Fire & Flood (2 page)

That blue box was meant for me, and my dad stole it. Even if Cody did plant it in my room, which I’m starting to doubt he did, my dad had no right to take it away. What am I — five?

I sit in the living area with my mom and dad, staring at the book in my hands. I’m not reading — I’m masterminding a complicated escape plan for my device. So far, I don’t have much in the escape department, but I’ve come up with plenty that could be classified as
complicated
.

The only thing I hear — and it’s driving me crazy — is the sound of my mom and dad turning the pages of their own books. God forbid we buy a TV for this house. Wouldn’t want anyone to have a link to life beyond the Holloway household. I swear, the second Cody got sick, my parents lost all sense of reality.

But right now none of that matters. The real reason I’m irritated with my parents is because I want them in bed. Asleep. Where they can’t watch me slink around the house, looking for my device. And I am going to slink like nobody’s business.

I glance at the clock. It’s ten at night, and my parents look like they could run a marathon. I stare at them as they stare at their books and will them to become tired. After five minutes of mental warfare, I give up. But just then my dad yawns. Victory is mine!

“Think I’m going to hit the hay,” he says.

“I’m right behind you,” my mom answers, not even looking up. She doesn’t move.

Hoping she’ll be swayed by numbers, I stretch my arms over my head and announce, “I’m exhausted. I think I might turn in, too.”

That does the trick. She runs her finger down the page. It’s her telltale sign that she’s finding a stopping point. She reaches for the
busted-up bookmark I gave her for Mother’s Day when I was, like, nine, and slides it into place.

“You going to bed, too?” I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I suddenly wonder if my parents were doing the same thing I was — pretending to read.

“Yep” is all she says. Then we begin a Mexican standoff: me waiting for her to get up and her waiting for … what?

“Okay,” I say, caving. “Guess I’m going to go now.” I stand up and walk toward my room, throwing the book I wasn’t reading onto the couch. Right before I leave, I glance back. She’s watching me go, so I throw a little wave. Mom waves back, but her smile is long gone.

Something is definitely up.

That or my family is auditioning for a remake of
The Shining
.

I stop by Cody’s door on the way to my room. I want to keep walking, to pretend for once that he’s okay and everything is back to the way it used to be. But I can’t. So I pad into his room on tiptoes and lean over his bed. Now I’m the one being a creeper.

Once I’m certain my brother is still breathing, I go into my room and collapse onto the bed. One hour. That’s how long I’m waiting before I search every corner of this blasted house. Then the contents of that mysterious blue box will be mine.

Four hours later, I wake up.

So much for Operation Sly.

I push myself up from the bed, rubbing my face and berating myself for falling asleep. I’m, like, the biggest weakling on planet Earth. Sliding my shoes off so I make as little noise as possible, I create a mental list of where to check first: the coat closet, the hallway bathroom, maybe the kitchen. The kitchen. I wonder if there’s any cherry cheesecake left in the fridge. No. Find device. Then cheesecake.

I’m about to open my door, but something stops me.

It’s smoke. A lot of it. And it’s coming from outside my window.

Crossing the room, I keep an eye on the smoke as my scalp tingles with nerves. I start to imagine my house catching on fire. Or one of my parents’ cars. How would anyone find us out here? I like to think someone would, eventually. Probably a fireman who happens to be my age and carries an ax over his left shoulder like a Greek god. Fire would rage behind him as he saves us all and he’d smile to reassure me and, my Lord, he has dimples.

I slide open my window and the smell of burning wood fills my room. Though I’m terrified that something horrible is happening, I can’t help but relish the scent. It reminds me of being home in Boston, of cold nights when Dad would make a fire in the fireplace and we’d drink cocoa with pastel-colored marshmallows.

The smoke billows from left to right and leads me to believe the fire is coming from in front of our house. I’m about to wake up my parents when I see a flash of red and black. I’d know that shirt anywhere. It’s the plaid flannel my dad wears when he goes hunting with Uncle Wade.

What is my dad doing in front of our house at two in the morning?

I contemplate going out the front door to ask him. It’d be a reasonable question. No one wants to wake up in the middle of the night to find her dad embracing a new pyromania habit. But something stops me. Maybe it’s the way he’s been acting since he saw the talking device, or the weird way he whispered with my mom before dinner, or even the way he nodded at Cody like there was something big the two of them were hiding. Regardless, I decide to move in closer without revealing myself.

Crawling out the window, I think of how ridiculous I must look. How if my best friend back in Boston, Hannah,
could see this, she’d be laughing like a lunatic. Thinking about her laughing in turn makes me laugh, and I have to cover my mouth as I drop down on the side of the house. This afternoon, I was bored to tears, and now I’m acting like a friggin’ CIA agent.

