While You Were Gone (18 page)

We decide to talk to Warren, even if it means telling him my secret. If Skylar is somehow related to why I jumped here, then he's my best chance of figuring out why, and how to stop it.

So Tuesday morning, we walk to the rail station. Neither of us says much. Probably because there's too much to put into words: the M chips, our graffiti, the mystery graffiti, the Swirling Vortex of Doom. Or maybe it's that neither of us wants to admit that everything feels so huge and the odds of it all falling apart have suddenly skyrocketed. To top it all off, I can't help but wonder if Germ secretly hopes the other Danny will come back.

He nudges me with his elbow and nods at our
FEAR = CONTROL
painted on a newspaper stand. Beside it is someone else's design: a camera with an eye for a shutter and the words
SMILE, THEY'RE WATCHING
.

We wait for traffic to clear before crossing Central and heading toward the security check. Up the street, the sharp corner of the Phoenix Art Museum juts into the sky. That's where they first met. Images of Eevee flood my brain. I try to push away the thought that maybe she'd rather have the other Danny, too.

“You okay?” Germ asks.

“Yeah.” I tuck my hands into my pockets.

During the SVOD, I saw a room. In that room was a sketch with a repeating pattern of squares. I saw that same drawing the morning I jumped here, in the notebook of the girl who sits next to me in English. I think that room belongs to the other Eevee. That had to be her I saw during the SVOD at the castle. Why would I see her, though, and be in her room? I don't even know her.

But the other Danny might.

“Whoa.”

Germ grabs my arm. “Is it happening again?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I was just thinking. What if the other Danny and the other Eevee get together? That would be—”

Germ's eyes go wide as the sound of an engine fills my ears. All at once, voices shout, hands grab. Germ's face twists to anger as I'm dragged backward into a van. A hood slips over my eyes. I hear the doors close, hear the engine rev, hear the tires squeal as we speed away.

My stomach churns, sick from the motion of the swaying van, but I don't dare puke with this hood over my head. The hard metal floor digs into my shoulder and hip. Every time I try to get up on my knees, the bouncing of the road tumbles me over again. Exhausted, I lie still instead, saving my strength for whatever's coming.

Finally, the van slows. Gravel crunches under the tires. Wherever we are, it's far from where Germ and I were. Did they get him, too?

The doors open. As they grab me, I try to make my body weigh more than it does.
You want to drag me, you're gonna drag dead weight.
The hood slips away and I see double doors guarded by a man with a gun. Screw this. I take the opposite tack: writhing like an angry cat. None of it matters, though. These guys are strong and they're good at what they do.

On the other side of the door the walls are bare. Pockmarks and cracks speckle the concrete floor passing a foot below my face. They lug me down a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. The third door on the left opens and I'm carried through, my feet kicking as two thugs make me stand, clamping my hands to my sides and forcing me upright.

In the center of the room, taking up most of the tiny space, is a pod. White and shiny, it looks like a clam with its shell open. Blue light ripples across water inside.

A young guy in scrubs approaches. He's shorter than me. “Hold still.” When I spit in his face, he closes his eyes and clears his throat. “Thank you. Now hold still.” He reaches up and sticks white electrode pads on my temples.

“The clothes,” he says, motioning to the two guys before wiping his face with his sleeve.

Oh, hell no. I fight to push them away, kick out my legs, let my weight drag them down, but they wrestle me to the ground, and in a matter of seconds they've stripped me bare. Scrubs sticks two more pads on my chest, one on my side and one on my back. He presses what looks like putty into my ears and gives the goons a nod. They pull me across the cold floor to the pod and lift me like I weigh nothing. I land inside with a
sploosh
and the lid of the pod closes, swallowing me again in darkness.

Jonas takes a right, easing the car onto Central. The bell tower of San Xavier rises into the gray sky. Mom chatters away about all the latest news: Dad dealing with the special legislative session, and her own late nights planning the last-minute details of the gala, and isn't it nice to be able to take a break for some girl time, and how are the paintings coming along?

