Transcendent (14 page)

“None taken.” I laughed, then immediately choked it back down my throat. “Trust me, I wish everyone else felt the same way. And they would, if they met me. I wanted to go down to Green Hill and prove it, prove that I'm normal, but my family . . . well, my family didn't think that was such a good idea.”

“So what
are
you doing, then? Why are you here?” Zane asked.

“I don't know.” I looked away, blinked my eyes, and squeezed to hold back the flow of tears threatening to spill out. Crying wouldn't help right now. And I especially didn't want to cry in front of Zane, even if he was being friendly, treating me like another human being and not just some speck of litter to crush under his heavy brown boots.

“I saw reporters outside my house last night and freaked. My mom is determined to send me away somewhere, force me into hiding until this all blows over.” The words were coming out faster now, all of my reasons flooding back in. “But I don't want to just run away, because who knows when and
if
it will blow over . . . I want to be here. I don't want to change my name and make up a whole new life. Like she did. Even if everything does kind of suck
right now. My old life, it's gone—maybe for good—and I have no clue what is supposed to happen next.”

“Well,” he said, leaning up against the rough brick wall behind us, “I certainly don't have any grand solutions for you. All I can say is, maybe stay here until tomorrow. Tell your parents you're riding out the storm. Take it one day at a time. That's the best you can do sometimes.”

With those last words, I could practically see his face close off, the shifting and rearranging that locked down his tongue, pulled a glossy veil down over his eyes. I wanted to ask more, ask where
he
was going tomorrow. But I didn't—I didn't think he'd have an answer. It seemed like “one day at a time” was probably what had brought him and Zoey to this place, too.

“Okay,” I said, instead of all the questions I'd rather have been asking. I tried my best at a smile. “I'll stay, then.” I appreciated his advice, more than he knew, probably. I hadn't expected it, not from him. I never would have expected anything at all from Zane Davis.

He didn't smile back, though, just turned away as he pushed himself up off the wall.

“Until tomorrow.”

T
HE OFFICE WAS
bustling when we stepped back inside. Everyone, it seemed, had decided to wait out the storm and stay at the shelter for the day. The front desk had an activities bin that held one deck of cards—minus two Kings and a Joker, according to the cranky old man in a faded Michael Jackson concert T-shirt who, regardless, still grabbed them; Monopoly and Life; some torn-up-looking comic books; a few old crossword puzzle books with nearly every page partially filled in, only the most impossible answers still blank; and a jigsaw puzzle of some ancient-looking English castle at sunset.

I found Mikki in the kitchen picking at cereal and asked if she wanted any comics or puzzles, but she shook me off as we started back toward the bedroom. I grabbed a banana on my way out—my hungry eyes wanted to take more, but my guilt was stronger. “I got thousands of minutes of sleep to catch up on, girl,” Mikki said, hopping into bed and yanking the blanket back over her head.

The bedroom was cleared out otherwise while the rest of the women ate breakfast and milled around the games. I'd call home now—I'd reassure them that I was fine, make sure that they were safe in the storm, too. And I'd stand my ground.

I reached for my cell, but even after a few frantic jabs at the power button, the screen stayed ominously black.
Shit
. A whole string of curses spilled out, until Mikki grunted angrily from her bed, silencing me. I should have turned it off while I slept to conserve energy—because of course I hadn't thought to pack a charger before I'd stormed out of the house. I could ask at the desk about borrowing a spare charger, or if that wasn't an option, using their office phone. They might say no, but I had to at least try. I had told my parents that I'd call today. To push them more than I already had . . . well, that wasn't an option.

Once the office had quieted down, everyone else either in the kitchen or back in the bedrooms, I picked up the puzzle box, the only sad-looking item still remaining, and hovered by the desk.

“Hello,” I said quietly, peering down at the older man who now sat there. He was as different from Benjamin as could be, pale and gray haired and petite. He glanced up at me, but he didn't smile. There was a sense of tension around him, a negativity that seemed to infuse the air around us. Maybe because it was a last-minute, unexpected
shift. A whole day of sitting around the shelter, crossing his fingers that nothing dramatic would happen, no fights erupting between roommates, no illicit drug activity or wandering drunks or schizophrenic breaks. Maybe he'd rather be safe and warm and alone in the quiet of his apartment all day, drinking coffee and watching the news from his sofa, nothing to worry about except what he and his wife would make for dinner. But he was here instead, with the sad smells, the sad sounds, the sad sights, a cloud of sad that you couldn't pull your head out of.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if maybe there was a spare iPhone charger I could use?”