I really am losing my mind out here.

I creep along the wall toward the front of our house and hold my breath as I peek around the corner. My dad is standing in front of a bonfire, just staring into the flames. He looks like an assassin, all crazy in the face. The fire is actually much farther from our house than I originally thought, which makes me even more nervous. It’s like he’s covering up something. Just doing a bad job.

Running a hand through his thick curly hair, my dad sighs. Then he opens his other hand and looks at something in his palm. I narrow my eyes to try to see what he’s studying, but I can’t make it out from here. Whatever he’s holding has a short life span, because he pulls in a long breath and tosses it into the fire. It arcs in the air for only a moment, but it’s long enough for me to see the flash of white.

It’s my device.

And now it’s gone.

I lean back against the side of the house in a panic. Now I’m certain this was no practical joke. There’s no way my dad would go to such lengths to get rid of something trivial. And in the dead of night, no less. Something was on that thing, and now I’ll never know. I rack my brain, trying to remember everything the woman had said.

The Brimstone something or other.

An invitation.

Forty-eight hours.

When I peek back around the corner, my dad’s eyes meet mine. I slam back against the house and mutter a string of profanities. From far away, I hear the sound of his footsteps. They come closer
and I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m like an ostrich, hoping if I can’t see him, he can’t see me. Seconds later, the front door opens and closes. My muscles relax and I almost laugh at having escaped being caught.

I’m not sure what I’m so afraid of. It’s not like I did anything wrong.
He
stole the earpiece.
He
acted weird about it.
He
built a fire and burned what was mine.

Anger surges through my veins. That blue box was meant for me. And now a strange sensation tells me whatever was in it was extremely important. How dare he rob me of knowing what that was?

I wait for a long time, longer than I think I’ll be able to, and then head toward the fire. The white device will be burned into a lump of plastic goo, but I want to see it with my own eyes. I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t pick it up and storm into my parents’ bedroom, demand to know what’s going on.

As I near the fire, I realize it’s diminished considerably. Only a few flames lick the cool night air, while the rest of the wood glitters red, fading quickly into ash. Coming to a stop where my dad had stood, I inspect the area. When I see it, I take a step back.

The device is nestled in a pile of ash and embers. It doesn’t look melted or disfigured at all. I grab a stick and try to flick it out. After a few tries, it lands near my bare feet with a small thump.

Crouching down, I reach out a finger and poke the device. It’s not hot. In fact, it’s not even warm. I gather it into my hand and stand up. I’ve forgotten my surroundings. Forgotten that my dad could be inside watching me. All I can do is marvel that the device is untouched by the fire. I turn it over to inspect the other side and my mouth drops open.

The red light.

It’s still blinking.

I don’t think; I just run. Back to our house. Back to my window. Back to my room where I can listen to this message
uninterrupted. I pray it’s still there. For some unknown reason, I can’t imagine not hearing what the woman wanted to tell me. I need to know —
have
to know.

Inside my room, I close the window and crawl into my bed. I turn off the lamp and assume a sleeping position. If anyone comes in, they’ll think I’m in never-never land. Hesitating only a moment, I slip the hearing aid–looking device into my ear. My fingers find the tiny, lit-up button, and I swallow a lump in my throat.

I push.

At first, there’s nothing but dead air, but after a few moments, I hear the same clicking sound.
It’s working,
I think.
It’s still working.
The clicking turns to static, and I cover my ear with my palm so I can concentrate.

“If you’re hearing this message, you are invited to be a Contender in the Brimstone Bleed. All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions. If you do not appear within forty-eight hours, your invitation will be eliminated.”

I’m so happy the message is still there, I can hardly contain myself. I sit up and glance around the room for a piece of paper, thinking maybe I should be writing this down. But before I can decide what to do, the woman continues.

“The Pandora Selection Process will take place at the Old Red Museum. The Pandora you choose is of the utmost importance, for it will be your only source of assistance throughout the race.

“The Brimstone Bleed will last three months and will take place across four ecosystems: desert, sea, mountains, jungle. The winning prize will be the Cure — a remedy for any illness, for any single person.”

I cover my mouth, trying not to cry. A cure. A cure for Cody. I’d do anything for that. I listen as the woman pauses.

“There can be only one champion.”

I leap out of bed, heart pounding. This must be a joke. A prank. It can’t be real.

Can it?

If this is a joke, it’s the worst kind. Because I’d do anything to save Cody’s life. And this device — this woman — just told me there’s a way. Did my dad listen to this? My mom? Do they know what she said? If they did and they thought there was even a possibility of its being true, why would they ever try to destroy it?

