A Girl Called Fearless (12 page)

Tyce Pham was probably in his twenties, but we all knew his face, because he appeared on
Entertainment News
every week. He sat down with Hawkins and me and went on about how grateful he was to interview Jessop, multimillionaire businessman and likely candidate for governor of one of the key states in the country.

“We're giving you the cover, Mr. Hawkins,” Tyce said.

It took a second for the gunshot of reality to hit me: my face was going national.

Until now, it was just local news or a few bloggers following me. How the hell could I go Underground if I was famous in fifty states?

Jes and the reporter were ping-ponging compliments about me back and forth, but I barely listened. When was the issue coming out? I had to get to Canada before that happened.

Hawkins rubbed my arm, bringing me back to attention. “Look at my future wife, she's beautiful isn't she?” he said.

“She resembles your mother.”

“Do you really think so? I didn't notice. But she has my mother's taste in art.”

“Who are your favorite artists?”

The question was for me. I glanced at Ho.

“Aveline.” Jes squeezed my hand in warning.

“Boyle, Simcha, and Veragatzi,” I said, playing my part. I felt Jes relax.

“Mr. Hawkins. You're going to marry after a long bachelorhood. Has this affected your political positions in any way?”

Hawkins beamed. “It's made me even more concerned about keeping women safe. Right now most women in this country are under twenty or over sixty, and vulnerable to being manipulated by banks and credit card companies, targeted by Internet predators, and victimized at schools and in the workplace by rapists and kidnappers.” He shook his head. “I don't know what I'd do if Aveline was taken from me.”

I knew he wanted me to look adoringly back at him, but I stared at my skirt.

“And how do you feel the government should deal with this?”

“In these dangerous times, women need protection. Patriarchal controls to screen the phone and Internet provide some protection. Requiring women drivers to be escorted by a male guardian helps. Assigning financial guardians to oversee a woman's banking and credit could make a difference.”

“So women should not handle their own money?”

“It's not fair to force that responsibility on them.”

“You've spoken out before about sexual harassment in school and at work.”

“Yes, women are safest at home away from the claws of sexual predators.”

My throat squeezed like Hawkins had looped a belt around my neck. He'd keep me a prisoner, force me to beg him for money.

“You have a history of helping the most vulnerable,” Tyce said. “You headed the task force that created L.A.'s orphan ranches.”

I sat up. Sparrow always railed about how orphan ranches exploited teen labor.

“Yes, Tyce, when the mayor called, I jumped in. Scarpanol had devastated the African-American and Hispanic communities, leaving hundreds of thousands of children and babies without a safety net. I'm proud that these children now live in clean, safe conditions and receive training in technical skills and domestic arts.”

From what I'd heard, the boys were bused to pick fruit or lettuce for ten hours a day while the girls canned jam in industrial kitchens. I was sitting next to the man who'd probably invented the idea of turning a profit on abandoned kids.

“Any thoughts on the proposed Twenty-eighth Amendment to the Constitution in light of the violent student protests in the capital today?”

“Violent?” I blurted. “But they were supposed to be peaceful.” Hawkins crushed my hand. I blinked at the pain while Tyce flashed me a smile, thrilled I was off script. “There was a confrontation with the capital police and several hundred protesters were arrested,” he said.

“Was anyone hurt?”

Ho glared at me, over Tyce's shoulder. “I think we're getting off message.”

Tyce ignored him. “The police were armed with batons and pepper spray. Several shots were fired.”

My heart pounded. I had to find out if Yates was hurt, if he'd been arrested.

Hawkins leaned forward and blocked me from the reporter. “To answer your question, Tyce, I admire these young men for their idealism and conviction. For taking a stand on what they believe in. But science tells us the human brain does not fully mature until age twenty-five. Twenty-five! We don't let ten-year-olds drive cars. That would be irresponsible. So we shouldn't let eighteen-year-olds drive the nation.”

Tyce radiated approval. He asked a few more questions and then suggested some shots of the two of us around the house.

