CHAPTER 27
I CAN'T SLEEP. I LIE IN BED STARING THROUGH the darkness at the ceiling. I call Sarah and we talk until three; I hang up and lie there with my eyes wide-open. At
four I crawl out of bed and walk out of the room. Henri sits at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. He looks up at me, bags beneath his eyes, hair tousled.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I couldn't sleep either," he says. "Scouring the news."
"Find anything?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure what it means to us yet. The men who wrote and published They Walk Among Us , the men we met, were tortured and
killed."
I sit across from him. "What?"
"Police found them when the neighbors called after hearing screams coming from the house."
"They didn't know where we lived."
"No, they didn't. Thankfully. But it means the Mogadorians are getting bolder. And they're close. If we see or hear anything else out of the ordinary,
we're going to need to leave immediately, no questions asked, no discussion."
"Okay."
"How's your head?"
"Sore," I say. It took seven stitches to close the cut. Henri did it himself. I'm wearing a baggy sweatshirt. I'm certain one of the cuts on my back
needs stitches as well, but that would require me to take my shirt off, and how would I explain the other cuts and scrapes to Henri? He'll know for sure what
has happened. My lungs still burn. If anything, the pain has grown worse.
"So, the fire started in the basement?"
"Yes."
"And you were in the living room?"
"Yes."
"How did you know it started in the basement?"
"Because all the guys came running up."
"And you knew everyone was out of the house by the time you went outside?"
"Yes."
"How?"
I can tell he's trying to get me to contradict myself, that he's skeptical of my story. I'm certain he doesn't believe that I merely stood out front
watching like everyone else.
"I didn't go in," I say. It pains me to do so, but I look him in the eye and I lie.
"I believe you," he says.
I wake close to noon. Birds are chirping beyond the window, and sunlight is pouring in. I breathe a sigh of relief. The fact that I was allowed to sleep this
late means that there was no news to incriminate me. If there had been, I would have been pulled from bed and told to pack.
I roll off my back and that's when the pain hits. My chest feels as though somebody is pushing down on it, squeezing me. I can't take full breaths.
When I try there is a sharp pain. It scares me.
Bernie Kosar is snoring in a ball at my side. I wake him by wrestling with him. He groans at first, then wrestles back. That is the beginning to our
day. Me rousing the snoring dog beside me. His wagging tail, his dangling tongue immediately make me feel better. Never mind the pain in my chest.
Never mind what the day might bring.
Henri's truck is gone. On the table is a note that reads: "Ran to the store. Be back at one." I walk outside. I have a headache and my arms are red
and splotchy, the cuts slightly raised as though I've been scratched by a cat. I don't care about the cuts, or my headache, or the burning in my chest. What I
care about is that I'm still here, in Ohio, that tomorrow I'll be going back to the same school I've gone to for three months now, and that I will see Sarah
tonight.
Henri gets home at one. There is a haggard look in his eyes that tells me he still hasn't slept. After he unloads the groceries he goes into his bedroom and
closes the door. Bernie Kosar and I go for a walk in the woods. I try to run, and I'm able to for a little while, but after a half mile or so the pain is too great
and I have to stop. We walk on for what must be five miles. The woods end at another country road that looks similar to ours. I turn around and walk back.
Henri is still in his room with the door closed when I return. I sit on the porch. I tense every time a car passes. I keep thinking one of them will stop, but none
of them do.
The confidence I felt when I woke up is slowly chipped away as the day wanes. The Paradise Gazette isn't printed on Sunday. Will there be a story
tomorrow? I suppose I expected a call to arrive, or the same reporter to show up at our doorstep, or one of the officers to ask more questions. I don't know
why I'm so worried about a small-time reporter, but he'd been persistent--too persistent. And I know he didn't believe my story.
But nobody comes to our house. No one calls. I expected something, and when that something doesn't come, a dread creeps in that I'm about to
be exposed. "I'll find the truth, Mr. Smith. I always do," Baines said. I consider running into town, trying to find him to dissuade him from any such truth, but I
know that would only encourage suspicion. All I can do is hold my breath and hope for the best.
I wasn't in that house.
I have nothing to hide.
Sarah comes over that night. We go to my room and I hold her in my arms, lying on my back on the bed. Her head is against my chest and her leg is
draped over me. She asks me questions about who I am, my past, about Lorien, about the Mogadorians. I'm still amazed at how quickly, and easily,
Sarah believed everything, and how she's accepted it. I answer everything truthfully, which feels good after all the lies I've told over the last few days. But
when we talk about the Mogadorians, I start to get scared. I'm worried that they'll find us. That what I did will expose us. I would do it again, for if I didn't
Sarah would be dead, but I'm scared. I'm also scared of what Henri is going to do if he finds out. Though he is not biologically, for all intents and purposes
he is my father. I love him and he loves me and I don't want to disappoint him. And as we lie there, my fear begins to reach new levels. I can't take not
knowing what the next day will bring--the uncertainty is sawing me in two. The room is dark. A flickering candle burns on the window ledge a few feet away.
