No Passengers Beyond This Point (9 page)

It’s full of light and window seats and snuggly pillows and fish—ohmygod, a wall-size aquarium full of fish—and one white cat stalking.

Stupid cat . . . what’s it doing here? Then I remember I saw a white cat I wanted once. That’s freaky. How could anyone know that? I never even told Maddy.

My cool mom seems to guess what I’m thinking. “I pay attention,” she says as the cat eyes me like I’m a frenemy.

“No kidding,” I say. “I’m not used to it.”

“Your mom’s busy.”

“She always has time for Finn and Mouse.”

My cool mom’s head doesn’t move, but her eyes register that she knows I’m right. “She thinks you’re older.”

“She doesn’t care about what’s important to me.”

My cool mom nods. “Your dad was the people guy. You’re more like him. You scare your mom. She doesn’t know how to protect you where you’re going,” she tells me as she reaches down to stroke the white kitty, who is purring loudly like she needs a cat-sized muffler.

I find another screen and check to see if Mouse is driving her mom person nuts yet. She’s just built a gigantic volcano with a remote control device that sends hot lava spewing out a hole in the roof. Now she’s walking to her bedroom, which is a room-size climbing structure next to a condo for mice. I mean check this out: fifteen tiny bedrooms with tiny mice asleep in tiny beds, their tiny bedside lamps turned off. Mouse climbs up to her bed high in the tree house.

“The higher you go, the safer you’ll be. Remember that . . . it’s important,” her mom person tells her.

That makes no sense. The higher up you go, the farther you’ll fall down. I guess her mom person is a little off, just like Mouse. Whatever.

Not to worry. It looks safe up there—the bed has tall slat sides, so she won’t fall out. My real mom would kill me if Mouse got hurt.

Mouse curls up under the branches, then her mom person strokes her cheek and sings softly, “B-I-N-G, B-I-N-G, B-I-N-G, and Bingo was his name-o.”

At night when she’s asleep, Mouse is kind of sweet. Then in the morning she’s like a pop-up you can’t get rid of.

Finn’s room has a big tent, with a little tent inside it. His name is on everything. The sheets, the pillows, the bookshelf, the tent, the canvas walls. Even the dog collars say:
Property of Finn Tompkins
. I don’t see him, though. He’s probably already inside the tent sound asleep.

I’m beat too, so I head for my bed that has a million pillows with polka dots and zigzags and checkerboard squares in all shapes and sizes.

I sink into my comforter with my new cool clothes on. There are a bazillion pairs of pajamas, but I’m too tired to decide which to wear. The bed is so soft it’s like diving into a down feather swimming pool. I don’t worry that I’m going to bed at three a.m. I can sleep late in the morning. My cool mom will know that about me.

As I’m falling asleep, I think about what I will wear tomorrow. The gray pants with the purple and pink shirt that makes my stomach look so flat. Or that like short, flouncy skirt with the brown sweater that’s so soft it feels like lamb’s ears. And what will I eat for breakfast? I know . . . Belgian waffles with whipped cream, fresh blueberries, and hot chocolate. Everything about this place is incredible!

W
ho wouldn’t love this house? It’s like a cabin in the woods—with chairs made of branches, thick rugs, high ceilings, and a big old-fashioned stone fireplace. There are also these buttons with symbols on the wall. I touch one and a different room appears. When I push the basketball button, the indoor court comes to me. The fireplace room is in the center of the house and it stays still while the other rooms revolve on tracks around it.

I push the kitchen button because I’m starving. When the kitchen arrives, this guy appears. He looks like my dad, with freckles, curly red hair, and bushy red eyebrows. His voice is different, his face is rounder, and he’s taller, but there’s clearly a resemblance. It’s as if someone studied a photo of my dad and then found a look-alike.

This dad look-alike guy brings me a Philly cheese steak sandwich, onion rings, and soda. I dig in.

“How’d you know I like Philly cheese steak?” I ask between bites.

“This is your dream house. Of course we’ll stock it with your favorite foods.”

“But how did you know what they are?”

“Sparky told me.”

“Sparky again.”

He nods. “Look Finn, just take it on face value. If you think too much, worry about every little thing, you’ll get in your own way.”

“How will I get in my own way?”

“You’ll lose time.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does. If you spend all your time worrying about the future, you can’t enjoy the present.” He takes a deep breath and starts again. “This time in your house is for you to enjoy. You need it to prepare you for your journey.”

“To Uncle Red’s?”

“If that’s where you want to go.”

“What if it isn’t?”

He shrugs. “You’ll have to consider other options.”

What are my other options? I wonder. Going to live with Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito? Mom said that wasn’t possible. Apparently I don’t have any other options. I’m not going to say that. I don’t want this guy to think I’m a loser with no place to go.

