CHAPTER 5
I threw myself onto my ruffled comforter. I wouldn’t go to prom in Maine. By next spring, we’d be in the next place. Always in the next place, in the future—that’s when I’d have a life. I rooted around in my bag and found the picture again, and next to it, the crumpled drawing of Jack’s tattoo. I smoothed out the crinkles.
The compass was vaguely familiar, like I’d seen it in a movie or something. Now I’d never know. I finished sketching the south and east points, pushing so hard with the pen, I tore a hole in the paper.
My phone dinged.
If you change your mind, I’m still going to prom. Hope to see you there.
Jack.
I stared at the message. He wasn’t upset. He cared enough to try again. One night. It was one night. Why was my mom being so unreasonable?
I want to say yes so much it hurts, I typed in, then erased it. I’m going to try not to picture EmmaBeth Porter’s tongue down your throat all night, I typed, then wrinkled my nose. Eww. Already unsuccessful. Kill me now, I typed, then tossed the phone at my headboard and watched it slither down between two pillows.
I flopped onto my back and stared at the mustard-yellow ceiling. The first couple of moves, redecorating is fun. Changing paint colors, unpacking all your knickknacks. By the twelfth, all the breakable stuff is left wrapped, and the puke color stays on the walls.
Who knows. Maybe my mom vetoing prom was a sign. Jack seemed nice, but carrying a vaguely stalkerish photo was weird. And that phone call was weird. The more I thought about it, the more it hadn’t sounded like he was talking to a sick relative at all.
But maybe if I had a family of my own, I’d understand not wanting to tell a virtual stranger all about them.
Maybe if my mom didn’t move us so much, I wouldn’t be such a reclusive weirdo who forced herself to think the worst about everybody.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe none of it mattered, since we’d be leaving the day after tomorrow anyway.
I listened to make sure my mom wasn’t coming down the hall, then leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled out a shoe box that I’d hidden behind some winter clothes. I opened it and tossed my sketch of Jack’s tattoo and the photo of me on top.
I was about to slam the box shut, but stopped. I pulled out the top few mementos—invitations to parties I never went to, a picture of me with a neighbor’s family. Rattling around in the bottom of the box was the infinity-sign pinky ring from eighth grade, when I broke The Plan for Missy and Alina and Katy. We called ourselves the Fab Four, and promised to text every single day when I moved. That lasted for about six weeks.
Halfway down the stack, a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper listing everyone I’d ever found on Google named Alexander Mason who could maybe, possibly, be my dad.
He and my mom had dated in college, and when she got pregnant with me, he left. When I was younger, I wondered if one day he would realize he’d made a mistake. That he wanted us after all, and we’d have a normal life, full of smiles and holiday dinners and cheesy, feel-good, cell-phone-commercial family moments. My dad’s parents were dead, and he didn’t have any other family, but I used to think about how there was a possibility of brothers and sisters if he came back into the picture.
I got over that wish a long time ago. I ran a finger over my locket. I’d taken the one picture I had of him out, and now there was only a photo of me and my mom, protected by the worn gold filigree. The picture of my dad stared up at me from the box. It was small, and blurry, but you could tell my dark hair and pale skin came from him, and I knew I had his eyes. You could almost call my natural eye color deep blue, but that wasn’t quite right. Really, my eyes were purple.
When I was younger, kids had teased me that I was wearing contacts to be cool. That normally wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but as weird and friendless as I was already, it killed me. But it did give me and my mom an idea. Since I had horrible vision anyway—and, though she’d never admit it, probably because they reminded her so much of my dad—my mom suggested colored contacts. I’d had dark brown eyes ever since.
I jammed everything in the box and shoved it back under the bed—and then opened it once more and snatched out the compass drawing.
Even if The Plan was the right thing to do in the long run, what was one night? One dance. One date with one guy. Tonight could be one tiny memory that wasn’t a what-if.
