A Girl Called Fearless

A Girl Called Fearless

A GIRL CALLED FEARLESS.
Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Linka. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Designed by Anna Gorovoy

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
(TK)

ISBN 978-1-250-03929-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-250-03930-9 (e-book)

St. Martin's Griffin books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or write [email protected].

First Edition: May 2014

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

TO R.M.L.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Books come into being because of the people who believe in you and what you've created. Without these champions,
A Girl Called Fearless
would not exist, much less be something I am proud of.

I owe enormous thanks to:

Sarah Davies, my agent, whose tenacity, intelligence, and finesse never cease to amaze me.

Mollie Traver, who took a chance on the manuscript and pushed me to write a better book than I'd imagined was possible. You taught me so much and made me love the journey.

Sara Goodman, my new editor, for her insights and judgment that make the prospect of writing the sequel together exciting.

The delightful and talented team at St. Martin's, including Mike Slack, Anne Marie Tallberg, Sarah Goldberg, Jessica Preeg, Stephanie Davis, Anna Gorovoy, and Danielle Fiorella, who brilliantly captured the story in her cover design.

To my mentors and friends, the Vermont College faculty, who raised the bar and then raised it again. Tim Wynne-Jones, Ellen Howard, Jane Resh Thomas, Marion Dane Bauer, Uma Krishnaswami, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Kathi Appelt, and Tobin Anderson.

To my VCFA buddies and the Throughthetollbooth.com crew, especially Tami Lewis Brown who is generosity personified.

To my critique group partners, Leda Siskind and Nina Kidd, whose thoughtful criticism pushed me to work harder and whose reassurance kept me from giving up.

To Sandy Willardson and my bosses at the Flintridge Bookstore and Coffeehouse, Lenora and Peter Wannier, who supported my dream in so many ways.

To my bookseller and SCIBA colleagues including Andrea Vuleta, Kris Vreeland, Maureen Palacios, Kiona Gross, and Lauren Peugh—the best cheerleaders an author could ask for.

To librarians and literacy leaders, including Alyson Beecher, Mary McCoy, Lindsey Bozzani, Courtney Saldana, Sue Hodge, and Meryl Eldridge for their unbridled enthusiasm.

To the kidlit writers who've welcomed me into the fold, with particular thanks to C.C. Hunter, Megan Miranda, and Gennifer Albin for reading the manuscript, and to Ann Stampler, Greg Pincus, and Kristen Kittscher for their amazing marketing advice.

To my SCBWI colleagues, including Lee Wind, Sarah Laurenson, Sally Jones Rogan, and Lynn Becker for their kindness and support. And special recognition goes to Alexis O'Neill and Ronna Mandel, who gave me opportunities I never expected.

To my fellow lafourteeners for sharing the insanity of debut year, with a special shout-out to Tracy Holczer.

To my friends Jemela Macer, Deanna Bushman, Sue Wright, Dana Cioffi, Cindy Steckbeck, and Jerry Khachikian, whose emotional, business, and grammatical guidance has been a wonderful and unexpected gift.

To my sister, Lauren, for always being there, and my brothers, Ed and Pete, for their detailed instructions about how to properly handle guns.

But the biggest thanks go to Bob, Haven, and Max, without whose love, encouragement, and patience none of this would have happened. I love you more than words can say, even with extensive rewrites.

Los Angeles, Present Day

1

Something was up with Dayla.

She stared out the window twisting a strand of hair around her finger as my bodyguard, Roik, drove us to my house. Usually, she'd be pawing through my purse for gum or lip gloss before we'd even cleared the school gates.

I tugged on her skirt, and she slapped my hand away before she caught herself. “Sorry, Avie,” she whispered.

“You okay?”

She glanced at Roik. “I'm fine,” she said, but I knew: Day was saving the truth for later.

Roik turned off Arroyo, and I sat up in my seat. The Lean Dog was eight blocks away. I smoothed my hair and asked the universe to grant me a favor: red light at Fair Oaks.
Come on
. I could really use one today.

Green lights shot us past apartments, the hospital, the post office and sub shop. I glanced at my phone. Damn.
We're too early.

One block away, Roik sped through a yellow, and I set my finger on the window button, but I didn't have much hope.

Up ahead, the light was green. Bright, annoying, missed-chance green. It flipped to yellow and then at the last second, red. Roik braked.

I leaned forward to block Day, because I couldn't trust her to behave. The rules were clear: I could lower the window, smile, and give Yates a wave, but no calling out. No arms outside the car. Bodyguards had their rules, and these were Roik's.

The smell of hamburgers hit me as I scanned the café windows. I breathed through my mouth, trying to evade the memories it triggered.

I spied Yates handing a customer a bottle of ketchup, and the guy shook a fry at him. They laughed like they were sharing a joke.

Roik tapped the accelerator. The light was going to change. Look over here, Yates.

Yates brushed his hair off his face and his blue eyes caught mine. He smiled and swiped his thumb down his nose.

Hi, Fearless.

