The Inside of Out (28 page)

“A
new
game. Multiplayer. You're not just a team, you're
competitors
. Depending on the game-play, anyone could become Player One. You could integrate it into an online RPG format.”

“Yeah!” I shouted, giving him a high five, no idea what he was talking about. His face was glowing like a billboard. He seemed ten years younger, like someone who exercised, who traveled, who got things done.

“Daisy . . . thank you,” he said. “I owe you. Big-time. Name your price.”

He waggled his eyebrows, joking, but I had an idea.

“Come down for dinner tonight. And tell Mom your game idea. I'm sure she'd love to hear it.”

“Sure,” he said, running a hand through his overgrown hair, then staring at it as if surprised he had appendages.

“Tomorrow night too,” I tacked on.

Dad rocked back on his heels, eyeing me curiously. “I eat dinner with you guys already.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Unless I'm in the middle of . . .” He gestured to the paused screen, then sank. “It's not a big deal, though, is it? We're a
different
kind of family. Your mom's got her projects, you've got school . . . that's how we've always been. We all do our own thing.”

“We do,” I agreed. “But could we maybe take a break from our own thing? Just to see how we like it?”

As Dad stared at me, I felt like I could see the sun coming up behind his eyes. Then he blinked and extended his hand. “Deal.”

I shook it and turned to go. “Plus ten percent of the revenues of any new company you form. See ya!”

“A new company?” Mom put Dad's dinner in front of him, then leaned on the table like she was dizzy. “But your non-compete—”

“Expired last year,” Dad said, shoveling yams into his mouth with gusto. “I mean, I could sell this idea back to BotCo, or . . .”

“You could start fresh.” Mom sat slowly. “I . . .
like
it.”

Dad leaned back. “You do?”

“It's a no-brainer. You've stayed current, you're still a name in the industry, and with this idea . . .”

They started talking details, reminiscing about their high school startup days, their voices flying out of them, crackling with excitement—then lapsing into intermittent pauses, like they were conversationally rusty. Because they
were
.

“You wanna run out to the Chamber of Commerce?” Dad blurted. “Grab me a ‘So You Want to Start a Business' pamphlet?” He winked at Mom across the table.

She snorted. “Oh Lord, I was so nervous.”

“You bought a suit.”

“A business suit! At Target, but still.”

Dad grinned.

“I swore they were going to . . .” She buried her head, cringing at the memory. “Throw me out onto the sidewalk! And
then they just handed me the pamphlet. Didn't even ask how old I was. What a let down.”

Dad reached for Mom's hand.

“Well,” Mom said, and then just held on as she stared at him and he stared at her and I stared
anywhere
else.

I'd always worried that they'd known each other too long, that over the years their relationship shorthand had gotten more and more abbreviated until it became nothing at all. But at the moment, their silence was a lot more than nothing. It was full. Words, emotions, memories were flying across the table. I just couldn't hear them.

Even after they broke the silence, brainstorming next steps, chatting about a farming game app Mom wanted to make, I might as well have been sitting in a room by myself. It was disappointing in a petty way, but worth it for the way Mom's feet were tapping under the table.

Then I noticed her legs going still and my name coming out of her mouth.

“You need to check in with your friends, sweetheart,” she said. “Councilman Franklin told me there's rumblings in the City Council about pulling the homecoming permit. They say the number of people planning to show up presents a fire hazard.”

“But we're—
they're
—not doing a bonfire.” I picked a speck of yam off my pajama pants, willing my heartbeat to return to a normal pace.

Mom shrugged. “These people just won't stop. They're clutching at straws.”

I shrugged back. “I'm sure the Alliance will figure it out.”

But at one a.m., I was still awake, mulling the scenarios that could be playing out in my absence. We could have lost the
Triplecross
cast. Or gained the entire NFL roster for our football game. Mole people could have risen from the ground and decimated our tents.

Maddened by not knowing and emboldened by my dad's return from the walking dead, I decided to take a risk. I clicked my phone back to life.

“Two. New. Messages,”
robot voice said. My mind spun with contrasting hopes—Hannah, Adam, Raina, asking for help . . .

Raina
.
Right.
I rolled my eyes at myself.
She despises
—

“Yeah. Daisy. It's Ray.”