I could hear my mom in the kitchen, opening the cabinets over the sink. I knew the sound of her bundling the silverware, wrapping it in a dish towel, and putting it in the bowl of the blender, the same way she’d always done it. Next she’d pack up the baking stuff and the cleaning supplies, and I’d pack my room and the bathroom and the laundry room. And then we’d pile those boxes alongside the ones we’d never gotten around to unpacking from last time.
I made a decision.
I fished my phone out from between the pillows, typed out a quick text, then jumped off my bed and went to the kitchen. I grabbed some of the broken-down boxes my mom had brought up from the basement. “You’re probably right,” I said, and her thin shoulders relaxed. “I’ll start folding clothes.”
The rest of the afternoon, I was a model daughter. I packed my room, vacuumed, and even heated up frozen lasagna for dinner. Then I waited until my mom was safely on her way to the airport, slipped my dress on, threw my hair up with bobby pins, and walked out the front door.
CHAPTER 6
The gym reeked of cheap aftershave and a hungry energy fueled by the crush of bodies and the open backs of dresses and the euphoric faces blinking in and out of the dark. Streamers on the walls caught the strobes and exploded with light, like fireworks, spearing the dark corners of the room.
The swirl of bodies in jewel tones and sparkles and pressed black suits parted around me as I stood at the edge of the dance floor, physically present but not actually a part of anything. I wondered sometimes if they all knew how good they had it: girls in circles with their friends, singing at the top of their lungs, or with their arms curled around their boyfriends’ necks. Girls who had gotten their hair done by a big sister, cheesy prom pictures taken by a proud dad.
Across the gym Lara saw me and jumped up and down waving, the spinning lights flashing off the glittery blue tulle of her dress. I waved back, a surprisingly sharp pang running through me at the thought of leaving her, too. I’d tried so hard not to get too close to any of them. I held up a finger to tell her I’d be over in a minute.
I wove my way past the line for the photographer, who was posing a guy’s hand on a girl’s hip, and pulled at the hem of my dress. I’d gotten it in the ninth grade for a neighbor’s wedding. It was pretty, with capped sleeves and scalloped lavender lace, but definitely too casual for prom. I hoped Jack wouldn’t care.
If I ever found him, that is. He hadn’t texted back. It would be just my luck if he’d turned his phone off and didn’t see the message until tomorrow.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d circled the whole gym once, twice. Casually peered onto the dance floor. Walked by the bathrooms and the water fountain. Gotten a cup of punch from the snack table, just in case he was waiting there. Checked my phone five times. Stopped and talked to Lara and her date. Still no Jack.
I traced a pattern on my scuffed leather messenger bag with one fingertip. It was fine. It was probably better this way.
I took one last look at the human-sized papier-maché Oscar statuettes, felt the bass of the dance track vibrate through my feet, and took a sip of too-sweet red punch. Then I turned to head for the exit—and ran straight into a senior in a yellow dress.
“Sorry . . .” I trailed off when I realized I’d splashed punch all over myself. Perfect.
The girl was staring intently at something I couldn’t see, though, and didn’t even notice me. The friend she was dancing with was looking, too.
I put down my cup and, dabbing at my dress with a napkin, ducked between two guys in tuxedos and too much cologne to see what was going on. I stopped short.
It wasn’t a what that was going on, it was a who.
Crosswalk Guy.
He leaned against the gym wall, one foot propped casually over the other, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He was a head taller than everyone around him, and had to be at least a year or two older than all of us.
As if to confirm that, he blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, then stamped out a cigarette, right there on the gym floor. No wonder everybody was staring. How had he not been caught by a teacher? There didn’t seem to be any around.
The guy’s eyes continued to roam the crowd. And then they got to me. His face broke into that slow, lazy grin again.
I held my breath as he pushed off the wall at half tempo, so the strobe lights seemed to move entirely too fast. Half the dance watched him watch me. Was he mistaking me for someone else?
A slow song started as he stopped in front of me. “Avery West.”
