Chapter 27: Unexpected Return
I never dreamed I’d relive this moment in my life—the day I arrived in Chicago. The train ride from the airport to the city seemed so insignificant at the time, yet here I am again. My old self sits, freezing in the adjoining L train car, watching a bum stumble past commuters.
The car jolts. I steady myself and grab on to a pole. The bum walks toward me, opens the adjoining door, and lurches into my empty car. A rickety wall of Plexiglas holds up the weight of his body, and then he collapses on the floor. His coat opens up, revealing an embroidered nametag on the pocket of his shirt, but I don’t have to read it. I already know his name. Francis.
He smells as he did before—alcohol and that stench! But the smell has a new meaning. His special brand of funk matches with a particular group that I can do without, the gang—the Underground.
“Hel-loo, Francis,” I say with a smirk on my face and cross my arms.
He looks up like a child that’s been caught in the act of being mischievous.
“You again?” his voice gurgles in the unknown accent.
He rolls to his side and hoists himself to his knees. He uses a nearby chair, anchored to the wall, to lift himself from the floor. It’s a colossal effort. When he stands, he stumbles, still unsteady. Even his eyes can’t focus on me, I suspect because of his drink of choice.
“Whadya want, kid?” He straightens his coat and totters.
“How do you know what I am?” I put my hands on my hips and stand a little taller, attempting to match his height.
He sways closer, getting in my face. “Whaz it to ya?”
“You’ll tell me, or I’ll tell the Society where you are.” It’s a fib that I’m not even sure will get his attention—a shot in the dark.
“Wha—ho!” he bellows. “Ya wouldn’t want to be goin’ and doin’ that!” His eyebrows raise in exaggerated arches.
“I will—or—you can tell me.” I hold my expression strong and determined. If I believe the lie, I hope he will too.
“How much money ya got?” he hedges, pinching his nose free of the dripping snot. He smears the goo down the front of his filthy shirt.
“None,” I say with a straight face. I need what little I have.
“Got anything else? Wha’ ’bout that—’round ya neck?” He points lazily to my chest where Mona’s medallion necklace hangs. He’s pushing for a bargain.
“How about this ring?” I slide it off my finger and hold it up for him to see, attempting to distract him with something else. “It’s antique, worth lots of money,” I lie.
“Ha! Lemme see.” He swipes the air with his hand but misses. He’s a Seer. I can tell by the sparkle in his eye for the special object. He needs to touch the ring to know its worth, to know everything about it.
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “You tell me first.” To entice him to talk, I hold up the ring so he can see it, allowing the fake gold and rhinestones to glitter.
“CC,” he says.
I try not to let my face react to the word.
“CC, what?” I ask stone-faced. But really, I want to lurch at him in response, because only CC remains on my list of weird and unknowns. In the last hour, I deduced that Francis is a Seer, somehow affiliated with the Underground. The gang, a group of Wanderers with an extremely offensive odor, is part of the Underground—according to Bishop. Now, if I can just learn about CC, I might figure out what all this means and how every item on my list pieces together. I want to understand the entire puzzle.
I recall Mona’s words about “CC” with ease. “It will be our best defense against CC,” she had said on the phone to Terease while she took down the Christmas lights from her front yard hedges. But what is it? And what is CC? A person? A thing? Hearing one side of a phone call is like getting half a hula hoop.
Francis shakes his head. “CC’s ah Wanderer, too.”
“Okay.” I sigh. Vague information. I guess you can’t ask too much from a drunk, but at least we’re gaining ground, however slowly.
“Anything else?” I prod. Losing his concentration, his eyes droop. His head drifts to one side, a snore escapes his nose. He’s fallen asleep.
“You’re ah spittin’ image.” The words shoot out of his mouth with a burst of unforeseen energy, startling me. He opens his eyes wide to stay alert. He cocks his head and squints at me.