I don’t know. I don’t care. This is about me now. The blue box was on my bed. I’m the one who received the invitation.

But this can’t be real. Can it?

My heart aches as I consider my brother. What’s crazy is — as absurd as this race sounds — I can’t stop thinking,
What if it’s true?
I want to believe it’s real. I want to believe there can be an end to Cody’s blood tests and MRIs. That my mom will learn to sleep again, and that my dad will stop quietly raging. I don’t want to smell antiseptic anymore or meet another kindhearted nurse who’s great at hitting a vein on the first try.
How about, instead, you leave Cody alone?

How about, instead, you make him better?!

Driven by raw emotion, I weigh my choices. Ignore the woman’s message and go back to bed.

Or.

Take the chance, the miniscule chance, that my dad knew there was something to hide.

The realization that I may be onto something slams into me. My parents tried to conceal this. My brother passed it off as a joke. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone in my family stop me from helping Cody.

Assuming this is all real.

“It has to be,” I whisper in the dark.

Anger coils in my stomach like a serpent. My dad didn’t think I could do this. That’s why he tried to destroy the device. But maybe he doesn’t know his little girl as well as he’d like to believe. Because when it comes to doing something for my family, I’m not just his daughter.

I am strong.

I will be strong for my brother.

My hand grips the device I’ve removed from my ear. The woman said I needed to get to the Old Red Museum within forty-eight hours. How long has it been since I first saw the box? How long did it take to get to me?

Grabbing my old backpack from my closet, I think about what to pack: clothes, food, water, the device … maybe some nail polish. Just because I’m entering a race doesn’t mean I don’t want to look magically delicious. I throw on a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and yellow ballet flats. Then I jam things into my bag as quickly as I can, knowing I want to leave before the sun rises and my parents wake up. The first thing I’ve got to do is figure out where the Old Red Museum is. We don’t have an Internet connection here, but some place in town will. I’ll be able to look it up there. At least I hope so.

A lump forms in my throat as I think about leaving. My parents will be fine, but what about Cody? Will he be okay while I’m away? I stare at the bag in my hands, then drop it onto the bed. I’m not even sure of what I’m doing when I leave my room and head to Cody’s. I stop in his doorway and listen to his even breathing.

I’m glad he’s asleep. There’s no part of me that wants to banter with him right now, even if he does like it. I just want to tell him I love him. So I do.

“I love you, Cody,” I say. And then, “Please don’t die.”

Tears sting my eyes as I run toward my bedroom. I want to keep this picture of him in my head, his sleeping chest rising and falling under the heavy blue blanket. This race may be a crock, and I may only be gone chasing a phantom for one day, but I’ll still miss him.

When I’m almost back to my room, I hear a creaking sound. Crap. Someone’s coming. I manage to wipe the tears from my eyes and throw my backpack into the closet, but I don’t have time to jump into bed before my mom appears in the doorway.

She walks over to my lamp and flips the switch. Warm light washes across my room. She looks at me for a long time, so long that I wonder if she’s forgotten who I am. Then she sits down on the bed.

“You’re awake,” she says. She doesn’t sound surprised. It’s more like a statement.

“Yeah,” I say, not sure what else
to
say. I consider asking her about the device, if she knows what is on it. But I’m afraid of what she’ll admit.

“I heard you moving around,” she continues. I notice that she’s holding something. Her hands work their way across it like she’s smoothing it out. She sees me looking and holds it up. In the lamp’s glow, I make out that it’s a feather of green and blue and is attached to a thin leather string.

“This was my mother’s,” she says. “I don’t remember much about her.” My mom has rarely spoken of her own mother, and it’s almost surprising remembering she had one. But of course she did. Her mother died when she was young. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t exist. Mom holds the feather up to her head and smiles. “I remember she used to wear this in her hair.”

The smile slips from my mom’s face. I sit down next to her on the bed. I’m about to tell her what I know, but she holds up a hand. At first, it’s like she’s stopping me from speaking, but then
she moves to touch my hair. She pets the back of my head, and I can’t help but close my eyes. For the second time tonight, I feel like I might lose it.

“You have your father’s hair,” she says. Then she looks me dead in the face. “But you have my eyes.”

I don’t know exactly what she’s implying, but it’s not that we share the same eye color.

Mom moves the hair off my neck and onto my shoulder. Then she lifts the feather to the bottom of my scalp. Tingles shoot across my shoulders as she ties the leather twine attached to the feather into my hair. When she’s done, she lets my curls spill across my back.

“You look beautiful, Tella.”