I dropped the phone. Scrambled to pick it up.

“. . . did for Sophie. I was impressed. I have to admit, you really came through for her and it made me think . . .” She sighed. Practically growled. “Maybe I've been a little harsh on you. Possibly.” She cleared her throat. “Sophie wound up telling her mom, by the way, like as soon as she got home. The girl thinks she's got anger avoidance issues, but what she really can't handle is guilt. She's
allergic
to it. She's been dabbing her damn eyes all week about your suspension too, so you might want to give her a call and tell her you're fine. I mean, I'm
assuming
you're fine, but if you're not, definitely call her. Or me.” She cleared her throat again, so loud I had to move the phone away from my ear. “Anyway. Hope you're doing all right. Yeah, okay, bye.”

Was that . . . an apology? From
Raina Moore
? My mouth was slowly forming the word “wow” when I realized she hadn't mentioned anything about homecoming. But why would she?
Homecoming was Alliance business—and despite the oddly conciliatory tone of her message, that door was clearly still shut to me. I was sinking straight back into glumdom when the robot voice said,
“Next. Message,”
and my heart skipped.

Adam? Hannah? I couldn't decide which of their voices I was most hoping to hear.

It was Mr. Murphy at the rec center.

“Just thought I'd try you one more time,” he said, his voice more wooden than usual. “But I get the picture. You're busy. I liked your idea for that mural, though, kiddo, so maybe we'll have somebody else come finish it for you. Thanks anyway.”

I gripped the phone, the world dropping away from me, pixel by pixel.

He'd given up too.

“No,” I said. “
No
.”

The night was dark, the house creaking quietly, the streets outside thick with silence as, for the first time in four days, I took off my pajamas and put on real clothes.

It was time to finish that mural.

In the far corner of the garage, behind Dad's rusting collection of bicycles, among my old ghost-hunting gear, my metal detector and coin sorting kit, the telescope I'd never figured out how to focus, and my loom, a whole shelf was filled with materials I'd bought to create the rec center's grand mural. Six buckets in different shades of blue, a gold paint that really sparkled, black for edges, red just in case. Brushes in a variety of sizes, for detail work after the broad strokes were finished.

But the broad strokes never got finished. Because after two days of painting, I'd panicked and stopped showing up.

The mural,
I thought, tiptoeing past the Veggiemobile. Then I stopped, stuck to the spot for a second.
Hannah was right.

Fumbling along the magnetized tool wall, I found a flashlight—the wraparound one Mom used when she was trying to get possums out from the bottom of our house. Once it was fastened on my own clammy forehead, I trained it at the mural shelf and picked out a single can of cerulean teal.

When Mr. Murphy woke up this morning, at long last, he'd have an answer to his voicemails. He might not see a completed mural, but at least he'd see an ocean covering
that wall, and he'd feel pride for today's teenagers, hope for the next generation, and a renewed passion for his work that would in turn inspire each and every child who came to the rec center, many of whom would grow up to become Fortune 500 CEOs, international peacekeepers, and Academy Award–winning directors.

It was a five-minute drive from my house to the rec center, but hiking there took longer than I'd expected, and with fewer sidewalks than I would have liked. Since it was two a.m., only a couple of cars passed me along the highway, but, realizing I'd dressed in dark, incognito colors, I had to duck into the tree line to avoid them when they raced past. I put mental blinders on, like one of those poor carriage horses on Broad Street, until, at last, I saw the turn-in to the rec center parking lot.

The property was locked. I wasn't dissuaded. Cradling the can in the crook of my arm, the paintbrush sticking out of my back pocket, I scaled the low wire fence and hopped onto the asphalt, flush with the thrill of having overcome an actual, physical obstacle. It was just like the game—collect tools, hike, cut-scene,
action
!

When I got to the wall, I turned on my headlight. And there he was, swimming along the bottom right corner. My Moby Dick. The whale that had defeated me.

I'd painted him from a picture in a book. He wasn't half-bad, blue pleats, blowholes a-blowin', the whole deal. Unfortunately, after the seven hours it took me to create him, I'd stared at the wall, glowing with satisfaction—and in one chilling second, realized what I'd done wrong. One: I filled up
a quarter of the wall with
a whale
. It was meant to be a fun detail, not a centerpiece. I'd made the thing monstrous! This was not what I'd promised. Two: I should have painted the background first, everything else after. Painting 101, right?