I waved back, keeping my hand inside the car. I wasn't Fearless, but I loved how he called me that. My tongue ran over my now perfect tooth as I relived the skateboard and the cement steps. Yates giving me a hand up. The crazy awe in his voice when he said, “You're fearless!”

I wanted a shot of him just like this with his dark hair falling over one eye and his sideways smile—different from the one he slapped on for customers.

But if I took one, Roik would make me hand over my cell. A drive-by was one thing. A photo? Not happening.

The light turned green.

“You two would be perfect together,” Day said.

My heart skipped, and I checked the rearview mirror. Roik was watching the traffic, so he must not have heard Day. But still.

“Don't be weird,” I said. “He's like my big brother.”

“Oh, right.” She smiled slightly and gave me a look I didn't understand.

I ignored her. She was still holding on to that embarrassing crush I had on him when I was twelve. Yates and I had known each other forever. Even longer than I'd known Dayla, because our parents were old friends and our dads ran Biocure together.

These thirty seconds after school when I got to see Yates were the proof that someday soon, I'd have a normal life again. I'd go to college and hang out with guy friends like Yates and maybe—I'd even fall in love.

The world had changed in horrible ways, so Yates and I weren't allowed to talk or be alone together. Maybe I was lying to myself, but the connection we made through the glass made me feel that the future wasn't impossibly bleak.

Dayla huddled against the door. I didn't have any idea what was going on in her head, but it had to be bad.

2

“I'm pregnant,” Dayla whispered.

My heart pounded as I tried not to look shocked.

The red eye on the security camera bore down on us. Dayla sat with her back turned to it, her legs stretched out on the lounge chair like we were just two girls innocently sunning on my balcony.

“Seth?” I spoke into my drink so the camera wouldn't get a clear shot.

Dayla blinked twice for yes, but we both knew I didn't need to ask. Her bodyguard was the only guy who'd gotten within fifty yards of her since her dad signed the Contract at her Sweet Sixteen. “Dad's going to murder me.”

We looked at each other. Dayla had broken at least four clauses in her marriage contract. Sure, her dad was going to be pissed. Six million dollars, that's what Seth and Dayla had just cost him.

“What are you going to do?”

Dayla dropped her hand into the gap between our chairs and scooped the air like she was digging a hole.

“No!” She was going Underground. “You and…?”

She blinked twice.

I got up and wrapped my arms around her.
No, you can't go. You can't leave me.

Dayla buried her face in my hair, and I tilted mine toward the camera and beamed like she'd just asked me to be her maid of honor.

It was killing me, smiling like that and holding in how I really felt, but what else could she do? I made myself whisper, “Don't cry. They'll see you.”

The border was at least a thousand miles from L.A., but she and Seth were going to make a run for it. Seth was looking at prison. The only choice left for them was to defect to Canada, the one country in the Americas that wouldn't send you back to the U.S. if you were running from a Contract.

3

Dayla didn't show up at school on Friday. At first, I thought she was late. Sometimes peaceful neighborhoods would turn wacko, and you'd have to take a detour.

As the morning dragged on, I couldn't stop looking at her chair. The emptiest place in the world: where your best friend is supposed to be, but isn't.

I messaged her about twenty times before lunch. “Day! It's Avie. Are you sick? Text me!”

But when she didn't get back to me by the end of school, I knew she and Seth had taken off. Maybe she was trying to protect me by not saying good-bye or telling me where she was going, but I felt like Scarpanol had just killed one more person I loved.

After school, I locked myself upstairs in my room. Dad wouldn't be home for hours, so it was just Roik, Gerard, our domestic manager, and me. And even though they knew enough to leave me alone, I didn't feel like dealing with even one of their XY chromosomes.

I tore off my uniform tie and grey plaid skirt and kicked them into the closet. Then I pulled on a pair of jeans and put in my earphones.

I hadn't played Scarp Hole's
Rage
album in a long, long time, not since freshman year when I finally got that it was better to feel numb than replay endless pain. I knew exactly how the music would make me feel, but I went ahead anyway.

The first song begins with the lead singer, his voice bitterly quiet. I whispered the words along with him.

I rage at the darkness in my life

The stolen love, the stolen light.

Death was silent, but I'm

Not silent anymore.

The drums start pounding, and the guitars scream and he cries, “I rage,” drawing out his pain over a hundred metallic bars until we both jump into the next lines.

Mistakes were made

That dug a thousand graves.

The lies, the bribes, the averted eyes,

Millions had to die before we cried

This was no accident,

No, no! No accident

And I scream out the chorus.

Someone has to pay

For the pain they caused.

Someone has to pay

For the lives they lost.

Death was silent, but I'm

Not silent anymore.

Rage! Rage! Rage!

No silence anymore!

I pounded my feet into the carpet, letting every note take me back. Back to the helpless, awful days of elementary school when Dayla and I and all our friends watched our moms and aunts and big sisters get cancer and die—way before doctors exposed the killer: Scarpanol, a hormone pumped into American beef. Scarpanol didn't kill little girls like me, but we were still casualties—left behind with dads and brothers and uncles who were shell-shocked and afraid.