I stand and look in the mirror. The vibrant green-and-blue feather lies over my right shoulder, mixed with a bit of my thick, curly hair. I look at my big brown eyes and wonder what she sees in them. Besides fear.

My mom stands suddenly and crosses the room. She wraps me in a hug and holds on to me for several moments before letting go. I think she’s going to confess something, but she only says, “Good night.”

I lie down on the bed, pretending I’m going back to sleep. At the door, she stops and glances back. Her eyes flick toward my open closet, where my backpack lies exposed. Her gaze returns to me and her face twists. “Your mama loves you.”

Then she’s gone.

I choke on her final words, willing myself to crawl back out of bed and grab my backpack once again. Stuffing the clothes down, I decide not to get any food from the kitchen. I need to leave now, and I can buy some in town. But I do grab the stash of money I have from months of unused allowance. I’m sure I must have almost two hundred dollars at this point. Because I have no idea
of what I’ll need, I also throw in random things from my desk: pens, paper, scissors, tape. The last thing I pack is a photo of my family that’s stuck in the edge of my mirror. I can’t bear to go without taking a piece of them with me. That and my glittery purple nail polish.

When I leave, I go out the front door. There’s something definitive about it. Like if I use it, then I’m making some sort of statement. Even if I have no idea what it is.

We don’t have a garage, so my parents park in the driveway, on the opposite side of the house from my bedroom window. I round the corner and deliberate on which car to take. There’s the sleek black 4Runner with the navigator and off-terrain tires that I always pestered my parents about driving when I first got my license, and there’s Bob. Bob has been with us for a while, like, since I was born. And after almost two hundred thousand miles, the car is an utter embarrassment to the auto community.

I decide to take Bob. My parents will wake up to find their daughter gone. I’d hate to have them left with the crap car, too.

Grabbing the extra keys from the breaker box, I reason that if I gun it, I can make it to town in about twenty-five minutes. Not too bad. I hop inside the car, throw my bag in the passenger seat, and start the engine. As I’m rolling down the dirt driveway, I glance into the rearview mirror. The house is still cloaked in night, and all I can think is:
My family lives there
.

Driving away, I suddenly realize the house isn’t so bad. I spent more time with my family in the last nine months here than I did in ten years living in Boston. And as it turns out, my people are pretty awesome.

I pull into the parking lot of the only diner in the area that’s open twenty-four hours and glance at the dashboard clock: 3:37. I made it in twenty-three minutes. Not too shabby.

The door of the diner chimes when I walk through. Exactly two people turn in my direction: a trucker-looking dude with Popeye-sized forearms and his female friend, who finds her inebriation hysterical. They’re a flawless match in this decrepit town of Montana.

A waitress in bad khakis appears from the back and strolls toward me, holding a discarded tray in her right hand. Watching her walk, I decide I could teach her a thing or two about sashaying.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I pull myself up, trying to appear adultlike. “Do you guys have a computer I can use?”

The waitress cocks her head. “You buying something?”

“Um, yes?”

“You know how to tip?” she asks.

Oh, real classy. “Thirty percent. That’s the standard, right?”

She smiles and nods. “You can use the one in the office. Just make it quick.”

I go behind the counter and find the computer. After a little googling on their dial-up Internet connection, I find that the Old Red Museum is in a city called Lincoln. And, good Lord, it’s seventeen hours away. What if I miss the selection process for the Pandora — whatever that is?

I print off directions and buy several sandwiches and bottles of water on my way out. I leave more than the 30 percent I promised the waitress, hoping it’ll put a little sashay in her step.

Then I get on the road and drive like a demon toward Nebraska, wondering if I’m a naïve idiot for doing this.

Almost twenty hours later, I’m nearing the middle of the city. I’m exhausted after the drive, and by now the whole wide world feels surreal and disconnected. Everything is fast and slow at the
same time. I follow the last of the directions until I see it — the Old Red Museum. The picture Google provided matches the enormous redbrick building, which looks more like a medieval castle than a museum. At almost midnight, the place looks particularly eerie.

I find a parking spot and walk up the short flight of stairs. Rubbing my arms to fight off a sudden chill, I stop in front of the enormous double doors.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

There’s no way this place is open this late. And by the time they do open, it’ll probably
be
too late. It’s probably too late as is. I hold my breath and tug on the door. It doesn’t budge. I pull again and again, and scream when it still doesn’t open.

I drove across the US of A, left my family without an explanation, and now I’m either too late or there was never anything here to begin with. Ef my life. Rearing back, I kick the door as hard as I can. Then I wrap both hands around the door handles and let out a noise like a wild banshee as I pull back.