While You Were Gone (5 page)

When my head stops spinning, I look around. Feel the carpet under my hands. Breathe in the air. It's all real. I don't know how, but it is. I'm really here.

The room is spotless. Even the bed is made. My room at the foster home is piled up with all kinds of crap. This guy, though? Total neat freak.

The walls are covered in posters and art. Crazy stuff, like graffiti you see on the sides of buildings and in alleys. Lots of other things tacked on the walls, too. Police tape. A broken skateboard. There's a nightstand with a lamp and, over by the window, a desk with lined-up books. Art? Poetry? Comics? Well, comics are okay, I guess.

I pick up the MP3 player from the desk, put the earbuds in and press
PLAY
. Guitars scream, but the song title scrolling across reads
Mozart Piano Concerto No. 10.
I don't know much about classical music, but that's definitely not Mozart. It's decent, though. Kind of like the stuff I listen to. I let it play while I continue to hunt.

There's a pair of shoes under the bed—skater kind—and a notebook with ink and pencil sketches. The top two dresser drawers are full of junk. Probably where he stashes everything when he cleans his room. I find some money in there and shove it into my pocket. The desk is full of pens, folded-up pieces of paper, photos of people I don't know. That leaves the closet, which—surprise—is full of clothes. T-shirts mostly. Sweatshirts. Jeans. Some shorts. More skater shoes and a skateboard. I check the trucks and wheels. It's been a long time since I've ridden, but this'll do if I need to get around. I set it down and look up. Tucked high, almost out of sight, is a duffel bag. I test a lower shelf, then step on it like a ladder. Reaching, I can barely touch the edge of the bag. I stretch higher, grabbing with the tips of my fingers. One of the earbuds falls out, but I keep reaching, wishing my arm would grow longer. My fingers pinch the fabric and I tug the bag toward me, inch by inch, until I get my hand on it and pull. The whole thing comes crashing down. I turn to catch it, then jump back, smacking into the wall behind me. There's a skinny blond guy standing at the door, watching. He takes one look at my face and doubles over.

“Dude,” he says, gasping, “that was epic. Your face!” And he laughs so hard he looks like he's gonna pop.

I set the bag down and tell my fists not to punch him.

“Didn't mean to scare you like that, Og.” He steps toward me, catching my hand in his and leaning in to clap me on the shoulder. “But you kinda deserved it, you jerk. Scared the crap out of me this morning. When I saw that second one go off, I thought for sure you were toast.”

He was there.

I watch him go to the desk, flip the chair around and sit in it backward. Who is this guy? He picks up a Hacky Sack and tosses it from hand to hand. “Sure wasn't the plan they told us, huh? Hey, you going out?” He nods at the bag.

“No, I was just…checking something.” I toss the MP3 player on the bed, crouch down and unzip the bag. It's full of spray paint cans.

“That's a serious knob you got on your head.”

I look up. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

I search through the bag, looking for who knows what. “Yeah.”

“Is that all you can say now? How hard did you smack your melon, anyway?” He looks at my face and stops smiling. “Sorry, dude. I'm just happy to see you, you know? After…all that.”

I toss the bag back into the closet and sit on the edge of the bed. Looks like I'll have to get answers from this clown. My gut tells me not to bring up how I got here or that I'm a different Danny. Not yet, at least. “All what? It's pretty much a blur for me.”

“How much do you remember?”

I shrug. “Nothing?”

“Seriously? Well, it went like this: We got there, we did our thing, and the place went
boom
.”

“Didn't you get hurt?”

“My ears keep ringing, but that's it. I was way over on the other side, remember?” He studies my face. “You don't, do you?”

I shake my head.

Two taps on the door and Mom looks in. “Oh, hello, Germ. I didn't realize you were here.”

Germ. Dad mentioned him. He catches me looking at him and makes a goofy face. “Hey, Mrs. O.”

“I was just checking on Danny,” she says, walking over to me. Her left leg seems to be the weaker one. “How's my peanut?”

Germ snorts.

“Don't you start, Jeremy Bulman, or I'll call you nicknames, too.” She looks at my forehead. “Doing okay?”

I reach up to touch the bruise but she smacks my hand away. “Leave it alone.” She holds my chin and turns my face for a better look. “It'll take a while for that to go down.” She smiles at me so long it gets a little awkward. “Okay,” she finally says, “you boys be good.” And she shuffles from the room, closing the door behind her.

I reach up to search out the most painful parts on my forehead. Germ imitates Mom. “Don't go touching your owies, Peanut.”

“Feels like it's crawling with ants.”

“Here.” Germ walks over. “You scratch and I'll tell you if you're getting close or not.”

Good plan. It works. A couple of well-placed scratches later, the ants have stopped crawling, except at the center of the goose egg, but that part doesn't itch so much as throb.

“Can you believe school's gonna be open on Monday? Sucks.” He kicks the Hacky off his shoe. It falls to the floor and he tries again. “But hey, all the girls are gonna swoon when they hear you were hurt. God, I can just see Angela Sweeney now.” He holds the Hacky Sack up like a head and his voice goes high. “Ooh, Danny, let me make it all better.” He gives it the grossest pretend kiss ever. I laugh even as I wonder who the heck Angela Sweeney is.

“Seriously, Og-dog. Girls are gonna lie down at your feet. You should milk this for all it's worth.”

“Whatever.” I shake my head. I don't know about this Danny, but girls have never dug me.

He kicks the Hacky Sack. “So what do we tell them?”

“About what?”

He gets to ten and it lands two feet away. “About this morning.” He motions for me to stand. It's been forever since I tried Hacky. He does three kicks off his right foot and passes it to me. I do two and it flops to the carpet.