I take a deep breath, which is to say, as deep a breath as I can take.
"Are you okay?" Sarah asks.
I wrap my arms around her. "I miss you," I say.
"You miss me? But I'm right here."
"That's the worst way to miss somebody. When they're right beside you and you miss them anyway."
"You're talking crazy. She reaches up and pulls my face to hers and kisses me, her soft lips on mine. I don't want her to stop. I don't ever want her
to stop kissing me. As long as she is, then everything is fine. Everything is right. I would stay in this room forever if I could. The world can pass by without
me, without us. Just as long as we can stay here, together, in each other's arms.
"Tomorrow," I say.
She looks up at me. "Tomorrow, what?"
I shake my head. "I don't really know," I say. "I guess I'm just scared."
She flashes a confused look at me. "Scared of what?"
"I don't know," I say. "Just scared."
When Henri and I get home after dropping her off I go back into my bedroom and lie in the same spot where she was. I can still smell her on my bed. I
won't sleep tonight. I won't even try. I pace the room. When Henri goes to bed I walk out and sit at the kitchen table and write under candlelight. I write
about Lorien, about Florida, about the things that I've seen when our training first began--the war, the animals, childhood images. I hope for some sort of
cathartic release, but there isn't one. It only makes me sadder.
When my hand cramps I walk out of the house and stand on the porch. The cold air helps ease the pain of breathing. The moon is nearly full, a side
of it ever so subtly shaved away. Sunrise is two hours away, and with that sunrise comes a new day, and the news of the weekend. The paper falls on our
doorstep at six, sometimes six thirty. I'll already be at the school by the time it arrives and, if I'm in the news, I refuse to leave without seeing Sarah again,
without saying good-bye to Sam.
I walk into the house, change clothes, and pack my bag. I tiptoe back through and quietly close the door behind me. I take three steps on the porch
when I hear a scratching at the door. I turn around and open it and Bernie Kosar comes trotting out. Okay, I think, let us go together.
We walk, stopping often, standing and listening to the silence. The night is dark but after a while a pale glow grows in the eastern sky just as we
enter the school grounds. There are no cars in the lot and all the lights are off inside. At the very front of the school, in front of the pirate mural, sits a large
rock that has been painted by previous graduating classes. I sit on it. Bernie Kosar lies in the grass a few feet away from me. I'm there for half an hour
before the first vehicle arrives, a van, and I assume it's Hobbs, the janitor, arriving early to get the school in order, but I'm wrong. The van pulls up to the
front doors and the driver gets out and leaves it idling. He's carrying a stack of newspapers bound by wire. We nod at each other and he drops the stack
by the door and then drives off. I stay on the rock. I glance contemptuously at the papers. In my mind I'm hurling curses at them, threatening them to deliver
the bad news I'm terrified of.
"I wasn't in that house on Saturday," I say out loud, and as soon as I do I feel stupid. Then I look away, sigh, and jump off the rock.
"Well," I say to Bernie Kosar. "This is it, for good or bad."
He opens his eyes briefly, then closes them and resumes his nap on the cold ground.
I tear the binding away and lift the top paper. The story has made the front page. At the very top is a picture of the burned rubble taken the next
morning at dawn. There is a gothic, foreboding feel to it. Blackened ash is forefront to naked trees and frost-covered grass. I read the headline:
JAMES HOUSE GOES UP IN SMOKE
I hold my breath, a miserable feeling centered in my gut as though horrible news is about to find me. I race through the article. I don't read it, only
look for my name. I reach the end. I blink my eyes and shake my head to rid myself of the cobwebs. A cautious smile forms. Then I scan through it again.
"No way," I say. "Bernie Kosar, my name isn't here!"
He pays me no attention. I run across the grass and jump back on the rock.
"My name isn't here!" I yell again, this time as loudly as I can.
I sit back down and read the story. The headline is a play on Cheech and Chong's Up in Smoke, which is apparently a movie about drugs. What
the police believe started the blaze was a marijuana joint being smoked in the basement. How that information was discovered, I have no idea, especially
because it is so wrong. The article itself is callous and mean, almost an attack on the James family. I didn't like the reporter. It's apparent that he doesn't
like the Jameses. Who knows why?
I sit on the rock and read the article three times before the first person arrives to unlock the doors. I can't stop smiling. I'm staying in Ohio, in
Paradise. The town name doesn't seem so foolish to me anymore. Through my excitement I feel as though I'm overlooking something, that I've forgotten a
key component. But I'm so happy that I don't care. What harm can come now? My name isn't in the article. I didn't run into that house. The proof is right
here, in my hands. Nobody can say otherwise.
