The Taking (10 page)

I didn’t reheat the spaghetti because I’d always liked it cold better anyway. I peeled back the plastic wrap and thrust my fork into the center, thinking I should be starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since I’d stolen a handful of popcorn from “my brother.” I twirled the fork, mesmerized by the way the pasta swirled and whorled around it, gathering it into a bulging wad, and then I lifted the entire mass and plunged it into my mouth.

My mom had always complained that watching me eat spaghetti was like watching the animals feeding at the zoo and that I might as well lift the plate up to my mouth and shovel it directly in. She wasn’t entirely wrong; I did love my spaghetti.

Clamping my teeth down on the first bite of the soft pasta, I closed my eyes, preparing to savor it, letting it roll over my tongue. But I knew immediately that something wasn’t quite right with it. Maybe it was the recipe. Maybe my mom had tweaked it over the years. Or maybe there was something wrong with the ingredients she’d used. Regardless of the reason, it definitely wasn’t the same spaghetti I’d remembered.

I chewed anyway, forcing it down. I tried the meatball. My grandmother’s recipe had been handed down from her mother and then passed to my mom, and would eventually be passed down to me. My dad used to say I’d cut my teeth on these meatballs.

But it was just like the spaghetti. The meatballs were the same, but not. Like everything else since I’d returned. They were . . .
off
.

I continued eating, but less enthusiastically, and halfway through my meal I finally gave up and washed the rest of it down the garbage disposal. It was the first time in my life I got no real joy out of my mom’s spaghetti, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was me, or if she’d done something to sabotage it, although I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why.

Tucking the calendar beneath my arm, I went back to my room and threw myself on my bed to read through the messages my mom had taken. Three of them made my pulse rise all over again—the three from Cat.

Cat, and not Austin.

Cat, who’d called at 4:15, 4:53, and again at 6:36. Her cell number, which was the same as it had been five years ago, was also written down on each note, as if it wasn’t permanently etched in my brain.

I crumpled up all of the messages and tossed them into one of the shopping bags my mom had left piled in my room, filled with the clothes she’d brought back with her from Old Navy, Macy’s, and American Eagle—none of which I’d bothered looking through yet.

The fourth message was from my dad, letting me know he hadn’t been able to make it back tonight but that he would definitely be here first thing in the morning to take me to breakfast.

Probably better that we’d be going out. Maybe without my mom around I could talk to him—really talk to him. And maybe he’d stop bringing up the whole light thing or his whacked-out theories about UFOs.

Maybe he’d go back to being my dad again.

When my phone buzzed, it scared the crap out of me.

I bolted upright and checked the time on the digital clock that I’d set so it was synchronized precisely with my phone, which I assumed was set to some sort of world standard. I hadn’t been sleeping, but I’d been trying to, or least pretending I was trying to, as I’d stretched out and stared at the ceiling, waiting for that drowsy-floaty feeling of sleep to claim me. If only I could shut off my mind for a few seconds.

I slipped my hand beneath my pillow and pulled out my phone, checking to see who was calling at this hour.

It wasn’t a call, though; it was a text. From Tyler.

Your lights are on,
it read.

I was suddenly glad I’d handed him my phone earlier, and completely embarrassed that I’d freaked out on him back at the school. We’d driven home in the kind of charged silence that had made it feel like we’d had a fight even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. It was all me, really, being weird and jumpy about the fact that I was some kind of aberration who had no memory of what had happened to me for five whole years.

Very observant,
I texted back, unable to stop myself from smiling now.

His response was immediate.
I left you something. Look out your window.

I hoped that “something” was him.

But as quickly as the thought sprang to my head, I stamped it out.
Stop it. He’s just a friend. Just a friend . . .
Unfortunately, that mantra wasn’t working very well.

Still, I was a little disappointed when he wasn’t standing there on the other side of my window. I frowned, opening the window and leaning out.

On the ground was a bag—the same smooth brown paper his comic book had been bagged in from the bookstore.

Like a seasoned veteran, I was out the window and back in my room in a blink. I peeled back the paper and peeked inside.

Immediately, I texted him back.
A book?

After only a slight pause he answered:
One of the best in my collection.

I looked again, to see what it was:
Fahrenheit 451
by Ray Bradbury. I’d heard of it but never read it. It was old, like the other one, and he had it in plastic even though this one was a regular paperback.

I don’t want to ruin it
, I responded.

I trust you
. And that simple, three-word statement made me grin so wide my cheeks ached. A second text said,
I thought it might help you sleep.

My mischievous side kicked in.
So you’re saying it’s boring?

This time the wait was a little longer, and just when I thought maybe my teasing hadn’t translated over text message and he wasn’t going to answer, my phone buzzed again.
I’m saying I want to share one of my very favorite things in the world with you, Kyra.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Day Three

I FINISHED THE BOOK AT
4:25
IN THE MORNING
, exactly four hours and thirteen minutes after I’d started it. Since it was 238 pages, that was just under a page a minute, so I knew I wouldn’t be winning any speed-reading contests or anything.