“Nope,” he said, pursing his lips.

“Okay . . . maybe there's an office phone I could use? Just for a few minutes. It's pretty important. Please?”

He squinted up at me, and for a second, an instant, I wondered if he knew. If he'd seen the newspaper after all, seen the photo of me taken from the latest school yearbook. But no, he was just squinting because he didn't trust me—he knew nothing about me, nothing about the article, but he didn't trust me just because I was there. I was one of
them
. I wondered why he volunteered to begin with—a sense of obligation maybe, Christian duty. People did “good” for all different reasons.

“I'm afraid that's not part of our policy.”

“Please, sir, I really, really have to make this call. I hate to ask you if I can be an exception, because I'm sure everyone would want to use the phone if they could, but . . . Five minutes, tops.
Please
.”

The furrowed lines along his forehead eased, his skin looking instantly younger and smoother. He sighed, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“Listen. I don't know why exactly I'm doing this, but . . . I'm going to step outside for a very quick smoke. Five minutes. I shouldn't be leaving the desk empty right now, but Shari and David are both in the kitchen cleaning up . . . should anything urgent happen. But otherwise, no one would know if someone just happened to use the phone. Right there, on that shelf.”

He stood up, digging around in his pockets before fishing out a lighter and a box of Marlboros. “So just to make it clear. When I come back in, no one will be on the phone. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, trying not to give away my shock that he'd decided to help after all. My heart was thudding, panicked suddenly by the idea of talking to my parents. I could be strong. I had to be. I'd let them know that I was safe—that there was absolutely no reason to alert the police—but that I wasn't budging.

“Thanks again, Mr. . . .” I said to his back, as he was
already halfway through the room. He turned around, just for a beat, before unbolting and opening the door.

“Jackson,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Don't thank me. I didn't give you permission, after all.” The door shut behind him.

I lurched for the phone, my three hundred seconds already ticking away. I dialed once, fumbling the numbers in my nervousness, and then tried again, remembering to press star-six-seven this time to at least superficially block the ID. I was pretty sure they wouldn't be pleased if they traced the call to a homeless shelter. Half a ring in, and my dad was there, on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Dad.” I exhaled, finally.

“Iris, sweetie, thank God,” he gasped into the phone. “Noel, it's her!” I heard exclaiming, activity buzzing around him.

A click, and then, “
Iris
,” my mom chimed in from the other line. “We've been trying to call your cell all morning, but it's going straight to voice mail.”

“Hi, guys,” I said, the feeling of homesickness already gnawing at my stomach just from hearing their voices—and it had only been a day. Less than a day. “I forgot to bring my charger, and my friends have different phones. I'm . . . I'm using their house line now.”

“Where are you?” my dad asked, hand probably already on the front doorknob. “Where do these friends live? I'm coming to get you. Right now. We need to resolve this, sweetie, and you being . . . you being wherever the hell you've been hiding out, it's not going to fix anything. We have to sort this all out together, okay? I know you don't want to leave Brooklyn, but it's the best option we have. The only one we have, really, that I can see.”

“I saw the newspaper today,” I said.

They were silent.

“I read the article. ‘The Missing Messiah.' I'm not. I can't be.”

“I know you must be scared, honey.” My mom sighed, her words so quiet now that I had to press my ear closer to the handset to make sense of them. “I'm scared, too; we all are. Which is exactly why we have to send you away right now. I was looking into Southern California, maybe. Your dad has a lot of friends out there from work, and Izzy would be close by. Somewhere outside the city, more hidden away, where people won't think to look . . .”

“I know you chose to leave, Mom. You ran away from Green Hill. And maybe that was best for you. Maybe that was the right decision at the time. But right now . . . right now I need to figure out what's best for me. I need a way to end it somehow, once and for all.”

“Oh, Iris,” my mom said. There was an edge to her
voice, a panic that I'd never heard before. “I just don't think it's that easy . . .”

