The Energy Crusades (32 page)

Chapter One

"Mom," I whisper softly and give her shoulders a shake. But her eyes remain closed; her lips are half-parted and turned slightly up at the corners as if she's gazing at something wonderful. Maybe she is.

I sigh and lean in a little closer to her face. "Mom, are you just taking a nap?" I ask in a slightly louder voice and poke her cheek with my index finger. When she still doesn't move, my temper snaps. "Wake uuuuppp!" I yell right into her ear.

There's no response.

Great, I've lost her again. Feeling in the pit of my stomach that days of loneliness and silence are looming before me, I give up and back away from the bed.

I try not to blame her. Shoot, if there weren't bills to pay, books to write, groceries to buy, and school to attend, I'd let myself get lost in there for a couple of days too. But somebody has to take care of things out here in the real world; somebody has to make sure we stay together.

I tuck the embroidered sheet tighter around Mom's slender shoulders and bend to brush my lips on her forehead. Her shallow, measured breaths feel like a light wind blowing across my face. She doesn't stir at my kiss. Her head lays unmoving on the pillow, her white eyelashes fanning themselves over two porcelain cheeks and long, golden hair framing her face like a halo.

I push myself off the bed, the soles of my sneakers making scuffling noises as I drag them across the soft, cream-colored carpet that covers the floor of Mom's bedroom. It's not as if I need to keep quiet though — a herd of wild elephants won't wake her up now, not until she decides she wants to be awake.

And who knows how long that will be this time.

* * * *

I pad through the bedroom door, flicking off the lights and pulling the screen shut behind me. My heart sinks heavily in my chest as I walk into the kitchen and plop down onto one of the high stools tucked under the island in the middle of the room.

Two days this time. My hand slams down on the marble countertop, and I lose my cool for the second time in five minutes. Only two days! Is it so awful out here with me she can't even last a week anymore? I let my head hang and rest my elbows on the counter. My eyelids flutter closed, and I take a deep breath, then another. In and out. In and out. This is what I do to calm down when life seems overwhelming.

Life seems overwhelming a lot these days.

It wasn't always like this, though. The three of us were a happy family once, a long time ago. But then she started leaving me to be with him. We got evicted from place after place because Mom wouldn't work. There never seemed to be enough money, even when I ran errands after school to try to make ends meet. I remember how my teeth chattered when the heat was finally turned off in our last house, and how Mom's eyes slowly became dull and haunted. The only thing I could do was watch helplessly as she fell deeper and deeper into the other world.

There is one good thing about what we are. When we're asleep, we power down. Our physical bodies don't need food, or water, or anything except somewhere to curl up and dream. So at least I only had one mouth to feed — my own.

A twelve-year-old girl should never have to make her own way in the world. And yet somehow, I've managed these five years since. Because unlike my mother, I choose to live my life, not dream it away.

* * * *

Once my pounding heart slows and I feel myself relax, I take one last breath and open my eyes. The glowing numbers on the countertop tell me I've been standing here for fifteen minutes. Too long. There are only a few minutes to spare before I miss the morning train and am late for school again. Not wasting any more time, I scoop my bag and sweatshirt off the floor and head for the front door.

As I punch in the code to unlock the door and slide it open, I quickly scan the screen mounted on the wall of the hallway. There's a wall screen in each room of the house, and I always leave a couple of windows open so I can keep tabs on the serious stuff, like how much money is left in the bank, what bills are coming up this month, tests, homework assignments, and most importantly, when Mom's pages are due.

Which apparently, was yesterday.

Crap! I can't believe I missed a deadline. I'm always so careful about keeping track of the exact dates and times. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I quickly type out an apology to Evan, Mom's book editor, promising to have the pages for him by tomorrow morning. He doesn't know the books by his most famous client, Lily Dal Monte, are actually written by her seventeen-year-old daughter. I wait until I hear the deadbolts for the front door slide into place. Once they do, with two heavy, reassuring clunks, I take off down the stone steps leading from our secluded house to the street below.

My thoughts swirl as I make my way towards the main gate, frustrated that I've forgotten the pages. I've been so excited to have Mom awake, all my other responsibilities just slipped my mind.

But I'd rather have an angry book editor, hundreds of miles away, holed up in his little cubicle of misery, than hear one more lecture from Mr. Thorne about being late to school. And I definitely don't need to try to finagle my way out of another parent-principal conference with Thorne. He's sort of obsessed with Mom, even though he's only met her once.

As I fly down the main road of our super-private community, I wave at the guard posted by the large metal gate that blocks my route out to the world.

From inside his tiny hut, Gus waves back. "Don't be late again!" he calls out to me and winks. He tips his hat, a tan-colored monstrosity the neighborhood makes him wear as part of his uniform.

"That's the plan," I yell back and imitate his gesture even though I'm not wearing a hat. It's our little morning routine. I squeeze through the small opening he's made for me in the bars, and wave as I rush off to catch the train. My sneakers slap hard against the pavement as the cold autumn wind blows right through my dark blue sweatshirt; I should have worn something warmer.

As I race toward the train platform at the end of the street, I gaze back at the big gate and let it comfort me. No one knows this is where my famous mother lives. No one's ever been able to find her.

And until I turn eighteen, it needs to stay that way.