I mean, I assumed it was. I'd only taken Studio Art 1 at Palmetto, where my pieces had never once earned a spot on the “Honor Wall.”

I began to slump with the renewed realization of my own inadequacy, but when my paint can hit the ground, I balled my fist around the brush, pried open the lid, and faced down the wall. Then came the painting—broad, joyous strokes, my ocean obscuring the whale, drowning him so the mural could be born anew.

This would be a masterpiece if it killed me.

Just as I was dipping into the paint can for the fifth time, wishing I'd brought a bigger light than this little dinky headband bulb, a huge white beam appeared on the far side of the wall and glided in my direction.

I reeled for a second, amazed at having gotten exactly what I'd wished for. A light! From nowhere!

Then I realized what it was.

“Hands where I can see them!”

I turned slowly around and raised my paintbrush above my head. Blue trickled down my arm.

“Drop your—!” The two night shift cops looked confused as they approached, hands on the hilts of their guns. I dropped my paintbrush like a hot poker. It landed on my head. Before I could wipe my forehead clean, my arm was yanked behind my back, cold metal circling my wrists.

“You're under arrest,” the older and fatter of the two cops said, his Southern drawl dragging out each syllable of my Miranda Rights. The other cop was chuckling into his radio.

This couldn't be happening. “I'm not trespassing, I'm volunteering!”

In the back of the police car, I closed my eyes and listened to the chatter of the police radio. Apparently there was a 577 in progress and backup was on its way. For some reason, that struck me as hilarious, and once I started laughing, the fact that I had just gotten arrested while wearing a headband light got me snorting so hard, tears escaping from the corners of my eyes as if they were fleeing my body in terror, that the cops started to look scared too.

It was surprisingly awesome. I mean, if you're gonna get arrested, you want at least to have made an impression.

“We'd better run a drug test,” one muttered to the other, which sent me into another giggle-fit that had me clutching my stomach to keep it from seizing up.

When we got to the police station, the cops kept me in the car for a few minutes while they did paperwork, or drank coffee, or whatever cops do right after an arrest. When they came back, I expected them to haul me into a cell where I would meet a hooker with a heart of gold and a brawler sleeping off his aggression. Instead, they took me straight to one of the glass-walled offices and seated me at an empty desk.

Was my crime really so bad that they wanted to interrogate me before locking me up? Or was this the way they handled convicts under eighteen? I wondered idly if I should have asked for a phone call, but then I remembered seven-year-old
Natalie telling me that the “one phone call” thing was a myth.

Natalie. I wonder what she'd say if she could see me now. She'd probably pat herself on the back for her good judgment in dropping me while she had the chance.

It took me the span of all of those thoughts to register the faces on the framed family photos strewn about this office. Groomed hair, smug smiles everywhere the eye could see. Natalie Beck. Cindy Beck.

My eyes landed on the nameplate on the desk: Chief Walter Beck.

The door opened, and the man himself lumbered in. His six-foot frame seemed to fill the whole doorway, but he deflated as soon as he walked through it. This must have been the end of his shift. Did police chiefs even have shifts? Oh God, did he show up just to deal with me?

He sat wearily on his side of the desk, laced his fingers, and leaned forward like he was warming them over a fire.

A sudden memory arose, so vague I wondered if it was just my imagination: Mr. Beck lighting a fire on the beach and me and Natalie handing him hot dogs to roast.

“Daisy,” he said, his voice dry and weary. “What were you thinking?”

I've been hearing that a lot lately,
I thought, but blurted, “I had an idea for the mural at the rec center, so I wanted to get a jump on it. You can ask Mr. Murphy. He'll tell you—”

“I did ask and he did tell me,” Chief Beck said. “He's not pressing charges, but he wants to set up a firm schedule so that you'll get this durn mural done for him. Can you do that, Daisy?”

“
Yes,
” I said, exhaling. “A schedule would be great. I think that's just what we need.”

A small smile escaped Chief Beck, the kind that started in his eyes and spread slowly across his face. I liked him back then, didn't I? I remembered that now.