"What are you so happy about?" Sam asks in astronomy class. I haven't stopped smiling.
"Didn't you read the paper this morning?"
He nods.
"Sam, I wasn't in it! I don't have to leave."
"Why would they put you in the paper?" he asks.
I'm dumbfounded. I open my mouth to argue with him but just then Sarah walks into the room. She comes sauntering up the aisle.
"Hey, gorgeous," I say.
She bends down and kisses me on the cheek, something I'll never take for granted.
"Somebody's in a happy mood today," she says.
"Happy to see you," I say. "Nervous about your driver's test?"
"Maybe a little. Just can't wait until it's over."
She sits down beside me. This is my day, I think. This is where I want to be and this is where I am. Sarah on one side, Sam on the other.
I go to class as I've done all the other days. I sit with Sam at lunch. We don't talk about the fire. We must be the only two in the whole school not
talking about it. The same story, over and over. I never hear my name spoken once. As I expected, Mark isn't in school. A rumor spreads that he and
several of the others will be suspended for the theory the paper has spouted. I don't know if it's true or not. I don't know if I care.
By the time Sarah and I enter the kitchen for eighth-period home ec, my certainty that I'm safe has taken a firm hold. Such a strong certainty that I'm
confident I must be wrong, that something has been overlooked. The doubt has been creeping up throughout the day but I've been quick to push it back
down.
We make tapioca pudding. An easy day. In the middle of class, the kitchen door opens. It's the hall monitor. I look at him and I know immediately
what it means. The harbinger of bad news. The messenger of death. He walks straight up to me and hands me a slip of paper.
"Mr. Harris wants to see you," he says.
"Now?"
He nods.
I look at Sarah and shrug. I don't want her to see my fear. I smile at her and walk to the door. Before I leave I turn around and look at her again.
She's bent over the table mixing our ingredients, wearing the same green apron that I tied on her my first day, the day we made pancakes and ate them
off the same plate. Her hair is in a ponytail and loose strands dangle in front of her face. She tucks them behind her ear and as she does she sees me
standing in the doorway watching her. I keep staring, trying to remember every minute detail of this moment, the way she grips the wooden spoon in her
hand, the ivory look to her skin with the light coming in the windows behind her, the tenderness in her eyes. Her shirt has a loose button at the collar. I
wonder if she knows about it. Then the hall monitor says something behind me. I wave at Sarah, shut the door, and walk down the hall. I take my time,
trying to convince myself that it's just a formality, some document we forgot to sign, some question about transcripts. But I know it's not just a formality.
Mr. Harris sits at his desk when I enter the office. He is smiling in a way that terrifies me, the same prideful smile that he had on the day he pulled
Mark from class to do the interview.
"Sit down," he says. I sit. "So, is it true?" he asks. He glances at his computer screen, then he looks back at me.
"Is what true?"
On his desk there is an envelope with my name handwritten in black ink. He sees me looking at it.
"Oh yes, this was faxed to you about half an hour ago."
He picks the envelope up and tosses it to me. I catch it.
"What is it?" I ask.
"No idea. My secretary sealed it in the envelope as soon as it arrived."
Several things happen at once. I open the envelope and remove its contents. Two sheets of paper. The top is a cover page with my name on it and
"CONFIDENTIAL" written in large black letters. I shuffle it behind the second sheet. A single sentence written in all capitals. No name. Just four black
words on a white canvas.
"So, Mr. Smith, is it true? Did you run into that burning house to save Sarah Hart and those dogs?" Mr. Harris asks. Blood rushes to my face. I look
up. He turns his computer monitor towards me so that I can read the screen. It's the blog affiliated with the Paradise Gazette. I don't need to look at the
name of the author to know who has written it. The title is more than enough.
THE JAMES HOUSE FIRE: THE UNTOLD STORY
My breath catches in my throat. My heart races. The world stops, or at least it seems to. I feel dead inside. I look back down at the sheet of paper
I'm holding. White paper, smooth in my fingertips. It reads:
ARE YOU NUMBER 4?
Both sheets fall from my hands, drift away, and float to the floor, where they lie motionless. I don't understand, I think. How can this be?
"So is it?" Mr. Harris asks.
My mouth drops open. Mr. Harris is smiling, proud, happy. But it's not him that I see. It's what's behind him, seen through the windows of his office.
A blur of red coming around the corner, moving faster than what is normal, than what is safe. The squeal of tires as it zips into the lot. The pickup truck
throwing gravel as it makes a second turn. Henri leaning over the wheel like some crazed maniac. He hits the brakes so forcefully that his whole body
jerks and the truck comes screeching to a stop.
I close my eyes.
I place my head in my hands.
Through the window I hear the truck door open. I hear it close.
Henri will be in this office within the minute.
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