Never Missing, Never Found (5 page)

“Wait!” Melody calls.

I hesitate, but I don’t stop. Once bitten, twice burned. Is that what they say?

I spent five years in therapy with the wise and fabulous Dr. Martinez after I fought my way out of the underworld. She slowly carried me from a place where I wouldn’t acknowledge what had happened to me, where I would close my eyes and cover my ears anytime she tried to ask me a question, to a place where I could talk openly and honestly about what it had been like in the basement, with Pixie, with the girls upstairs, with Stepmother. I didn’t exactly reach a sunny beach, but I did finally learn to see the sun peeking through the clouds. To stop looking over my shoulder every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

Anyway, I told Dr. Martinez about my troubles with my sister, how she would no longer speak to me, would flinch away when I tried to take her hand, and Dr. Martinez told me to avoid yelling, to avoid getting angry, because I couldn’t help how Melody felt. She had to go through her own adjustment period too, and I couldn’t expect things to go right back to the way things had been before I “left.”

Dr. Martinez kept on telling me to be patient for one year, two years, three years, and then she stopped, because it became clear that whatever problem Melody had with me, it wasn’t going away with time.

That’s why I eventually convinced my dad to let me quit therapy. I told him—and Dr. Martinez—that I was fine, that I’d moved on. I would never really move on, and I think they knew that, but they believed me enough to let me go. But despite all I’d shared with Dr. Martinez, despite all the progress I’d made with my own mind, there were certain corners that I could never explore. Certain thoughts I can never, even now, let free.

The next morning I’m sent again to the south side, but not to headquarters; I’m to work at a store called Wonderkidz, which I’m guessing is a Wonderman-themed shop for kids. It’s a clear, warm day, unlike yesterday, and the sunshine is bright and crisp in my lungs. It’s so clean and fresh it almost makes me forget the specter of the missing girl staining the cobblestones.

Wonderkidz isn’t far from headquarters, and I see Connor’s coppery red hair glinting in the sunlight before he sees me. I raise my arm and wave it so enthusiastically I think something tears in my chest. He still doesn’t see me, which is fortunate; by the time he turns around and his lips break into a smile, I’m restrained enough to give him a small, calm, collected wave. Cool. Enthusiasm is not cool. People like Melody don’t do enthusiasm. “Morning,” I say. “I’m off to Wonderkidz.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m the one who wrote the schedule on the whiteboard.”

“With great power comes great responsibility. I hope you’re using it wisely.”

“I just hope you don’t hate me at the end of your shift. Remember, it’s not my fault. Blame Cynthia.”

“That bodes well,” I say. “Did you stick me with Lizzy again?”

His jaw drops in mock shock. “Like I would ever do that to you,” he says. “What do you think of me? In all honesty, though,” he continues, “you’ll probably be begging to wash Lizzy’s feet before an hour’s gone.”

I ask him to elaborate once we continue on, even threaten him with a plush sword hanging from one of the stands we pass, but he refuses. I want to tell him that whatever’s in store at Wonderkidz, I’ve been through worse. That whatever trauma he’s joking about inflicting upon me is an actual joke, because nothing could ever faze me again.

Within five minutes of entering the store, I want to claw my ears off and stuff the bloody holes full of cotton.

“Is that going to play all day?” I ask him.

The store itself isn’t bad. It’s small and open to the elements, with space for only two registers, and it’s out of the way at the very edge of the south side, so people actually have to mean to come here. The walls and shelves are stacked with superhero-themed kids’ stuff: plush replicas of Skywoman’s cloud lasso, plush replicas of the Wondermobile, plush replicas of the eponymous Blade’s blade…basically, plush replicas of everything you could possibly make a plush replica of.

It’s the sound track that’s the problem. There are four speakers, one in each corner of the store, aimed directly at the registers and blasting a skin-crawling, spine-tingling, teeth-gritting song from the Wonderman and Skywoman movies, sung—and screeched, definitely screeched—by a group of what has to be hellspawn, because those noises can’t be coming from the throats of sweet, innocent children.

“All day,” Connor confirms. “And just wait until it repeats. It repeats about every ten minutes.”

“How could you do this to me?” I groan. “I thought I was your favorite person.”

