Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (27 page)

“Relax, Queen Paranoia. They’re not going to know. Haint’s invisible, remember? And Goose moves so fast he’s as good as. No one will know. They’re not going to steal anything, just read. Take pictures if they need to.”
Mole runs a hand through his blond hair, leaving mussed spikes in its wake.
“We have to
do
something. Flicker’s running out of time, and we’re perpetually one step behind.”

Everyone else agrees, and in the end, it’s not my place to argue. Saint Catherine’s is the only link we have right now.

Chapter Nineteen

There’s a slip of paper on my desk when I get home from school, my grandparent’s phone number and address scrawled across it in my father’s handwriting.

My body’s numb from the day’s massive upheaval, but we need information on Saint Catherine’s House too badly for me to curl up and sleep now. Anything that helps us not go in there blind. It doesn’t stop me from procrastinating, texting Haint first instead of calling my grandparents.

What are you doing?

Nothing much. Reading. You?

Getting ready to call my grandparents for info. Want to come over later?

I hope she realizes we shouldn’t talk too explicitly about anything on our phones—especially now that we’re pretty sure some part of the government is watching—but it’s silly of me to worry. None of us are stupid, and we’ve spent forever being careful.

I can after dinner. Rules about eating meals together.

Got it. Time?

I can be at your place by 630.

K.

My father and I don’t eat until later but I doubt he’ll mind if Haint joins us. He’s offered several times to host Jude or Maya or any of my friends from school if they ever want to come by. Still, I’m not comfortable enough yet to invite her without asking, and shoot him a text message asking permission before dialing my grandparents.

Robert gives me an affirmative and I’m out of stalling options. All it takes to knock my hesitation loose is another conjured image of Flicker on that table, her lips mouthing a silent, broken
help.

Shame, heavy and hot, rolls through me. My friend is in trouble. Hell, all of the Cavies are in trouble, and I’m avoiding calling people who might be able to help, not to mention that I spent at least as much time worrying about Jude today as I have Flicker. And if I’m using higher brain function—the part without the emotional response—I’d accept that concern for Jude is pointless. His fate is written.

I pick up my phone and punch in the number my father left. It crosses my mind to go to their house instead because it’s easier to demand answers in person. And harder to slam the door in your granddaughter’s face than ignore her phone call. In theory. But I’m a chicken.

The phone only rings once before an accented voice answers. Maybe Russian. “Hello, Boone residence.”

They have someone to answer the phone?

“Um, hi, I’m calling for Mrs. Boone.”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Norah Jane Crespo.” I pause. “Her granddaughter.”

“One moment,” she replies, like a call from the Maytag repairman would be as interesting.

I don’t know why I asked for my grandmother and not my grandfather. Some weird instinct, I guess, even though men mostly raised me and my father has been fine. Good, even.

“Yes?” The cold, detached voice smashes any hope, however small, that my grandmother might regret her actions seventeen years ago.

“Um, Mrs. Boone? I’m Norah Jane—”

“Yes, Agnieska told me who’s calling. My help is quite competent.”

Christ on a cracker.

“I’m calling because I have some questions about my mother. I thought you might—”

“Thought I might what? Want to visit with a girl whose existence stole my daughter from me? See the face of a child who was never supposed to know where she came from? Want to spend hours reminiscing about the girl I lost with the one we never wanted? No, thank you, young lady, and you’ll not call here again. Good day.” She hung up, the sound ringing in my ear for a good minute.

Oddly, her words hit me like globs of cool mud, then slid off as easily. Sure, I feel a little caked and dirty, and it would be a while before I felt clean of her accusations, but in the end, I don’t know this woman. She clearly doesn’t want to know me. It’s hard to feel hurt or slighted, even though I’m sure that’s what she intended.

My father wants me, and it’s so much more than I ever expected. With everything else going on, I have no time or emotional space to waste time caring about a horrible person.

The downside is that she’s obviously not going to give me any information about Saint Catherine’s House, but after talking to her, I doubt she ever asked for details. It was enough to find a place willing to hide her daughter’s dirty little secret: me.

My father texts me again and suggests that I order a large pizza so it will be here when he gets home. I call it in around six, then kill the rest of the time translating some Latin so I won’t be rusty next semester.

I’ve decided on my electives, too—forensics and yearbook. I was already interested in the former, but finding out that my mother had loved acting sealed the deal. Now that I’ve talked with my grandmother, I secretly hope she’ll will find out and be pissed off all over again. Yearbook interests me mostly because of the pictures. I’ve always wanted a camera.

The buzzer sounds, and I run downstairs to let Haint in, mentally reminding myself to call her Becca once my father gets home, then lead her back up to my room.

“How did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“You
drove
?”

“Yeah. No big deal. My grandfather took me driving a few times, made me study a little book, and declared me ready for the streets. I passed the test, so here I am.”

“Impressive.”

There’s no reason for me to have a driver’s license in town, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to work on getting one so that I can go see Haint or the twins if I want to. Or Mole. I don’t know where he and Pollyanna will end up.

I shut the door behind us even though we’re alone, and once we’re settled on my bed she jumps right into the swirl of uncertainty storming in my mind.

