She lets her fingers drift to my hair. “You need to put some conditioner on it to get these tangles out.”
“I know.”
Outside a dog barks.
“Damn dogs,” she mutters, looking away and then back at me. “That Nick is a nice boy.”
I eye her. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Really? Are you trying to convince yourself or me? Because I found him with his hand pressing a bandage to your head while you were passed out drooling on the couch.”
“I was drooling?”
She laughs. “Not too much.”
I hide my head in my hands. The air in the room is stale and smells like crusted-up blood and doubt. Betty pulls my hands away. Her face is smiling. “He likes you, Zara. He took care of you. That’s what men do when they take a shine to you.”
“He obviously has some rescue-the-damsel-in-distress gene, which is totally inappropriate because I am hardly a damsel in distress,” I say, a little too bitterly. Even I can hear it.
“Hardly. You’re too busy trying to rescue people you don’t know.” She points at my pile of Amnesty International papers.
“Like that’s a bad thing?”
“It’s a good thing, Zara. It’s just. Well . . . we all need a little bit of rescuing from time to time. It doesn’t make us weak.”
“He doesn’t like me like me.”
“You know, there’s nothing wrong with admitting he likes you. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good things, Zara. Your dad doesn’t want any of us to stop living.”
My bedcovers are all tangled up on the mattress. None of them are in the right place. I try to straighten them. My pile of books and Amnesty International human rights reports topple against my foot. The book with my dad’s name in it awaits.
“This place is such a mess,” I mumble, trying to stack the reports up again. “I’m sorry I’m so messy. I bet my mom wasn’t messy when you guys took her in.”
“She wasn’t messy, but she never put the cap back on the toothpaste.”
“She still doesn’t!” I shake the human rights report at Betty for emphasis. There are so many numbers in those reports, and each number represents someone’s pain, someone’s story. My stomach crumples and I put the book gently on the pile. Then I pick up the book from the library. “Dad took this book out. His name is in the back.”
She takes the book and stares at it. After what seems like forever, she says in a quiet voice, “Do not fear. Here there be tygers.”
“Do you think he wrote that?” I touch her arm. She suddenly seems frail.
“Looks like his handwriting.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It was a Ray Bradbury story.” I must give her a look because she adds, “He was a science fiction writer. One of the best.”
“Oh, I’m not really up on my science fiction.”
“Hmm.” Betty becomes serious, shuts the book, and hands it back to me. I hold it against my chest for a second, even though it sounds super corny. The book feels kind of special. Like it’s a message left from my dad to me.
Betty eyes me. “You went outside, alone, last night.”
I place the book on top of the pile of human rights’ reports. “I know, I—”
“Zara?” Betty’s voice turns into a warning. I haven’t responded as quickly as I should have.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I told Nick and Issie what I was doing. Well, I left them text messages so they couldn’t talk me out of it. And I . . . I just wanted some answers.”
“And you thought you’d go looking for answers in the dark?” She picks up a pillow.
I haul in a massive breath. “Look. I was trying to find someone.”
“Someone?”
“That man on the side of the road. We saw him when you brought me home from the airport.” I keep smoothing the already pretty smooth sheets. They feel cool against my hands, soft and stable.
Betty sucks in her breath. “Zara, that is not a good idea.”
I straighten up. “Why?”
She stops fluffing a pillow. It dangles. “He’s dangerous.”
“How? How do you know he’s dangerous? How is he dangerous?”
She takes a step away from me, backing into the bed. She starts making it all over again, tucking the sheet corners tightly into the mattress. “I think he’s the one who kidnapped the Beardsley boy.”
“I think so too. So why don’t we arrest him?”
“You have to be able to catch someone to arrest them.” She fidgets more with my pillow, jerking it around with quick, aggressive movements. The sun shines onto her gray hair and makes it glisten like snow. “And he seems to leave no trace, no tracks, just appears and disappears. I’m surprised we even saw him that evening. I’d like to see him again.”
“Why?”
“To catch him,” she snarls, and for a moment it’s like my grandmother is gone. It’s like she’s someone different, primal, and then she snaps back. “Anyone who can kidnap boys.”
“But you aren’t positive it’s him.”
“No. I’m not positive.”
I want to tell Nick and Issie and Devyn. “I’m super late for school.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, whirling back around to look at her. Her shoulders are broad, like a swimmer’s, but skinny. I don’t know how she can be an EMT heaving all those people around, saving them when she’s so old herself.
“I want to,” she says, smiling. “Let me be your grammy for a day and take care of you. Okay?”
I smile back. “Okay. If you make me hot cocoa.”
“Plus, you might have a slight concussion.”
“I do not have a slight concussion.”
“Of course you do.”
Betty drops me off at school. We sit in the truck for a second even though I’m already tardy and I’ll have to go get a note from Mrs. Nix.
“Your mother misses you, Zara,” Betty says out of nowhere.
Something tightens inside me. “Uh-huh. Did you know that some people are afraid of ugliness? Really. There’s a name for it and everything. It’s called cacophobia.”