“You are,” he says. “It’s just that it was between you and getting fired, and, well…I’m not losing my job. I had to suffer through Wonderkidz too.”

He logs me into the register and sets up my cashbox. I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Connor says. He hoists himself up onto the counter, breaking the Five Banners rule that says no sitting on counters, but
whoa
a flash of white freckled belly and my cheeks are so hot I’m afraid the plush lightning bolts I’m leaning against might actually crackle and burst into flame. “Or I’ll get fired. But Lizzy is coming in at lunch. I could conceivably beg Cynthia to switch her out for you come lunchtime.”

“I will kill someone if I have to,” I say, and I’m only half-joking.

“Let’s not go that far,” he says, which is good, because I don’t ever want to have to go that far again. He folds his arms across his chest. “Answer three questions right and I’ll let you switch.”

I uncross my arms and prop myself against the wall behind me, leaning toward him. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were to fall against his legs. I wonder what baling hay does to a person’s legs. “Fire away.”

“First question.” His voice deepens and snaps like a weatherman’s. “What is this year’s official Five Banners corporate motto?”

Easy for anyone who’s read the employee handbook. Which I have. “Safe! Friendly! Clean!”

“Correct. And, apparently, if you’re safe, friendly, and hygienic, you can go ahead and steal as much money as you want.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Kidding, obviously.”

I follow his eyes. He’s staring at a camera, its red light an unceasing eye. “Even if you weren’t kidding,” I say. “No stealing allowed. That’s also in the handbook.”

“No bonus points for that, smarty-pants,” Connor says. “Though, nice try.”

“I wasn’t trying for bonus points.”

“You so were,” he says. “Okay, second question. How did Skywoman’s husband die?”

“Trick question,” I say immediately. “Her
first
husband, a cop, was killed when he attempted to apprehend the Blade after she’d murdered his commander and slipped into his commander’s skin like one of the costumed characters here.”

“Nice analogy.” He leans in, eyes lighting up.

“Her
second
husband,” I continue, “is not dead, as any Skywoman fan would know. Her second husband was one of the Blade’s henchmen, spying on Skywoman. When Skywoman discovered his trickery, she tried to kill him, but the Blade swooped in at the last minute and stopped her with a kiss, the only thing that could possibly have stunned Skywoman enough to stop her in her tracks, and that gave them time to escape.” I flip my hair over my shoulder. “As any true Skywoman fan would know.”

“You’re a true Skywoman fan, eh?” He sounds amused. “I should’ve known.”

“Why should you have known?”

His eyes are narrowed in thought; they set off the creases that light up when he smiles. “Because I just should have,” he says. “You seem like the type of girl who would like Skywoman. Are you one of the Sky-fanatics?”

“No,” I say defensively, and it’s true, because I terminated my membership in the online Skywoman fan club two years ago. Though at this point I have enough letters from Skywoman on official Silver City stationery, and secret decoder rings for deciphering their hidden messages, to start a Sky-fanatic branch of my own. “Why, do I seem like a nerd?”

He laughs and swings his legs. His feet thump emphatically against the side of the counter; on the upswing, they nearly brush against my side. “No! You just seem like the kind of girl who would like Skywoman. Like tough, and smart. Like you don’t take any crap. Stop trying to distract me from my third question.”

I raise an eyebrow. “If it’s anything as easy as your first two questions, I’ll be out of here at noon on the dot. Sorry, Lizzy.”

His legs stop and slam against the counter. His sudden smile is the sun breaking through the clouds. “What instrument does my little brother, Zach, play in the jazz band?”

My mouth falls open. “That’s not a fair question!”

“Really? I don’t remember setting down rules.” He raises an eyebrow. “Guess you forfeit.”

“Never!” I chew on the inside of my mouth. “The trumpet.”

“Nope.” He swings himself down from the counter, launching himself forward and landing only a few inches from me, and leans in. Heat radiates through his polo and cooks me from the inside out, a human microwave. He smells like Axe and detergent and a trace of something musty, cigarette smoke maybe—not strong enough for him to be a smoker himself, but strong enough that he must live in a smoker’s home. “Bari sax. Sorry.”

Our noses are only inches apart. I could lean forward. I could catch his lips on mine. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. I can already feel it, or at least I feel like I feel it. Maybe I’m just feeling my own.