“I agree with that guy’s dad.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “The reporter. About the government being behind our release from Darley. They’re probably waiting until they have all the information, so they can grab us and turn us into weapons or spies or something.”

“Jude.”

“What?”

“‘That guy’s’ name is Jude.”

“Okay. Whatever.” She flops onto her back. “Anyway, I hope we can find something at Saint Catherine’s, because if not I have no idea where we’re going from there.”

“I know.”

She sits straight up after a lengthy pause, excitement painting her dark features. “That other guy. Dane Kim?”

His name looses an arrow of dread straight into my gut. “What about him?”

“How can he know about us unless he’s A, one of these previous Cavies or B, part of the government entity that’s watching us—the ones who stole
Jude’s
father’s files?”

“He’s not old enough to be a previous generation,” is my immediate response.

“So, he’s government.”

“He’s watching us,” I murmur, my thoughts far away. “That’s why he befriended me, tried to gain my trust.”

“I think that’s a fair assumption.” Her eyes cut around my bedroom. “I also don’t think it’s an
un
fair assumption to worry that our houses are bugged. This is the federal government we’re talking about, right?”

I nod, suddenly feeling a million eyeballs on the back of my neck, rolling across my skin with an icky coolness. My armpits break out in a sweat, and by the looks of Haint’s forehead she’s not faring any better.

Our eyes lock, then she gives me a bright, fake smile that says she’s thinking about it, too. “So tell me more about this Jude guy.”

It might sound as though we’re back in our cabins at Darley, discussing the boys we think are cute in the movies, lamenting the fact that the only guys we have access to are basically brothers to us—to people who don’t know us. Who can’t tell how the subject matter hurts my heart until it aches in my chest.

Who don’t know that Haint couldn’t care less if anything besides friendship is going on.

“I like him. I do.” I pause, wondering if I shouldn’t talk about my gift, but figure anyone listening already knows. “He’s going to die when he’s eighteen. Eighteen.”

The horrible truth drips from my lips like acid. I wish it would burn off my mouth so I couldn’t say such heartbreaking things. Nausea bubbles in my stomach.

The mischief in her gaze disappears, replaced by foreboding. Cold scrabbles at my heart, the images that display in my mind when we touch throbbing. The vibrant purple-blue hydrangeas. The redness of his blood.

The confession that I’m there when he dies, that I think it’s because he met me, stalls in my throat. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. If anyone’s listening, they don’t need to know that the injections have changed us.

“Have you thought about trying to save him?”

My eyes snap to hers, the suggestion both intriguing and ludicrous. “I can’t do that.”

“You never know.”

I hear in her voice that she’s thinking the same thing I am, that things are changing. Geoff’s moving. Athena can hear conversations taking place across the ocean now.

“I don’t know.” If I invest myself enough to try and still fail, it’ll be worse than just letting it happen. Won’t it?

Haint studies me until it makes me fidget, then purses her lips and nods. Her words, though, are back to pretending nothing’s wrong. “Sheesh, Gyp, you get out of Darley and all of the sudden there are boys popping out of the woodwork! Don’t tell Mole, or he’ll think we’d better lock you back up.”

“I know! Don’t you think he’s acting weird about… everything? My accidentally touching Jude, then wanting to come to the basketball game and puffing out his chest?”

“Do you think he, you know…
likes
you?”

“What?! Mole? No! We’re best friends.” The reaction is immediate and forceful, but followed by a slower, more ambiguous feeling that’s something like curiosity.

“Right, you were so close at Darley, but he didn’t have any competition. Not to mention we had the rest of our lives to broach awkward subjects.” She waggles her eyebrows, but sobers just as quickly. Her voice turns quiet, serious, and she flops back onto the covers. “It’s might not be that. Maybe he feels like he’s losing you. I kind of do.”

Reaper pretty much said the same thing. That my making new friends seemed so easy it made her feel as though I’m tossing away the old.

I lay next to Haint, twisting my head sideways so I can look into her face. “Mole’s not losing me, and neither are you, or Reaper, or any of the Cavies. Our friendships are stronger than classes or giggling about boys or eating lunch together. We’re
family.
”

“I know. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Mole knows that, too.” She grins. “And then make out with him, just to drive home the point.”

I squeal and wrinkle my nose as though her suggestion grosses me out to the max. I’m more than a little surprised to find that, deep down, it doesn’t at all.

Discomfort wedges between my shoulders and twists. It squirms down to my gut, up to my brain, and scrambles all of the truths about my life that I’ve been clinging to. In Beaufort, we all agreed to consider the fact that we don’t know anything about our lives at Darley, but I didn’t think that extended to the relationships among the Cavies.

Maybe it does.

“Did you notice Reaper didn’t show up after school today? Have you seen her much lately?”

The shift in subject jars me, which is good because there’s so much more than boys to consider. “Yeah. I mean, yes, I noticed but no, I haven’t seen her much. She’s… withdrawn. At school. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless Dane forces her, and we know he’s not genuine.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“Me, too.”

It’s starting to feel more like the way it’s always been is the way it’s supposed to be, and instead of wanting a normal life, all I want is my Cavies to be safe. For us to understand what we are, control what we are, and live without the fear of the past insistently nipping at our heels.