“I don't think we should tell anyone anything.” I scoop it back up and launch it to him. He gets to twelve before it falls.

“People will ask why we were there.” He lobs it back to me and I kick it. Maybe I can match his ten.

“My parents did.” Five. Six. “I didn't know what to tell them.” Seven.

“You didn't mention RD, did you?”

Eight, and it drops. “What's RD?” I grab the Hacky with my heels and kick it up.

Germ catches it on his knee and starts his own count. His face is scrunched with concentration or anger, I can't tell which. “You don't remember
Red December
?”

“I…” God, this is hard.

“Dude.” He tosses the Hacky to me and I catch it with my left foot. Lob to the right. One. Two. Three. “Anarchist group?”

Four. Five.

“Wants to overthrow the government?”

Six. Seven. Eight.

“This morning was our last job with them?”

My feet stop kicking. The Hacky drops to the floor.

I'm putting the final touches on my press conference updo when Dad knocks twice and leans against the doorjamb of my room. Mom steps out from behind him. “Got a second, honey?”

Uh-oh.

“Sure.” I push another bobby pin into place to buy some time, then follow them down the hall to the family room. Mom sits uncomfortably close to me on the couch. “What's up?” I ask. “Something wrong?”

Dad's tie hangs loose, like he always keeps it before he's about to make a big speech. “Eve…” He clears his throat and makes his serious politician face. “There was a…um…development in matters related to yesterday's attack.”

I look at Mom. She reaches over and takes my hands. “What is it?”

“The second device detonated near ShopMart, south of the mall. The building caught fire and it spread unchecked through the stores nearby.” He looks me in the eye. “Including Jansen Fine Arts Services.”

“Wait. What?” I pull my hands free and stand. My heart feels like it's trying to break out of my chest. Mom stands, too, and puts her arm around me but I shrug her away and grab the back of the chair.

“The fire has been put out,” Dad says. “And I've given the crews explicit orders to locate what's left of your paintings, but…” He makes his condolence face.

“What's left?”
My mind reels. The room telescopes, tilts. I feel like I'm standing outside myself, watching my life unravel. “Maybe there was a mistake.”

“I'm afraid not, honey,” he says. “We were going to wait to tell you, but we decided you had a right to know.”

Take it back,
I want to scream.
Take back what you said. Take this all away.
But instead, I wander over to the window and stare out beyond my reflection. Tears blur the city into circles of white and gold. This can't be happening. Not to me. Not now. I touch the window, press against it, wishing I could push right through. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Eve.”

“No, you're not.” I swat her hand away. “You're happy this happened, aren't you? This is the best news ever, isn't it?”

Her face changes from shock to anger. “Of course not! How could you say that?”

“Because now I can't apply for the internship!” I wipe away tears. “Now I get to stay home, just like you want!”

“Eve.” Dad's voice is firm. “Apologize now.”

“This isn't my fault,” Mom says. “It's just an unfortunate—”

I don't let her finish. I run back to the safety of my room and slam the door. Even with it shut, I hear them yelling. At me. At each other. I throw myself on the bed and drown out the world with a pillow.

Those paintings were my ticket out, to somewhere I can be myself. I can't stay here. Defiance kicks up inside, daring me to lash out, to do something reckless. It's the same feeling that got me in trouble the night Vivian caught me in the vaults. I try to stifle it by pounding my fists into the bed. I'm about to pound the wall when there's a knock at the door. “Eve.” It's Dad again.

“Go away.”

“I know you're upset,” he says. “But we're going to get through this. We just need to stick together.”

My world's crumbling, and he's spouting lines from political speeches? There comes another knock, so loud it startles me. “We're leaving in an hour,” Mom yells. “You better be ready.” Her footsteps pound back down the hallway and everything goes quiet, but I can tell Dad is still standing out there. I throw the pillow aside, walk over and open the door.

His head tilts to the right and he puts his hand on my shoulder. For a split second I see the real him. Not the governor. My dad. But as quickly as it came, it's gone and I'm face to face again with the politician. “Try to get yourself together, okay? We need to put on a brave face for the public.”

Gray clouds hang low in the sky as Jonas drives us north toward the outskirts of the city, away from the Tower complex and high-rise buildings downtown. Dad talks to Richard on his phone, fine-tuning his speech, while Mom fusses with her nails. Both of them pretend there isn't a ticking bomb sitting between them. My eyes are dried out from crying and my nose is red despite the makeup. On the outside, I've pulled myself together the best I can. Inside, I'm a mess.

The city whooshes by outside the window. When the freeway swings around toward the coast, white smoke from what used to be the mall rises into view. I avert my eyes and fight back tears. I had to redo my makeup once already. Mom pulls a mirror from her purse and checks her reflection. Dad tells Richard to give legislators a heads-up; he's going to call a special session and, no, he doesn't care what Senator Hayes thinks.

Vivian's words rush at me.
I'm applying to Belford.
My heart races. I grip my chest, suddenly feeling like I can't breathe.

With my paintings gone, I won't get into Belford. But she still might.

Mom holds out her lip gloss. I stare at it, but all I see is Vivian's smiling face. She'll never let me live it down. Mom gives the gloss a little shake and says, “Cameras.” Rather than start another fight, I take it and dab it on my lips. Dad hangs up the phone and practices saying
solemn occasion
over and over.

I imagine myself made of paper, a hollowed-out shell. Instead of lip gloss, I hold a match. Starting from my lips, a line of flame consumes me. For a moment I hold my shape, then fall into a pile of soot on the car seat. Dad whispers, “Solemn occasion.” Mom rolls down the window. The rush of air scatters me across the road.