“Actually,” Hawkins said. “How would you like an exclusive?” He pulled a red Cartier box out of his pocket.

I shoved my hands behind my back. It wasn't a ring box. It was worse.

“Go ahead. Open it,” Hawkins said.

My hands trembled as I lifted the lid. A Love Bracelet to match the one Jes had on: a gold band studded with screw heads, the most popular Signing gift a girl could get, except mine had a second diamond-pavé band.

No one else I knew had one like this. Not even six-million-dollar Dayla.

Hawkins fished a tiny gold screwdriver out of his pocket. “Hold out your arm.”

“This is great,” Tyce crowed. “This could be the cover shot.”

I wanted to run. Out the door. Up the hill. Let them drag me out of the scrubby brush. But instead, I did as Hawkins said.

He slid the bracelet onto my wrist and the camera shutter snapped relentlessly as he locked it. “Now everyone will know you're mine.”

It was gold and glittery, but it was still a handcuff.
I have to get this off me!

“I can't wait to show my friends.” My voice was so bright and chirpy, so totally not me, that I couldn't believe Dad and Roik were nodding like they thought I loved it.

“Now you can do mine,” Hawkins said, retrieving a white gold band from his pocket.

The photographer snapped as I slipped the bracelet over Hawkins' hand and tightened the screws. “Now that's done,” Ho said, taking the screwdriver from me, “how about a shot of Jessop at the controls of his helicopter?”

“Fantastic!” Tyce said. “Lead the way.”

The guys left me behind as they went out to the helicopter pad. I spit on the bracelet and tried twisting it off, but it wouldn't go over my hand.

28

The ride home was endless, because all I could think about was the protest and whether Yates was okay. Back at the house, I told Roik and Dad I was going to bed early. I sat on my floor, turned on the phone and lowered the volume.

The reporter hadn't lied. Dozens of videos of the protest were already posted. “Mayhem in Sacramento.” “Marchers Defy Cops.”

No, Yates. You said it would be peaceful.
I clicked on “Police Brutalize Protestors.”

I struggled to watch the video on the tiny screen. The camera caught a sea of young men marching up the Capitol mall and wearing college sweatshirts from all over the state.

“Don't take our voice! Don't take our vote!” they chanted.

I tried searching the crowd for Yates, but the shaky video was too blurry.

The camera turned to the wall of police on the Capitol steps, zooming in on the batons and shields as big as car doors. My breath caught. The men in the last row carried rifles.

Yates, where are you? Please be in back.

The protestors sat down as a group and linked arms. “Keep it peaceful. Keep it nonviolent.” My heart sank, hearing Yates' voice.

“I told you to stay safe,” I whispered. “Why didn't you listen to me?”

The police spread out, walling the protesters in. “This gathering is illegal. If you do not disperse immediately, you will be arrested.”

The camera focused on officers waving red bottles that looked like fire extinguishers, then panned to ones who'd trained their guns on the crowd.

“Stop, don't do this. They're unarmed,” I pleaded under my breath.

The boys threw their hoods over their heads and hunched over. “You use weapons,” someone yelled. “We use our voices.”

A beam of thick orange mist shot out over the crowd and the protesters screamed as if they were being burned.

Then I heard Yates yell, “The world will see this!” and my eyes filled with tears. as the camera caught him staggering to his feet. “Students aren't criminals,” he cried.

A cop lunged for him, baton raised. I shoved a pillow over my mouth and screamed, “No!!!” as the baton slammed down.

Yates fell, and the camera lost him. “Students aren't criminals!” the crowd roared at the police. “Students aren't criminals!”

Yates had disappeared in the chaos. “Come on, where are you?” I whispered. I stopped the video and searched the frame. Stopped it again and zoomed in. I kept going while the camera dogged police who were hammering boys with batons and dragging handcuffed protestors to a line of buses.

Finally, I couldn't stand it and I tapped Yates' number, but the phone went to voice mail and I hung up, too afraid to leave a message.

