. I wrote her number down on a picture of her when I was five, before I knew what it meant.
What the hell did that do to her? What must her last few years have been like, knowing? I’ve got part of the answer now. Next to my notebook, there’s an envelope folded in half. When she’s finished telling me Mum and Dad’s story, Nan gives it me.
“She wanted you to have this. When the time was right. I reckon that’s now.”
My name’s written on the front in Mum’s writing — I’d know it anywhere. I swear my heart stops for a second when I see it. I can’t believe it’s real. Something from Mum. Something for me.
And Nan’s been holding on to it. What right did she have…? It’s not hers, it’s mine. The anger sparks up again.
“How long have you had this?” I say.
“She gave it to me a few weeks before she…went.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me? It’s mine. It’s got my name on it.”
“I told you,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining something to an idiot, “she asked me to keep it for you. For when you was ready.”
“And you’d know, would you? You’d know what was best?” She looks me straight in the eye. She can feel the tension as much as I can and she’s not backing down.
“Yeah, at least your mum thought so. She trusted me.”
I snort.
“I’m fifteen. I don’t need you making decisions for me. You don’t know nothing about me.”
“I know more than you think, son. Now, why don’t you calm down for a minute and open that envelope?”
The envelope. I’ve almost forgotten that’s what we’re arguing about.
“I’m gonna read it on my own,” I say, and I hold it up to my chest. Mine, not hers. She’s disappointed, I can see that — she wants to know what’s in it, nosy old cow. Then she sniffs loudly and reaches for another cigarette.
“’Course,” she says. “’Course you do. Come and talk to me when you’ve done. I’ll be right here.”
I take it up to my room and sit on the bed. My private space, a room of my own, except that it’s not mine. I’ve only got a handful of my things with me. Everything else here is my dad’s: a boy about the same age as me, a boy I never knew and who never knew about me. I’m inside a shrine, surrounded by his stuff. Nan never moved a thing when he died, and you could tell it hurt her to put me in here, but there was nowhere else I could go.
I put the envelope on my lap and stare at it. Mum’s writing. Her hand held this envelope. Is there any of her left on it? I smooth my fingers across it. I want to read whatever’s inside, but I also know that once I’ve read it, that’ll be it. There’ll be nothing else from her. It’ll be like saying good-bye all over again.
I don’t want it to end. I know it has already. I know she’s gone, but I’ve got a little bit of her back now.
“Mum,” I say. My voice sounds strange, like it belongs to someone else.
I want her to be here, with me, so much.
And I open the envelope, and she is.
The instant I start reading, I can hear her voice, see her sitting propped up in bed, writing. Her hair’s gone, and there’s no weight on her at all anymore. She’s so thin you can’t hardly recognize her face. But it’s still her. It’s still Mum.
Dear Adam,
I’m writing this knowing you won’t read it until after I’ve gone. I want to tell you so much, but it all comes down to the same thing. I love you. Always have, always will.
I hope you remember me, but if you start to forget what I looked like, or sounded like, or anything, don’t worry. Just remember the love. That’s what matters.
I wish I was there to see you grow up, but I can’t be, so I’ve asked Nan to look after you. She’s a diamond, your nan, so you be good for her, don’t cheek her or nothing.
Adam, I need you to do something. I can’t be there to keep you safe, so I’m telling you this now. Stay in Weston, or somewhere like that. Don’t go to London, Adam. I seen the numbers when I was growing up. We’re the same you and me — we see things that no one should ever know. I told people, I broke my own rule, and it was nothing but trouble. You mustn’t tell. Not anyone. Not ever. It’s trouble, Adam, trust me, I know.
London isn’t safe. 01012027. I seen it in tons of people when I was growing up. Find somewhere where the people have good numbers, Adam, and stay there. Don’t go to London. Don’t let Nan take you there, and keep her out, too. Keep her safe.
I’m going to go now. I can’t hardly bear to stop writing, to say good-bye. There aren’t enough words in the world to tell you how much I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. The best. Don’t forget,
Love always,
Mum
xxxxxx
A tear drips off the end of my chin and splashes onto the paper. The ink spreads out like a firework, turning her kisses all blurry.
“No!”
I wipe the paper with my thumb, but that just makes it worse. I find an old tissue in my pocket and dab it dry, and all the time the tears keep pouring down my face. Then I put the letter on the end of the bed, out of harm’s way, and I let go.
I haven’t cried for a long time, not since before she died. Now I can’t stop. It’s like a dam bursting — something bigger than me sweeping me away. My whole body’s crying, out of control; great heaving sobs; tears and snot; noises I never knew I had in me. And then I curl up in a ball and I rock backward and forward, backward and forward, for I don’t know how long ‘til I slowly come to a stop. And there’s nothing left. No more tears.
I look around me like I’m seeing the room for the first time, and I feel the anger back again, tingling in the tips of my fingers, pulsing right through me.