“And some people are afraid of talking about their mothers.”
“Oh, nice one.”
“Don’t roll your eyes,” Betty says, but not in an angry way. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m just a little worried about your relationship. It seems like you’re avoiding her.”
I close my eyes so I don’t roll them again. “She sent me away.”
“Because she was worried about you. You lost your spunk.” Betty reaches over and squeezes my knee. The skin on her hand is fragile and paper thin. “I think you’re getting your spunk back.”
I raise my eyebrow, just one, on purpose, to show her what I think of that. She slaps my knee and laughs. “There’s talent right there. Now, get going.”
She honks her horn good-bye and leaves me, off to go rescue the world for another day. I drag myself through the freezing wind into school and down the corridors, past the big wooden Eagle statue and the art students’ self-portraits. I really don’t want to be here, but it’s better than being home alone all day thinking about the voice in the woods.
The school secretary’s office door is closed but I open it and stand by the counter waiting for Mrs. Nix to turn around and notice me. She’s filing and trilling out a country song about wasting time and driving in cars. I clear my throat so she’ll know I’m here.
It works. She turns around and smiles. “Zara!”
She puts down her papers on her desk and walks to the counter. Her eyes narrow in concern as she glances at my bandage.
“Zara, are you okay?”
I nod. “I fell when I was running last night.”
Mrs. Nix shakes her head and signs a late pass for me. “Well, I hope your grandmother told you to wear your coat inside out.”
The pass dangles from my fingers. “What?”
&
nbsp; She slowly meets my eyes and her mouth opens. Her words come out winter slow. “Oh. I thought Betty would have told you that.”
I shake my head.
“Your mother didn’t either?”
“No. Why would she?” I ask, feeling more and more confused. I know Mrs. Nix is really sweet, but she’s acting a little crazy weird, like she’s the one who can’t believe what’s going on.
“Why would she? Everybody’s in denial, but it’s happening again,” she mumbles. Her arm knocks against the top of the counter and a box of colored paper clips tumbles to the floor and scatters all over the picture of the school’s mascot drawn into the tiles.
“Such a ninny!” she says and crouches down to pick up the clips. I squat down to help her and our knees almost touch as our fingers scoop up the clips. I can’t believe she said “ninny.”
“It’s okay.”
“You are such a sweet girl, Zara, just like your mother.” She stands back up. “Thank you for helping.”
“Not a big deal.” I tuck my hair behind my ears. It was flopping into my eyes so I couldn’t see her and I really want to see her, to figure her out. “So, why do you wear your coat inside out?”
She blushes and dismisses her own words with her hand. “You wear your coat inside out when you’re alone outside at night. It’s an old wives’ tale. A superstition. I thought everyone knew that.”
“Why?”
Her face grows even redder and the phone rings. She looks thrilled to hear it. She gives me a little wave and answers the phone in an overly happy way. “Hello, this is Mrs. Nix, school secretary, and how can I help you this fine day?”
I take my note and leave.
Maine just keeps getting stranger and stranger.
Devyn finds me after Spanish. Ian’s hanging on my elbow and Devyn says, “Hey. I need to talk to Zara for a second.”
“Sure,” Ian says, not changing his pace.
“Alone?”
“Oh,” Ian fumbles. “Right. See you later, Zara.”
“Sure,” I say, watching him stride away. “Poor guy.”
“He’s fine,” Devyn says. “I’ve been thinking about the book. Do you have it?”
“Yeah.” I juggle my books around and show him.
“Can I borrow it?”
My heart drops. “Sure, yeah . . .”
“I’ll take care of it, Zara, I promise. I know your dad wrote in it and that makes it special.”
I put the book on his lap while we move down the hall. “I’m that obvious?”
“It would be special to me if I were you,” he says. “I just want to read it whenever I get a chance.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about the quote about tigers.”
“And?”
“It seems important.”
“I know.”
Issie stomps toward us. “I am so mad at you!”
I point at myself. “Me?”
She grabs my elbow. “Yes, you. You went running alone at night. You are an idiot.”
“Thanks, Is.” I pull my arm away.
“He could have taken you,” she whispers. She looks to Devyn for help.
“It was dumb,” he agrees. “Nick told us what happened. About how the guy said your name.”
I don’t say anything. Issie softens, puts her arm around my waist. “We know you were just trying to be a martyr.”
“I wasn’t—”
She interrupts, “We don’t want you to be a martyr. We’ll figure this out together. No one gets to be a martyr. Right, Devyn?”
He nods. “Right. At least not alone.”
. . .
“Zara, this is great,” Issie says, bouncing up and down between some desks. “Check out all the people here.”
I look around the classroom that we get to use for our Amnesty International lunch. Nick is not here.
“There are ten people, Issie,” I say, sighing. “Ten is not much. There are thousands of people who need our help.”
Ian waves at me. He has a monster smile on his face, and he swaggers over like he’s responsible for all ten people here, which, to be fair, he probably is.
“Ten’s really good,” Issie says and then points at Ian with her elbow. “Uh-oh, look who’s coming.”