Reading the doubt on my face, he responds. “If ya don’t believe me, whya bother coming to find me?” The train car rocks back and forth. He grabs a pole for support, and I ponder his question. I had left the Academy in such haste, without much thought. I decided I needed to start from the beginning, the beginning of when I thought I was going crazy. With the mystery of Terease and the Chicago premonition solved, this seemed to be the obvious starting point. And something nagged at me. He originally said something to me during our first meeting, something that I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. He had said, “Looks jes’ like me.”
What did he say before that? I search my mind. The words fall out of my mouth, aloud, “‘Wanderin’ without yer coat, are ya? Looks jes’ like me.’”
He looks confused, one eyebrow raises. “I gotta coat, kid.” He looks down at himself to verify.
Now that I analyze his words through his odd accent, the question is, did he say: “Looks, jes’ like me,” or “Looks jes’ like Ma”? Ma: as in Mom.
Immediately, all of his words from both our conversations slam into place. My eyes grow wide with understanding. My forehead creases as I replay his phrases in my head. “Looks jes’ like Ma—CC’s ah Wanderer, too—You’re ah spittin’ image.”
He thinks CC is my mom, a Wanderer too, who looks just like me. How is that possible? And now I realize the person I heard talking to Francis originally when I arrived was me. I recognized the voice because it was my own. I’ve been on this path from the very beginning.
“Ya know,” he says, smirking. The realization is probably showing on my face. He looks back at the old me in the other car. “I wonda how much I’d get for ya? Heard the Underground’s afta ya. Wonda why?” he contemplates through the booze.
“More money than the ring, for sure.” He smiles. Green fungus grows over his teeth, and I almost pass out from the air that becomes tainted in the moment it releases from his mouth.
Making his decision, he steps forward, opting for the treasure.
In confusion, I somehow react. Using all my force, I push the drunk away from me. He tumbles backward over a chair, landing on the floor, pinched between two poles. His feet dangle in the air.
I escape into the preceding car, the car where my old self waits at the door to exit the train. I know what I’m about to do, and I’m not happy with myself.
The train car doors fly open, and I run through, shoving my old self across the train platform. I cringe, remembering how bad it hurt.
My feet pound down the platform stairs and onto the city streets, where I run for about a mile. When I stop, I grab on to a rusted steel post that holds up the L train. Hyperventilating, confused, and scared, I can’t even fathom that Francis’ statements could be true. The thought is ridiculous. My mom has been long gone.
My chest heaves in and out. I grip the post tighter, and a layer of rust crumbles beneath my fingertips. I lift my chin up and then my chest. I lock my hands on my hips and breathe deeply. I inhale air until it fills my lungs to capacity, then I exhale slowly. This calms me, clears my head.
Francis believes my mom and CC are one and the same. This information overwhelms and confuses me, but I caution myself. I can’t get all worked up over something a drunk told me. It’s ridiculous!
I have to find out more about CC to determine if this is true.
Then I remember Bishop’s advice. “Keep moving, Sera. It’s the only way to stay safe.” I look around, instantly paranoid. My eyes dart from person to passing person. Quickly, I deliberate on my next move, and then I eye a clear path beneath the elevated train tracks and take off running.
•
I wasn’t sure it would work, but I knew when I landed that it had. I’m sitting, hidden, behind a shelf in the Relics Archive. In the very spot Bishop gave me his jacket after escaping the gang in Venice.
As I listen to the commotion, I’m reliving another part of my past. The relicutionist has just been turned off. Terease enters the Relic Archives by crashing through the door. Bishop explains that he and I left our Venice field trip because the Underground found me. After a few moments, my old self runs by with Bishop hanging on her coattails as she skips out of the room through a ring of sparkling wander dust with Mom’s bracelet in her hand.
Terease screams with absolute rage. From the sound of it, I think she’s thrown a chair across the room. Students gasp. When I peek around the corner, she explodes out the door, leaving the archives. Perfect. I’d hoped for this. Her exit buys me the time I need alone in the archives to research CC.
I reposition myself behind another shelf and lean around a gold helmet with a large red plume protruding from the top. The lunch bell rings—I jump, still on edge.
Students file out of class, gossiping as they leave. I hear my name in hushed whispers several times and laugh at myself for causing such a commotion. Ray would have a fit if he knew all the new ways I could get into trouble. I pause, wondering how Mona will react when she finds out about this.