“Ready for pie?” he asks. He seems to understand I want to drop the subject.

“Yes,” I say as a screen in the back of the kitchen goes live with a movie clip of a basketball game I played in. Coach P. is giving me instructions from the sidelines like I’m one of his starting guys. That only happened once, but it was the best game of my life!

Without me saying anything, my dad look-alike replays it over and over again.

I’m not sure how many times I watch, before I finally pull myself away. Then we play basketball one on one until it gets dark. On the way inside I thank him for everything, then explain it’s time to go home.

“Home?” he asks.

“To Uncle Red’s then,” I whisper miserably.

“You’re sure?”

“Look, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. I need to know what’s going on here.”

He smiles at this as if I’ve just given the answer to a difficult question. Together we walk to the center fireplace room, where he pushes a small button with a question mark. Within seconds a loudspeaker blares overhead. “Finn Tompkins, please step to the white courtesy phone. Finn Tompkins, white courtesy phone.”

I head for the wall, pick out the icon with the white phone, and press it. As soon as it lights up, the court moves off on its track and a new room arrives. This room is small with a simple wooden alcove and a comfortable overstuffed armchair. In front of the chair is a white phone with no buttons, just a smooth dial-less face.

“Finn Tompkins . . . the white courtesy phone,” the loudspeaker voice urges.

I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Finn Tompkins?” the computerized voice asks.

“Yes.”

“Sparky would like to see you.”

I
’m used to knowing more than everyone else on account of Bing. He has in some knee-a, you know. You can find out a lot of things when you’re awake at night.

In the morning Bing tells me what he learned the night before.

Sometimes he wakes me up so I can hear too. Once I heard Mommy on the phone. She said she didn’t know if Maddy was the worst thing to happen to India or the best.

She should have asked me. I know all about Maddy. She stole Mommy’s engagement ring. Mommy says I could have been “mistaken” and I’m supposed to stop talking about this, but Bing is never mistaken. Maddy and India were doing homework on the computer, and India went to make popcorn, which is the only food Maddy will eat at our house on account of Mommy won’t buy junk food.

While India was gone, Maddy opened Mommy’s jewelry box. She took the ring out.

The next week Mommy said her engagement ring was gone.

Mommy said maybe Maddy put it back when I didn’t see. But then why was it gone after that? Mommy talked to Maddy and Maddy’s mom about it. Maddy’s mom said I was “a fanciful child.”

Maddy has another name for me. She calls me Demon Child.

Mommy got her ring back after that. A few weeks later it appeared in her jewelry box again. Then Mommy told India and me we aren’t allowed to talk about it anymore. We just hate each other in the quiet now.

Bing got more facts about Falling Bird too. He found out that this mom lady is a rental. He thinks there are rental dads and rental dogs too. Bing said it will be hard for India to leave Falling Bird. He also said her cat doesn’t like her very much. Bing said Finn is figuring out how the whole place works. Finn has to know stuff. He’s like me!

Bing said it wasn’t so bad here. It was fun to see all the good things about his life on the big screen.

He said we might want to stay.

But I don’t want to change moms for good.

W
hen I wake up, the sun is shining through the window, and I can smell waffles and hot chocolate. I stay tucked into the soft sheets, basking in the coziness, until my cool mom comes in.

“Good morning, India. Did you sleep okay?” she asks.

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. My cool mom totally gets how I feel. She doesn’t say much and she hasn’t mentioned one single rule either. Moms are okay when they keep their mouths shut. My cool mom gets stuff like this. She totally does.

“It’s been great getting to know you,” she says. “I like how enthusiastic you are about everything.”

“Really? My real mom says I have a bad attitude and I’m not enthusiastic about anything.”

“You just like different things than she does.”

“How do you know me so well?”

“Sparky gives us a lot of information. And I kind of get you. You remind me of me when I was your age.”

I scoot myself up, propping my back with the biggest pillow like we’re going to have a girlfriend talk—the kind I never have with my real mom.

But a rumbling begins low in the building like somebody turned on a forced air heater down on the first floor. It’s a slight vibration that builds to a shaking motion as if I’m standing next to the tracks when a train flies by.

“What is that?” I ask as the bed begins to rock like a cradle, but I’m not a baby and I don’t like it.

A tree limb cracks outside the window.

My cool mom is standing with a stupid expression on her face waving good-bye. Good-bye? Where is she going?

“Hey!” I scream as the splintering grows louder and the bed begins to split apart in a jagged line down the middle.

“Help!” I shriek as I try to get a grip on the slipping, sliding bed covers. I grab the side of the bed, the wall, the pillow, something permanent, but it all slides through my fingers. Everything is in motion.