While You Were Gone (14 page)

When I leave the studio, the guilt still nags me. That was maybe the jerkiest thing I've ever done in my life. Even if she deserved it. I didn't get another look at her painting, so I don't know if she put a kitten in or not.

On my way back to my room, I stop to inspect the grass where Danny and I walked. I study how all the different shades of green create a seamless image. Kind of like a Seurat or a Monet. From a distance, it just looks green, but up close, there's a whole range of colors.

Satisfied, I cross the street toward my dorm. A girl stops me. “Are you Eevee?”

I've never seen her before. “Yes…?”

She hands me a piece of paper and walks away. I watch her disappear around the corner before unfolding the note.

At least this time I know how to read it.

Warren's room must be in McKinley Hall, and apparently I'm meeting him there on Saturday. What's it going to be this time, a house party?

Dad carries a dish from the kitchen counter to the table. He hasn't said a word since he got home from work. Mom hasn't said much either. I tried talking to her before I left late for school, but she never came out of her room. After school, she busied herself around the house, moving away from wherever I was. I walked into the living room, and as soon as I said “Mom,” she closed her book and went to the kitchen. I followed her in there but she turned the faucet on full blast and rattled the dishes. When I tapped her on the shoulder, she shut the water off and left, saying, “I'm tired. We'll talk later.”

This whole caring thing? It's hard.

“Help your mother,” Dad says, setting the bowl of potatoes on a hot pad. I jump out of my seat and rush into the kitchen to carry whatever's left that needs carrying. Mom takes two glasses of milk. I grab the third and a plate of roasted chicken and follow her back to the table. Classical music from the stereo in the living room fills the silence between us.

They both rest their hands in their laps and bow their heads. Dad looks at me through his eyebrows and I snap my head down.

He clears his throat. “Protect and guide us as we make our way in this world.”

Mom adds, “Amen.” I mumble it, too, and watch them for the next move. We dish out food. Eat. And say nothing.

Just when the guilt's about to consume me, Dad slams his knife down. “I can't believe you did that to your mother.”

“Parker.”

“No, Rebecca. This needs to be said.” He glares at me. “She waited for you all night.
All night.
”

I stare down at my hands.

“Where were you last night?” He waits. When I don't answer, he lays into me, careful to keep his voice just under the music. “How many times do we have to go through this? They are watching you, son. Watching everything you do. You think you can just waltz around this city doing whatever you want? You think they don't know?” He spits the words out in a whispered hiss. “All they need is one reason—just one—to come in here and take our lives apart. But that's not even the worst of it. The worst part is what you did to this woman right here.” His anger falters as he points at Mom, his eyes still on me. She looks down at her lap. He inhales, nostrils flared. “How dare you treat her with such disrespect.”

When Brent is mad, he gets this look in his eyes that says,
If I could crush you, I would.
The look in Dad's—and Mom's—isn't like that, though. Angry? Yes. But also worried. And relieved. It kills me. I know how to fight, but this? I don't know how to react.

What if I just tell them everything? I think it through, plan it out in my head.
I'm not your son. I'm not who you think I am.

Dad throws his hands up, exasperated. “It's like I don't know you anymore.”

“I'm not—” They wait for me to continue. I can't do it. What if I tell them and they totally reject me? “I'm not going to do that to you guys again.”

Mom nods. Dad gives me a long, hard look, then says, “Thank you,” and picks up his fork and knife.

When Jonas picks me up Friday afternoon, neither of us says anything. Neither acknowledges what happened Wednesday night. But the weight of it sits between us. Only once do I catch him looking at me in the rearview. I'm sure he feels it, too.

We arrive late, which is a surprise. Usually, he drops me off so early I sit around with nothing to do. This time, though, we arrive just as the event is starting. I rush over to the grocery store entrance. Richard greets me with an exasperated sigh and points to where I should stand. Mom welcomes me with an arm around my shoulder. It's the first time I've seen her since our big blowout. She acts like all is forgiven, but maybe that's just because people are watching.

Dad, wearing a proud politician smile, stands next to Dr. McAllister. Behind them is a sign that reads
STAND UP TO TERROR
. A small crowd has gathered. It's all really casual. One of Dad's “man on the street” deals. Moms juggle babies and grocery bags, waiting for the show to start. A toddler who's had enough begins to cry.

“My baby cries when I give speeches, too,” Dad says, giving me a wink. The audience laughs. The mom shushes the child.

“Thanks for coming out today, everyone.” Dad holds his hands out as he speaks. “We're excited to announce an amazing development in our fight to stand up to terror: mobile Skylar scanners. How many of you saw the press conference Dr. McAllister and I held at DART last weekend?”

A lot of hands go up.

“Good, good,” Dad says. “For those of you who didn't, or aren't familiar with Skylar, I'd like to have Dr. McAllister take a moment to explain how it works. Dr. McAllister?” Dad leads the audience in applause. Dr. McAllister moves to center stage.

“Skylar is the latest technological advancement in providing a blanket of protection over our city.”

I watch the faces in the audience as Dr. McAllister explains how the system works. Many people smile, knowing they're on live TV. Here and there I see signs of unease, scrunched eyebrows or nervous glances at others, but for the most part, the reaction is no reaction.