I creep out from behind the shelf. Mr. Matchimus steps out from behind an oversized relic, whistling.
I freeze.
He picks up a box from an adjacent table and files it away. Please don’t let him see me. Ah! So stupid of me to forget about him!
He moves around the room, cleaning up after the students. After one final visual sweep of the area, he strolls toward the exit and shuts the door behind him. The lock turns, and the room falls silent.
I exhale in relief and relax my muscles. Mr. Matchimus doesn’t strike me as someone who will give up lunch easily. For this, I’m thankful.
Wasting no time, I rush forward, sticking to the shadows. I want to avoid the E.Y.E.S. I’ll need every possible second to find the answers.
I pat my pocket, checking for the bulge of jewelry, Mom’s bracelet, but I don’t intend to use the relicutionist again. I already know it won’t read the life path. On top of that, I can’t make any sounds that will alert Terease to my whereabouts. So the machine is off limits. I shake off the disappointment. There are other options at my disposal, so I head for the computers.
At the front of the room, I settle on a stool in front of a computer. With one deep breath and a small prayer, I hope that I can find something—anything—that will help.
After a few clicks, the search engine for the Relic Archives pops up. Unsure about the spelling, I type in the letters, C and then C, capital letters. I hit Enter.
The computer buzzes to life, searching for content.
A list appears.
Although I’m not sure what I’m looking for, the items that appear look more like phone book listings. I scroll, skimming the list. I hope this won’t be a dead end with my assured expulsion for nothing. Nothing on the list seems to fit or jump out. I try again with a new search and reconsider the spelling.
CiCi.
No.
CeCe. I hit Enter. This time another list appears, but one entry in particular interests me. It has no revealing information, no description, just the word. I take note of the box and row number in my head—Ce–127.
I stand up and hurry back to oversized shelving, this time ignoring the E.Y.E.S. Terease will realize soon enough that I’ve returned.
The C section sits twenty-seven rows from the front. I wonder what row a Z item hides on? Then I turn left behind the massive wall of relics.
A main door lock clicks. The front door to the archives creaks open, crashing into the wall. I drop to my hands and knees, listening. My mouth gapes open from shock. I scold myself for taking so long.
It’s Terease. I’m positive. She’s already found me. She walks across the floor but not in my direction. I take the opportunity to keep moving. Quietly, I shuffle across the floor to box Ce–127.
For several moments, she doesn’t make a sound. Then, the reason dawns on me. She’s probably in front of the computer I left on. Uhh! She’s reading the results to my search on CeCe now.
I open the box’s lid, but just enough to squeeze my hand through. My fingers land on a tiny box in the corner, a box small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I yank it out and stand up in one fluid motion.
“Ser—ra.” Terease says my name in a singsong manner.
One at a time, lights hanging from the ceiling pop and explode in orange sparks as she walks under them. I can tell she pauses every few steps, at each aisle, scanning for me. Her final destination will be box Ce–127, the one that I now stand in front of.
The blood drains from my face.
I take a deep breath, assessing my surroundings, searching for an escape. Only one option presents itself. Very slowly, I climb the oversized shelves like a ladder. I pray that they are as solid as they appear. I step one shelf for each step Terease takes, timing it so that when her heel drops onto the creaky floor and a new light explodes, the sound camouflages my movements.
“Come out, come out, from wherever you are!” she sings darkly, then laughs to herself. I picture her malicious smile on her pale face, framed by her jet-black hair. The thought makes me nervous, and my body turns cold with chills.
When I reach the top of the shelf, I swing my legs up and over the edge and lie flat on my stomach. My nose indents an inch-thick layer of dust beneath me. I try not to breathe, to even twitch. My fingers clutch the miniature box. I stiffen my body into a plank.
Terease’s footsteps, still slow, zero in, closer and closer. Finally, I hear her pivot. The dirt beneath her boot pulverizes into the cracks of the floor.
The closest light pops, raining orange sparks over me, and she walks down my aisle.