“At least he’s here,” I say, putting down some pens and pre-stamped envelopes. “Unlike other people.”
Something in my stomach drops when I think about Nick not being here.
“At least he cares,” I add as Ian comes closer.
Ian smiles down at me. “Hey, Zara. Good turnout.”
I glance at Issie, who gives me an I told you so look. “It’s only ten people.”
“Ten is good up here. We’re psyched if five people show up for Key Club,” he says, nodding at my Urgent Action reports. “Can I help you pass those out?”
“Yeah.” He is being so nice. “You could.”
It isn’t until I’ve explained all about Amnesty International’s important mission and people start writing letters that Nick decides to show up.
Ian is already sitting next to me. So Nick stands in front of my desk.
“Nice of you to show up, Colt.” Ian sneers. He suddenly looks like a snake. It is not a good look, all scaly and coiled.
Issie puts her hands over her eyes like she’s afraid to see bloodshed.
I stare up at Nick. “You’re late.”
He smiles at me. There’s a piece of spruce branch stuck to his sweater.
“I had things to take care of,” he says, all growly, looking away from me and staring Ian down. They do the whole I’m alpha—No, I’m alpha thing, with the staring and pulling the shoulders back and posturing.
Devyn whispers to Issie, loud enough for us to hear, “They’re so sad sometimes.”
She whispers back, “I know.”
Nick picks the spruce branch off his sweater and says in a normal voice, “We are, aren’t we?”
Then he smiles at me and my heart starts beating harder, which I’m ashamed to admit, but it’s true. Hearts betray you like that. This is why it’s perfectly acceptable to be cardiophobic, afraid of hearts.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Tell me what to do, Zara,” he says, casually rocking back on his heels. I swear Ian almost breaks his pen in half, but I just stand up and get Nick settled in with an Urgent Action appeal and some paper.
During school the sky is bright and blue, the kind of Maine sky that painters always recreate, the kind of sky that makes even a Charleston girl like me relax and smile. The colors crisp on the trees that I stare at during art class. I’m supposed to be working on a paper collage of an eagle, but my thoughts keep drifting off to pixies and political prisoners.
I rip a piece of red brocade paper to create a splash of excitement on the eagle’s left wing. When I’m applying the glue, Nick glides into the room. He sits down at the table next to me.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” he asks.
I nod. My heart pitter-patters a million crazy, happy rhythms. My brain wonders why he’s sitting next to me. There are a million trillion places he could have sat, not to mention where he usually sits. Do not get too excited. Do not make this into something. It’s probably just to talk about pixies.
Nick goes back to the supply closet and grabs his project. He sets it up on the table. It’s a wolf stalking through the forest. He’s done it all with coiled-up paper.
“That’s good,” I say, pointing.
He smiles. “Yours too.”
We sit there without talking for a minute. I wish he’d say something. Anything. Well, not anything, maybe something nice.
“You’re too quiet,” I blurt out.
He laughs. “Like you aren’t?”
“I didn’t sit down with you.”
“True, but last night you asked me to be your friend.” His eyes twinkle.
“Shh. There are some things that should just never be repeated.”
He clutches at his heart, pretending to be hurt. “What
? You didn’t ask me?”
“It just makes me sound so needy.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
He smiles and the smile comes through his voice. “Zara, you are not needy.”
I rip another piece of paper and edge it finely with an X-Acto knife while I groan. “Yeah, right.”
“Plus,” I say after I work a little bit on the wing and my logic. “A real friend would not bring up something that would so obviously embarrass his friend because of its innate patheticness.”
He starts laughing, but it sounds like a snort. “Innate patheticness?”
I pretend like I’m going to stab his chiseled forearms with an X-Acto knife. Of course, our art teacher notices.
She points at me with a glue gun. “Zara.”
“Just kidding!” I say.
“Do I need to ask Mr. Colt to move?” She wiggles her lips. “Are we having a little love in the afternoon?”
Everybody titters—not laughs, but titters. I can feel my face turning red. “No. No, it’s fine. He’s fine.”
“He sure is,” mutters some girl with mall bangs at the next table. Her table mate slaps her five.
“Back to work, people.” The art teacher pulls on her smock so the top of her cleavage shows. “Let’s leave Nick and the new girl alone.”
I scowl and stab the knife into the newspaper. “I hate being the new girl.”
“Why?”
I glance up at him, trying not to get all crazy fluttery about his eyes or his jawline or his hands. I don’t answer.
We sit there another minute working. I am so ridiculously, intensely aware of him there, right next to me. It’s like I can feel the heat he generates. It’s nice.
“Okay, so when I came into school Mrs. Nix was acting really weird. She told me if I’m going to go out at night I should wear my coat inside out.”
“What?”
“I know. Weird, right? So I googled ‘wearing clothes inside out,’ ” I say.
“Yeah?”
“It says that pixies can confuse humans alone in the woods at night, but wearing clothes inside out protects us.”
He presses paper to glue, paper to paper. “That’s weird.” He pauses. “I talked to Betty about stuff.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“She’s going to let you in on some things tonight.”