I took a step backward. How did he know my name? He had a light foreign accent—maybe Russian? That would fit with the jaunty blond hair and the high, sharp cheekbones. It made my name sound exotic, like a Bond girl. Ay-veery.
“Lovely to see you, sweetheart,” he continued, plucking the napkin out of my hand with a frown and dropping it to the ground. “A dance?”
He slipped one cool, sure palm into mine before I had a chance to respond.
“Um,” I said. He settled his other hand on my lower back and drew me close. EmmaBeth Porter, dancing nearby, stared from him to me with a look halfway between appalled and so jealous, she could throw up.
I brushed back a strand of dark hair that had escaped its bobby pin and stared up at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.”
“You don’t.” He smiled. “And even more interestingly, I do not know you. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me who you are, and we can skip this little charade?”
He squeezed my hand.
EmmaBeth and her date had moved toward the stage, where last year’s prom court was assembling, leaving me and Crosswalk Guy by ourselves on the far edge of the dance floor. Even though all he’d done was say things I didn’t understand, I suddenly did not want to be alone with him.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said, pulling at my hand. He held on tighter, and alarms went off in my head. “I’m going to go—”
“Stellan,” came a quiet voice from behind me.
Crosswalk Guy—Stellan—rolled his eyes. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re here.”
I ripped my hand out of Stellan’s, turned around, and was hugely relieved to see Jack.
He wore a perfectly fitted black suit over a crisp white shirt and a thin tie. He met my eyes for just a second, then looked past me at Stellan. He scowled. Even that brought out a hint of the deep dimple in his right cheek.
“Stellan, get away from her,” he said. His British accent was back. “Avery, come here.”
I was headed toward him anyway, but stalled at the command. I looked between them. Compared with Jack’s slim but solid frame, Stellan was taller, sharper, almost gaunt in that ethereally beautiful way you see on runway models. And while Jack looked like he might punch someone, Stellan wore the kind of patronizing smile adults get when kids are fighting over a toy.
I wrapped my arms around myself. “What’s going on?”
“So who is she?” Stellan said to Jack. He unbuttoned his gray suit jacket. “If you weren’t here, I’d think I had the wrong girl. She’s so . . . ordinary.”
I looked down at my punch-stained dress and sale-rack strappy sandals.
“Not that you’re not pretty.” Stellan smiled thinly down at me. “You are.” He turned back to Jack. “As I can see you’ve noticed. And such a little thing. I could snap her in half with one finger.”
Jack growled low in his throat, and Stellan laughed. “You make this too easy.”
“Excuse me, I’m right here,” I said. “And this is really . . .” Bizarre? He had to think I was someone else, right? But then how would he know Jack? “Jack, let’s go—”
Stellan stepped between us, loosening his tie. I suddenly realized he wasn’t getting comfortable. He was getting ready for a fight. Sharp slivers of alarm pierced my confusion. Maybe it was time to let go of the idea of Jack as a prom date.
I started to inch away.
“What do you even want with her?” Jack said. His voice was low and dangerous, with no trace of the anxiety I’d heard while he was on the phone earlier. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”
I stopped. The memory of the phone call flooded back. He had asked the caller what they wanted with “her.” And when “he” was coming. And had mentioned “tonight.”
“Jack, seriously, what is going on?” I said, but my words were drowned out by the electronic screech of a microphone.
“And now, it’s time to announce your new prom court!” said a senior cheerleader. On either side of her, last year’s court lined up, holding sashes and crowns.
“If it isn’t obvious,” Stellan said, a lock of blond hair falling in his face, “we want her because you want her. And we’d like to know why.”
Jack stared him down. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”
“Ah, but it is our business when Alistair Saxon sends a Keeper to attend high school classes halfway across the world while every other family is using their resources on more essential tasks.”
It felt like I was watching TV in a foreign language. I was about to make Jack fill me in when Stellan continued, “So the reason I’m here is to figure out why this girl is more important to the Saxons than the mandate.”