“You were always impulsive, weren't you, Daisy?” Chief Beck said, as if remembering the same thing. “Even when you were little, you'd get an idea in your head and you and Natalie would be off like a shot.”

“Sometimes they were her ideas.”

“That's what made you such good friends,” he said. He looked as sad as I felt, and I couldn't understand why—until he told me I was free to go, then stopped me at the door.

“Nat's not doin' real well, Daisy.”

I turned to peer up at him.

“I don't know what to do for her. But . . .” He shook his head. “If you'd look in on her, I think it would help. She could really use somebody to talk to.”

I barely saw the rest of the police station as I walked out.

Had Natalie Beck's father seriously just asked
me,
a girl his daughter had hated for the past seven years, to reach out to her? He hadn't mentioned the homecoming campaign or his wife's role in opposing it. He'd just asked for help.

Things had to be even worse than I'd thought.

I pried my blue-shellacked hair away from my face.
Of course
things were bad for Natalie. She'd discovered she was gay, but been unable to talk to her parents about it. Her mother fought her at every turn, speaking out against gay
rights in front of the whole country. Even after I'd outed her. On national television.

I'd always seen Natalie as perfectly in control. The one who held all the power—to hurt, to destroy friendships, to steel herself against everyone who stood in her way. But this was more than she could handle.

It was something I couldn't understand.

When I got outside, the cool air hit me like a shock. The parking lot was nearly empty. It was the middle of the night, and I had no idea where I was. I scrolled through my cellphone, searching for rescuers, as a police car pulled up and two cops escorted a wriggling, cursing, spitting man out of the back and into the station. My eyes darted back to my phone.

Mom was out of the question. If I got home in the next few hours, neither she nor Dad would have any idea I was even gone, and really, it would be selfish to worry them unnecessarily. I wasn't even arrested, exactly. Just questioned and released and asked to look in on the police chief's daughter if I had any free time in the next few days.

I couldn't bring myself to call Hannah. She probably wouldn't pick up when she saw the call, anyway. So, that left . . . who exactly? One of my old Alliance compatriots? They already thought I was a powder keg. Better to leave them with the memory of me as the friend who bravely took the fall for Sophie than the ex-ally who dragged them out of bed on a school night to rescue her from lockup.

Just as I was trying to figure out how to convince a taxi
to take me home without having any method of payment on hand, I noticed a missed call from Adam, from about an hour ago. My maniacal laughter in the police car must have drowned out the ringing.

“Hey Daisy,” said his voicemail. I imagined I could hear the clink of ceramic coffee mug against a diner table as Adam drew a breath. “I just wanted to say—I overreacted. And . . . I think I'm partly to blame for how everything turned out with homecoming. Mostly to blame, maybe. And I'm sorry. And I'm sorry it took me so long to apologize.
And
I'm sorry I'm calling you in the middle of the night, so hopefully your ringer is off. Call me back if you want to talk. Off the record.” He laughed nervously. “Okay bye.”

Adam was awake. And he wasn't mad. I moved to the far edge of the station, plopped myself down on a bench, and called him back.

He sounded out of breath when he answered. “Hello?”

“Apology accepted.”

There was a pause. I held my breath.

“Did my call wake you up?” he asked. “I should have waited until the morning—”

“I've been up. I'm sorry too, by the way.”

“For what?” he asked quietly. “Honestly, Daisy, you haven't done anything wrong. If I made you feel—”

“No.” I slumped against the bench, processing that. He was right. I mean, I'd done
plenty
wrong—lied to the country, appropriated someone else's cause to further my own, driven a wedge between my best friend and her first love . . . but as
far as Adam was concerned, my conscience was pretty damn clear. “I guess I'm just sorry in a general sense.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I was actually going to ask if you felt like hanging out for a bit?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Probably wishful thinking, but I swore I could hear him smiling. “It's the middle of the night.”

“And we're both awake.”

“Interesting point. Are your parents okay with this?”

I made a “Pshhh” sound, and he seemed to accept it.

“You need me to pick you up?”

“Perfect. I'm at the Fourteenth District Police Station.”

There was a very long pause, and then he said, “Daisy?”

“See you soon!”