Before I have the chance to do anything, he clears his throat and jolts away, hitting himself on the counter. Freckles glow on his red face like miniature suns. He coughs again. “Sorry,” he says. He’s looking at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but at me.

Do I repulse him that much? I swallow hard and lean back. It’s probably for the best anyway. I had an everything bagel for breakfast. I would have tasted like garlic and onion. “You should apologize for that last question. So not fair. I call redo,” I say.

He smiles, but there’s something distant about it. “No redos,” he says. “That’s also a Five Banners company motto. Didn’t you read the manual?”

He doesn’t duck in time to avoid getting smacked with a plush Blade.

“Maybe I’ll still try to let you switch at lunch,” he says. “Maybe. If you’re nice to me. Kissing my feet wouldn’t hurt.”

“The stench would probably kill me,” I say. “Which, come to think of it, is probably preferable to being stuck here all day. Go ahead, take your shoes off.”

His laugh trails behind him as he leaves, fading into the screech of the singing hellspawn above.

The wait until lunch is the longest four hours of my life. Connor makes it slightly more bearable, popping in every half hour or so to pick something up or authorize a return or let me hit him with one of many assorted plush weapons. At a hard-fought one o’clock, he returns, and with a guest.

“Hi, Katharina,” I say cautiously. Of course he’d bring
her
to cover my lunch. I haven’t forgotten the feel of her fingers digging into my shoulder.

Her smile is bright and cheerful. “Hey, Scarlett.”

“So, don’t hate me,” Connor says, “despite your loss at our entirely fair wager, I still went and tried to get you moved. You’re welcome. But Cynthia—really sweet woman—told me I can’t move someone without good cause.”

“Are my bleeding eardrums not good cause?” I clamp a hand to the side of my head, stretching my lips into the most grotesque grimace I can possibly form.

He moves in closer and looks me right in the eye. I stare back, noticing, from the corner of my eye, Katharina staring too. “For your ears, anything.” He’s so close I can smell him again, though after all his running around in the heat, there’s a salty tinge of sweat to the scent of Connor. “Except my job, and that’s what Cynthia will take if I move you. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

I feel a smile twist the corners of my lips, like paper curling above a candle flame. “You’d better,” I say. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Go ahead and wait,” he says. “I dare you. Hold your breath.”

I would be tingling inside if Katharina weren’t still staring. “Well, if you’re going to make it up to me, I suppose I’ll come back after lunch.”

“You’d better,” he says. “Because I’ll be holding my breath too, and I can only hold it for exactly one hour.”

“You must be a star at pool parties.”

Though Connor doesn’t come with me this time, I still take his regular table. Rob joins me. “Did Connor say you could sit here?” he asks, and he seems entirely serious.

“He didn’t say I couldn’t sit here,” I say. I’m already eating my pizza, after having sponged off an entire five napkins’ worth of grease. I’m not moving now.

Rob glares at me for another few seconds, then relaxes. “I’m just kidding,” he says. “You’re Connor’s new favorite person. Of course you can sit here.”

“I can’t believe I’m still his favorite person,” I say. “I’m impressed. If I remember correctly, you told me he has a new favorite person approximately every seven minutes.”

Rob stares at me a moment too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Usually he does.”

All the rest of the way through lunch and all the rest of my walk back to Wonderkidz, during which I’m stopped no fewer than six times to give directions, I can’t keep a smile off my face.

“Hey,” I say to Katharina, the smile still flitting about my cheeks and, I’m sure, making me look the fool.

“Hey,” she says back. She is not smiling. She looks like she’s taken a big bite out of a ruby-red watermelon slice and discovered too late it’s a plush replica. “Have a good lunch?”

“Great,” I say. “I ate with Rob. He showed me his tattoo.” A mountain of skulls, dripping with blood and topped with roses and spikes.

“Gross, isn’t it?”

“Terrible,” I say happily. “Just imagine what it’s going to look like when he’s eighty-five.”

“I have,” she says. “So. You like Connor?”

The smile slips off my face and falls with a splat onto the floor. My finger freezes halfway through typing in the pass code to unlock my register. “Of course I like Connor,” I say. “I like Rob. I like you. I like everyone I’ve met here. Everyone who has eyebrows, at least.”