Yates had to be okay. They wouldn't just throw him in jail. They'd take him to a doctor, right? He was bleeding! He could have a concussion! I pulled my quilt around me, imagining Yates crumpled on a dirty cell floor, his sweatshirt soaked in blood.

Even if he was okay, he had to get out of there. But what could he do about bail? His dad wouldn't give him the money. They'd barely talked in over a year. I pressed my hands to my throbbing head. I don't know what made me look over my shoulder right then, maybe a psychic flash, but when I did I saw a tiny red light tucked behind the edge of my curtain.

I threw myself into my closet and shut the door.

Roik monitored my bedroom!

Think, think! I held the phone up to my chest. I didn't know how much Roik saw or heard—or if he was watching me right now. I searched the dark, but didn't see another red light. Maybe Roik didn't dare watch me undress.

Then I realized I was right: Roik
was
in my closet the other day.

I flipped on the light and searched for wires. None. But that didn't mean he didn't put a wireless mike in here. Roik wouldn't be the first bodyguard to pull that.

My closet was packed. Boxes crammed the shelves to the ceiling. Shoes and purses and dirty clothes were piled up on the floor.

The row of garment bags.

I zipped the first one open and tore out the outfit. I felt along the hems and in the pocket and seams looking for something small and black and traitorous. Then I moved on to the handbag and shoes and headband Elancio had so carefully selected—feeling the linings, and checking the heels.

Roik hadn't done this alone. Ho probably told him to do it.

I found the first mike.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no
. Roik heard Yates and me on the phone.

I ran to the bathroom and filled a glass with water. The mike hissed when I dropped it in. But I knew it wasn't the only one. Roik believed in backup plans.

My hands shook as I tore into the rest of the garment bags, digging into jacket pockets and burrowing into boots. I'd never said Yates' name aloud, but Roik wasn't stupid. He'd heard me talk about running, and he could put the clues together.

There were three more mikes in my closet, and the glass of water was packed like a lobster tank by the time I was done. I climbed up on my chair, and waved a bottle of Peach Kissed nail polish at the camera. “Screw you, Roik!” I said, and brushed over the lens.

Then I fell back on my bed, thinking what the hell were we supposed to do now? Yates was probably bleeding in some filthy jail cell, and if Roik told Ho what he heard me say to Yates, Yates could be charged with grand larceny.

Oh, God, Yates, I love you. You have to be okay.

My stomach plummeted.
No, tell me I did not say that.

I told myself to calm down, I was just upset because Yates was hurt and in trouble. I was not one of those girls who makes a big drama out of every little thing she feels. Not like Dayla.

Of course I loved Yates. We'd been friends practically our whole lives.

I opened the window and leaned out, inhaling the foggy night air, and trying to clear my head. Obviously, the stress of worrying about Yates and Hawkins and my Contract was messing me up. Making me emotional. Irrational.

That's it, isn't it?
I lingered for a moment, fighting the urge to take out Yates' picture as if seeing his face would somehow guarantee he was alive and being cared for. Then I gave in.

His eyes were powered with excitement and his fist was raised. He was a rebel ready to fight the world.

My heart fluttered.
Ugh.
I dropped my face into my hands and wished Dayla was here.

Or Mom.

The box of letters she'd left me was right by my hand, full of all the advice and love she could leave behind. I pulled out a handful of her letters.
Mom, help me. I'm a mess.

Somehow she knew what I needed to hear. “Love is confusing. Your heart may race when you're together, and ache when you're apart. You will share secrets, and reveal your inner selves. You may feel he's the only one who truly understands you.”

The things I'd shared with Yates this week, I'd never shared with Dayla. And Yates had never told anyone what he'd told me about Becca's death.

But maybe that was because Yates and I were such old friends. I kept reading.

“If you want to know how a young man feels about you, watch how he acts. Observe how he treats you.”

Yates was risking his life, hooking me up with Father G, smuggling me the phone, urging me to follow my dreams. He knew Hawkins would hurt him, if we got caught.

But Yates probably did this with all the girls he met in Exodus, trying to make up for not rescuing Becca from the man who abused her.