Authors: Edward Bloor
“Yes. You should.”
“Do you know where you’ll be going?”
“I do. To Barry University. I have saved enough money for four years of college there, and then three years of law school, if I’m frugal.”
I smiled my old manipulative smile at her. “I see. And what name did you register under?”
Victoria sputtered and laughed. “Oh, you. Oh, Charity. You are too much.”
“Tell me.”
“No, you tell me. What name did you register at school under?”
“Cari. Caridad.”
“Ah.
Sí. Bien.
”
“But you, once you leave RDS, you are no longer Victoria. Therefore, you are…who?”
She shrugged, then finally answered, “Linda.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Linda Valdes.”
“That’s your name?”
“Yes. What do you think?”
“I love it. It’s a good professional name. A lawyer’s name.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Yes. Maybe I will pay a professional call on you someday.”
Victoria laughed. “I would like that.” Then she added seriously, “But for two more weeks, until my notice is up, I will remain Victoria. That’s what my contract stipulates.”
“Stipulates? That sounds very professional.”
“Yes. It does. And it’s the right thing to do, you know? It’s what Ramiro Fortunato would do.”
I answered like Dessi. “But Ramiro Fortunato is a character. He isn’t real.”
Victoria feigned shock. “Don’t say that. He is a hero!”
I leaned in front of her so she’d have to look me in the eye. “He never sat up all night next to a child, as her protector, and then worked all the next day for that child, as her maid. Without sleep. Every night. Every day. For three years.”
“No. It wasn’t three years.”
“It was almost three years.”
“Well, then, say ‘almost.’ Don’t exaggerate.”
“No one would have done that for me but you.”
Victoria held up a finger and pointed it at me. “Yes. Someone else would have done that. Your mother.”
“Really? You think she would have?”
“I know it. And I know that you will do that, too, for your child.”
I thought about her words, and I chose my own words carefully. “Well, maybe I would have grown up to be like her, like my mother, but I didn’t get the chance.” I looked into Victoria’s black eyes with my brown ones. “Instead, I grew up to be like you.”
We stayed in that moment for a long time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father walking over with his old-man gait, and I knew I had to go. I leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and managed to say
“Adiós.”
She whispered, “Don’t become like that old man over there. Don’t forget to live your life. Don’t miss out on the adventure, on the thrill of it all.”
“I won’t.
Te amo, Victoria. Te amo, Linda.
”
“Te amo, Cari.”
She kissed me back, turned me by my shoulders, and gave me a soft push, sending me toward my father on a pair of unsteady legs.
One look at my face told him not to say a word. Instead, he took my arm and started to lead me away, slowly and silently, through the raucous crowd. I twisted my head around occasionally to look back, but I kept my legs moving straight ahead, straight toward our car and our new life down south.
I caught sight of Mickie and Dessi, still standing on the stage. I saw the Highlands kids, still hiding behind their guards. Soon, however, all those people from my past life were only tiny figures in the distance, no bigger than
tornadas.
When we arrived at La Iglesia de la Natividad, my father paused for a moment to rest. I stood and admired the outdoor crèche. It was a rough, wood-carved barn packed full of delicate characters—angels, shepherds, kings, a baby Jesus. It was a beautiful sight.
I’d have admired it longer, but a gang of revelers, laughing and singing, ran up and squirted us with water. I jumped in fright, and then I laughed. I shook the cold water out of my hair and turned to face them. I wished I had my own pistol to squirt them back, but when I looked at my father, he was clearly not up to a challenge. His face showed nothing but weariness and impatience and worry. He took my arm again and, with a disapproving look at the revelers, moved us along.
I followed my father’s lead past food booths and game stands and clothing stalls. He did not pause at any of them. He led us on an inexorable march (a Mrs. Veck word) back toward our parking space. Just as we reached the red-and-white banner, though, I pulled my arm away and forced him to stop. I turned around, stood tall in my clogs, and scanned the stage area, trying to spot Victoria.
And there she was! A tiny figure, still standing by the oak tree. She was watching me. I waved to her but, to my surprise, she did not wave back. Not exactly. Instead, she raised her arm and pointed energetically to her right, and then her left, and then in front. She kept pointing at things until I understood what she meant: she was pointing at
everything.
Everything around us. She was telling me to open my eyes, damn it, and see it all. To become part of it all.
I gave my father a sideways glance. He had his car keys out, and he was fingering them nervously. I took one step forward. I looked him full in the face, shook my head, and mouthed the word “no.”
He asked, “
¿Qué, Cari?
What is it? Can we go?”
“No. We cannot. I am not ready to leave.”
I watched his lips rub together under his white mustache. He whispered, “But our work…”
“Our work can wait for just a few hours. Can’t it, Papi?”
He seemed genuinely surprised by the question.
“¿Por qué?”
“
Por
living life.”
“Living life?”
“Sí.”
He thought for a moment—very, very hard—and then he started to change before my eyes. Suddenly all the impatience and worry seemed to pass from his face like a swift cloud. His brow lost its wrinkles; his back lost its hunch. He answered me, with true contrition, “
Sí, Cari.
Of course. Of course it can. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
“Then we can stay?”
“Yes. We
must
stay. We must stay and do some living. Forgive me, please.”
I told him, “I forgive you,” and I stared at him until he managed a sheepish smile. I walked behind him and gently turned his shoulders until he was facing the distant stage. Then I leaned closer and shouted in his ear,
“Ahora! Atención, Papi!”
His head snapped up and his eyes snapped open wider. I left him standing there at attention, positively beaming, like a silly wooden soldier.
Now my own time had come.
I drew a deep breath, straightened my corte, and finger-combed my hair. I walked quickly back toward La Iglesia de la Natividad, stopping at the first booth I saw to purchase a plastic water gun. I negotiated the sale in perfect Spanish, thinking about that gang of water squirters with vengeance on my mind.
Once I was armed and loaded, I plunged back into the sea of colorful costumes, swirling dancers, and pulsing rhythms. Then, for the rest of that bright and sunny afternoon, under the watchful eyes of my father at one end and Victoria at the other, I started living my new life. Slowly at first, but then with mounting confidence, I let myself be swept away by the fun and the adventure and the exitement—by the wondrous thrill of it all.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Edward Bloor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS
, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bloor, Edward.
Taken/Edward Bloor.—1st ed.
p. cm.
SUMMARY
: In 2036 kidnapping rich children has become an industry, but when thirteen-year-old Charity Meyers is taken and held for ransom, she soon discovers that this particular kidnapping is not what it seems.
[1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Social classes—Fiction. 3. Gated communities—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.B6236Tak 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006035561
eISBN: 978-0-375-89075-8
v3.0