Don’t go to London. Don’t let Nan take you there.
I knew this was a bad place. I knew we shouldn’t have come.
I slam out of the room and down the stairs. Nan’s still in the kitchen. Cup of tea in front of her and a cigarette in her mouth.
“She never wanted us to come to London! She wanted us to stay in Weston! Did you know that? Did you? Did you?”
I’m leaning on the other side of the table, gripping it with both hands, gripping so hard my knuckles are white.
Nan puts her hand up across her forehead and rubs it. She shuts her eyes for a second, but when she opens them, they’re defiant.
“She said something, yes.”
“She said something, and you still brought us here?”
“I did, but…” She thinks she can argue with me, justify herself. She’s got to be kidding. Nothing she can say will make this better. She’s been found out for the lying, selfish cow she is.
“When I said I didn’t want to go! When Mum had said not to come!”
“Adam…”
“She trusted you!”
“I know, but…” She reaches her hand out toward the ashtray. Her fingers are trembling as she stubs out her cigarette. The dish is overflowing — stale, disgusting, like her. I reach forward, too, pick the vile thing up, and hurl it against the wall. It smashes when it hits the floor. Glass and ash spray out.
“Adam!” she screams. “That’s enough!”
But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I tighten my grip on the table and heave it over, sending it crashing down on its side by the sink, broken china and brown tea mixing with ash and glass.
“Jesus Christ! Stop it, Adam!”
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up!”
; “Don’t you dare…”
The ashtray’s not enough. The table’s not enough. It’s not their fault, anyway. It’s hers.
And now I’ve got to get out of here. ‘Cause I know what I want to do next and that’s crossing a line. It’s wrong. And I want to so much, but if I start…if I start, I might not stop.
“I hate you! I hate you!”
I’m out of the kitchen and through the living room and out the front door before I can change my mind. The cold air hits me, and I stop for a minute to suck it in. But standing still’s no good. There’s too much energy charging through me, I’m too wound up, so I walk and then I run. And as I run it starts raining, icy drops stinging my face.
I’m not running away from her. I’m running away from what I might have done to her. It’s better this way. Better for both of us if I keep on running and never go back.
SARAH
I wont be able to take much. He always gives me a lift to school, and He’ll notice any extra bags. So it’s only what I can get in my normal bag, and money. If I’ve got enough money with me, I can buy anything else I need.
They’ll look at my account when I go. Ask the police or someone to see what I’ve been spending, where I’ve been. So cash is the thing. As much cash as I can find.
I’ve been pinching tenners out of my mum’s purse for weeks now. One at a time, so she won’t notice. I know Dad keeps cash in His study. I haven’t had the nerve to go in there — it’s His room, it smells of Him. Even when I know He’s not in the house, won’t be back for ages, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Now, it’s different. I’m going to go tomorrow. I take all the books out of my schoolbag — I’ll manage without them — then I carefully fold up some underwear, my favorite T-shirts, some track pants. I look at my jeans in the drawer. I really want to take a pair — they’re all I wear normally, but even my favorites, the ones I’ve worn and washed ‘til they’ve gone soft and floppy, won’t zip up now. No point taking things I can’t wear.
I count up the cash I’ve got stashed away: eighty-five euros, not enough. I know Marty and Luke have got some money. Can I steal from my brothers? I could — if they weren’t in their rooms right now. I need more. It’s going to have to be Dad’s money.
He’s out for the evening, entertaining some clients at dinner. Mum’s watching TV in the sitting room. I pass by the doorway, and hesitate. There’s another way, isn’t there? I don’t have to leave. I could go in there now, sit down next to her, and tell her. She’d have to do something then, wouldn’t she? Ring the police? Throw Him out? Or gather all our things up and take us somewhere, me and the boys?
Or would she tell me to shut up? Send me to my room for telling such wicked lies? Or shrug her shoulders, say that’s just the way things are, the way He is?
At the back of my mind, I know that she already knows.
How can she not know?
IT ALL ADDS UP!
PRAISE FOR
NUM8ERS
“Even the idea of this book gave me chills. How would you like to know someone’s fate just by looking in their eyes? Creepy and original!”
— R.L. Stine
“A page-turner: Engrossing and au-courant. One thing is certain:
Ward’s Numbers is ace.”
— The Los Angeles Times
* “A gritty tale, unsparingly told. Stark and honest.”
— Publishers Weekly, starred review
* “Gritty, bold, and utterly unique. The ending is a real shocker.”
— School Library Journal, starred review
“A lovely, bittersweet tearjerker about living life to the fullest.”
— Kirkus
Copyright
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Text copyright © 2010 by Rachel Ward
Excerpt from Numbers: The Chaos © 2011 by Rachel Ward
Cover art and design by Christopher Stengel
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. Originally published in hardcover in 2010 by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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First paperback printing, February 2011
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E-ISBN 978-0-545-35672-5