“Looks like there are a lot of parents out here today,” Dad says, taking his spot again next to Dr. McAllister. “Tell me, Mac, can I use Skylar to keep track of my daughter when she sneaks out?”

My mouth drops open. The audience chuckles. Dad squeezes me around the shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “Just kidding, honey.”

I try to laugh it off, but I feel dizzy. How far does Skylar reach? My red
X
is a yellow dot. I never even thought about that. Does Dad know where I went Wednesday night? My hands start to fidget. Mom grabs one and holds it tight. I need to keep it together.

“Well,” Dr. McAllister says, “the system isn't really intended for that use….”

“I know, I know,” Dad says. “But it will be good for tracking down bad guys, will it not?”

“Yes,” Dr. McAllister says. “In fact…” He continues answering questions about the purpose of the system, how it will be used to track down terrorists, how the more Knowns there are, the easier it will be to identify Unknowns. In my mind I see the yellow circles moving on the Skylar grid. I wish I were still Unknown.

When they're done, the audience claps. Dad and Dr. McAllister step aside.

“Think they'll sign up?” Dr. McAllister asks when his back is to the crowd.

Dad keeps his voice low. “They better.”

Richard instructs everyone to form a line. Some people line up in front of him, but most don't. Most walk into the store or out to the parking lot to their waiting cars. Dad watches them walking away. He doesn't look happy.

Friday after school, we drop off our backpacks, bag our paint supplies and head for the harbor to cause mayhem.

Well, maybe not
mayhem.
But that's kind of how it feels. Like when I'd be out all night with the guys back home, tearing up the town. I watch my reflection in the shopwindows, my ratty jeans and shades. Bag slung over my shoulder. Germ said the other Danny is confident. Well, here I am. What would Eevee think if she saw me? Maybe I'll try it out when I see her tomorrow. Germ looks pretty badass, too, strutting along, carrying the other bag.

It's kind of a lie, though. I keep thinking about the look on Mom's face when I walked in the door yesterday morning. The disappointment on Dad's when he came home from work. The promise I made not to screw up again. All that takes the edge off my appetite for trouble. Back home, the things I did only affected me. I can't be selfish like that here. My actions impact others now, for good and bad.

“We gotta be back before curfew.” As soon as I say it, the veneer of badassery falls away. Probably better to just be myself with Eevee. Well, as much as possible, anyway.

“No problem,” Germ says. “I got chewed out, too. Dad thinks I'm gonna wind up on the SPL.” When I don't respond, he looks at me. “Sorry. The suspicious persons list.”

A patrol car approaches, and we become unusually engrossed in the fine print of a sign in a shopwindow.

“Why'd you guys get involved with RD in the first place?”

Germ watches the car pass in the window reflection. “Paint's impossible to get. Those cans in your bag? That's our thank-you from RD.”

“Isn't that kind of a big risk just for paint?”

He doesn't say anything, which makes me wonder if what I said ticked him off. I'm about to apologize when he says, “There's nothing like blazing the side of a building to show them they don't own us. That's worth it. To me, at least.”

Can't argue with that.

We continue down the sidewalk. Seagulls squawk overhead, and the stink of fish guts and seaweed mixes with the saltwater air. When we get near the harbor, we turn down an alley and emerge at the back of our first target: a coffee shop with oceanfront seating.

“Here we go.” Germ pulls two city utility worker coats and two hard hats from his bag. I pull a tarp and duct tape from mine. We put the coats on—his is way too large—and laugh at how stupid we look. I shake my head. “I can't believe we're doing this.”

“I can.” He grins, sticking out his hand in a way I haven't seen before. When I put out my hand, he walks me through what must be his and Danny's secret shake: regular shake, bro shake, shoulder bump, fist bump.

Two scruffy teens walk into an alley. Two utility workers walk out. They hang a blue tarp to secure their work area and get busy. All in full view of Spectrum cameras.

And no one notices.

Two hours later, we've hit the coffee shop, a bookstore, a clothing store, a low wall in front of an apartment complex, the concrete moorings by the pier, and a billboard. The billboard was the toughest. Germ doesn't like heights. I don't like getting caught. But we did it, and now it's there for the world to see.

Doesn't seem like much, to be honest. Just words and pictures sprayed on brick, concrete, metal. But it's better than saying nothing at all.

Our bags stashed behind a Dumpster, we hang a right and cross a busy street along the harbor. It's getting late and we're taking a risk, but we circle back one more time to admire our work. I keep my baseball cap low over my eyes. Germ has his hood up. We walk along the waterfront. Waves slosh against the seawall. Seagulls stand like statues on the wooden pylons. I inhale as deeply as I can—I'll never get used to the smell of the ocean—and cough. A tightness in my chest.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. The tightness fades. “Hope I'm not coming down with something.”

Germ nudges me with his elbow and we slow down. A woman stands in front of our painting of the bar-code-head guy with hands covering his mouth. She's small and her back is hunched. She looks at the face on the wall. Only her gray curls move in the wind. We walk past her and stop under a tree, out of sight of the cameras. After what seems like a long time, the woman glances around. She fishes through her bags, pulls out her phone and snaps a picture. Then she picks up the bags and walks off down the road.