“I saw Kyle—right when I left the house, he confronted me.” Both parents gasped on the other end of the line. “He didn't hurt me. He just said he wanted to give me a chance to answer for myself. To make my own choice about whether or not to help. I said no, and he must have made the calls right after. But the point is . . . he found us once. He'll find us again, even if we run. And if it's not him, it'll just be someone else, right? Someone will always find us. Running to California isn't a permanent solution. My photo is
everywhere
. Even if I go three thousand miles away, people will recognize me.”

There was a pause before my mom spoke again. “I get your point. I do. But there's too much going on right now, sweetie. These reporters, they're calling us nonstop and knocking on the door for interviews, and . . . and what if Kyle comes back? What if he . . .
followed
you?”

“He didn't,” I said, the terror in her voice stabbing through the phone.
No
. I'd seen him drive away. For the time being.

“Please,” my mom said. “Please just let us pick you up. We'll go someplace private to talk about it all face-to-face.”

“No,” I said, gritting my teeth to keep my voice steady. “I want to take it one day at a time. Today, I need this. I need time off, away from everything. Tomorrow . . . I don't
know about tomorrow quite yet. I won't know until it gets here.”

“I've never heard you talk like this before,” my dad said. The words didn't sound critical or judgmental—just surprised. I was usually so easygoing, so ready to do whatever made my parents happy. But that was because we usually agreed, at least on the important things. I hadn't had to compromise myself in the process—until now.

“Well, I've never felt anything like this before. I always knew who I was before this.”

“We still know who you are, Iris. And deep down, you know it, too. This doesn't have to change everything.”

“But it does, doesn't it? It changed Mom's life entirely. It changed yours. It changed everyone's life that I care about. And it will again. It already has.”

They didn't answer that. They knew it was true. Too true.

“I'll call you again . . . soon.” I didn't want to be more specific than that. I couldn't be.

There was a pause.

“We love you,” my dad said. “We love you and Cal more than anything in this world.”

“I love you, too,” I whispered.

I kissed my fingers, tapped them against the phone. And then I hung up.

•   •   •

I needed a distraction.

I shook out the puzzle pieces on the floor between my bed and Zoey's. She had gone back to sleep after breakfast, or was hidden away under the blankets at least. I was hoping she wouldn't be annoyed at me for tampering with her territory, but the room was too cramped to piece it together anywhere else. Though the puzzle itself was probably a lost cause from the start—it certainly didn't look like there were a full one thousand pieces in the pile. The colors were faded, the scraps of a larger picture torn and peeling around some of the jagged edges.

Someday soon I would buy the shelter a new puzzle. I would buy ten puzzles. I would drop them off for Benjamin with a thank-you card and a tin full of Ethan's mom's salted caramel pretzel brownies.

I started organizing. Blue sky pieces here, green and flowery grass there, gray bricks of castle walls and turrets in the middle. I let my mind drift as I sorted, relieved for now to have nothing to focus on but shapes and shades and shadows. Like meditation, almost. There was no tabloid article, no Green Hill, no desperate parents in a brownstone only a few miles away. Just me, turning a heap of mismatching pieces into something ordered and beautiful. Something that made sense.

I was so busy fitting blue into other blue, squinting at the possible cloud formations, that I didn't notice when
Zoey pushed away the blanket and sat up to observe.

“That's not the right piece,” she said, startling me. I blinked up at her, then back down at the pieces in my hand. She was right. I was forcing two parts together that weren't made to fit.

“Good eye,” I said, smiling up at her. “Want to help? I have a feeling all the pieces aren't here, but maybe we can find some paper up at the desk and make our own if we have to. I'm determined to leave no space empty.”

She cocked her head, her lips pursed together in a tight line. I could feel the
no
before she said it, braced myself for the rejection.

“Okay. I guess.”

I tried to hide my surprise, afraid to make her second-guess the decision. Instead I just nodded and shifted over, making room for her.

“Can you hand me the box lid?” she asked, crouching down so close to me that our shoulders were pressed up tightly against one another.

I reached behind me for the lid, which I'd barely been looking at so far. It was more about the initial clues right now, sky versus ground versus building. I held the castle out in front of us, and for the first time, my breath hitched. My stomach swooped and twisted. A classic, crumbling castle—in England, maybe, but still. A few months back, it would have meant nothing to me, but now . . . now I
couldn't see any castle without thinking about Disney, about Cinderella's castle, about all those kids and families.