I lean forward to peer out the front window. The side of the Phoenix Art Museum rises like a ship out of the concrete. That's where it all started. That's where I first met him.

Jonas slams on the brakes. Mom yelps and does that thing where she flings her arm out to protect me, even though the seat belt holds me in place.

“Sorry,” Jonas says, watching out the passenger window. “That van came out of nowhere.”

“Well, be careful.” Mom sits back and crosses her legs.

“Yes, ma'am.” He inches the car forward, picking up speed after we're safely through the intersection.

“As I was saying,” she says, smoothing her skirt, “after dress shopping we need to go to Everly's to finalize the floral arrangements. There's so much to do before the gala. It keeps me up at night wondering how it will all get done. But enough of me, honey. How is school?”

School? I haven't thought about school in days. I have no idea how school is. Did I miss a test? “Fine. Nothing new.”

“And the Art Guild jury? Dad said you were trying to put your paintings back together.”

I think of the box of scraps tucked in the cubby beneath mine at the studio. I squirreled away what was left of
Confidante
in my room, but I've pretty much given up on the rest. And now that I'm busy helping Vivian—the thought of her makes my stomach turn—fix her paintings, I haven't had time to do anything jury-worthy. “Doesn't look like that's going to work after all.”

She puts her hand on my knee. “I know you're disappointed. But you can always try again next year.” She's being kind, but we both know she's relieved. “Or maybe it's time to try your hand at something else.”

Something like treason, Mom? Subversion? Lawlessness? How about fraud? Vivian and I have been giving that one a go. I smile innocently. “Maybe.”

Mom sits in the mirrored dressing area at Diamond's, sipping cucumber water while I try on dresses picked out by our personal shopper. “Oh, that one's lovely. It's a good color for your skin tone.”

I turn to examine the back of the dress in the mirror. “I look like a waterfall. And these are hideous.” I fiddle with the rhinestones on the front. “They scream,
Look at my boobs.
”

Mom waves a hand. “Fine. Next.”

I step off the viewing platform and go back to the changing room. The next dress is a deep red with spaghetti straps. Definitely more my style. I slip the waterfall off and put it back on the hanger.

“So, tell me about this boy,” Mom says, her voice so loud I'm sure she has the attention of the entire store.

“He's from school,” I say, pulling the dress over my head. It's getting so easy to lie.

“Is he an artist?”

“Yes.” Only half a lie this time. I reach around to zip up the back, then smooth my hands down the front. This one's nice. I like it.

“Is he part of the fine arts studio?”

“No.” It kind of reminds me of the dress I wore the night of Bosca's exhibit. It's a deeper red, though, and has a chiffon overlay. Maybe it will make him think of the night we first met. I lean toward the mirror, pretending I'm leaning toward him.

“Well, I guess not everyone is talented enough to make it in, right?”

I roll my eyes. “He's talented, Mom.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” she says, still too loudly. “You've always had an eye for the talented ones. You take after me that way….” She chatters on, winding her monologue around to how she met Dad at school and how talented
he
was, but not in art; no, he had ideas, vision, a passion for steering people toward their potential. I've heard the story so many times I know it by heart. He sat behind her in political science class. Every day from the day they met he asked her to go out with him, and every day she said no—“Always play hard to get, honey”—until
finally
she gave in and he took her to the homecoming dance. “We've had our ups and downs,” she says, and I mouth along as she finishes with, “but we make a pretty good team.”

I pull my hair up to see how it looks. With some sparkly earrings, this will do nicely. I open the door and walk to the platform. Mom clasps her hands in front of her. “Oh, Eve.”

“Yeah?” I say, twirling to see every side in the mirrors.

“Your father won't like the straps, though. Too much skin.”

“Don't care.” I pull my hair up again to show her.

“You look beautiful.” She sounds like she's going to cry.

“It's not like I'm getting married,” I say, letting my hair fall again. “It's just the gala.”

“
Just
the gala?” She takes a sip of cucumber water. “It's going to be a night to remember.”