I knew now why it was one of Tyler’s favorite things. I loved it. Not in the sense that I felt all warm and fuzzy after reading it or anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Montag, the main character who’d spent his life burning books, and his technology-addicted wife, and the free-thinking girl next door who was “different” from everyone else, never fitting into her strange, emotionless society.

I was different, I couldn’t help thinking. Like Clarisse had been.

I continued to be haunted by the book long after I’d slipped it back into its synthetic sleeve and placed it on my nightstand. I was downright giddy at the prospect of seeing Tyler again, and maybe I’d talk about the book with him if it meant drawing out our time together, because I was so not above going there.

I glanced up when my bedroom door started to open, but then it stopped and there was a brisk knock.

“Yeah,” I called, keeping my voice down since it was only . . . I checked: 7:47.

It opened the rest of the way, and The Husband was there, filling the doorway and studying me. We hadn’t spent much, or any, really, time together. I’d avoided him as much as possible, staying in parts of the house where he wasn’t—my room namely—and venturing out only when necessary. Just seeing him now made my stomach do nervous flips.

I couldn’t help it; I still had that bitter taste in my mouth over our first encounter. Deep down, I knew none of this was his fault, but it didn’t change the fact that I blamed him, at least in some part, for the way things were. For my parents’ divorce, for that new kid in the nursery down the hall, for the guest room I was living in.

He made an attempt to smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he offered, and inside I grimaced. My dad called me “kiddo,” not him. “Your dad’s here. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared woodenly at him until he finally got the point and retreated with a shrug.

Since I hadn’t really slept, I’d never bothered putting on pajamas, so I quickly stripped out of what I’d worn yesterday and snagged the first pair of jeans and a vintage-style T-shirt I could find in the bags my mom had delivered—glad she’d gotten my sizes right. She’d even bought me a pair of simple black-and-white Chuck Taylors, which, as far as I was concerned, went with everything. They were a little stiff for my liking, but I figured they’d be broken in soon enough.

My dad was alone and sitting at his same spot at the kitchen table when I came in. He looked up at me earnestly.

Without meaning to, I caught myself giving him the once-over. Evaluating his clothes, his state of cleanliness, his posture, right down to trying to decide how red his eyes were.

He’d showered and changed clothes since yesterday, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I thought he might have gotten a haircut. He hadn’t shaved, but his beard looked . . . trimmed . . . less scruffy. Even his eyes were clearer as they caught mine.

“Sorry I didn’t make it back here last night; I got tied up.” He shook his head and glanced away from me.

I sat down at the table across from him like always, so we were facing each other. I was nervous—he was making me nervous. He looked like he had something to say, and I was worried it wasn’t something I wanted to hear. He probably would have tried to reach for my hands if I hadn’t had them buried in my lap and balled tightly. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I shouldn’t have said all that stuff yesterday. . . .”

He didn’t finish, but I knew he was done talking when he winced and waited for me. I guess I was supposed to say something then.

I wanted to; I just wasn’t sure what that something was. It was so weird to be tongue-tied around my own parents, so I shrugged because I couldn’t think of anything else. I checked the microwave, thinking that only three minutes had passed even though it felt like forever.

More than anything, though, I wished he’d fill this awkward silence with one of his stupid expressions. I wished he’d say something like “An apology is a good way to have the last word.” Or “It’s easier to apologize than to ask for permission”—not that that one would have made sense in this situation, but I would have welcomed anything to break the tension right now.

And then he snorted. “Man, that kid across the street sure likes you, doesn’t he?”

My eyes flew open, and I stared at him. “Who? Tyler? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me, something that was
so
my old dad that I almost laughed at him. “The new art out front. He’s got it pretty bad, is all I’m saying.”

“Dad!” I jumped up, not wanting to admit that what he told me meant a million times more than it should. That it was killing me not to bolt to the front door so I could see if Tyler really had drawn something new for me. “You have no idea what you’re even talking about.” I tried to sound like it was nothing when really, at that very moment, it was everything. “He’s Austin’s brother,” I tried again, and this time I could hear it, the fact that I was so not convincing. There was no way my dad hadn’t heard it too. But I was already making my way out of the kitchen toward the front of the house.

I heard my dad laughing at me from the table. “See for yourself, and then tell me it’s nothing,” he called after me.

When I stepped outside and saw what he meant, I knew. . . .

He wasn’t wrong.

The old drawing—the path—and the writing—“I’ll remember you always”—were gone. Erased. And in their place was a new “masterpiece,” and it was infinitely more beautiful and more meaningful.

It was the birdcage in the center of the road that caught my attention first: chalk drawn and intricate, with its delicate bowed, golden bars. Its door was hanging open wide, and a small blue bird was just taking flight, with small chalk wisps depicting it gathering momentum as it broke free from its confines.

And below the bird, tracing the path of its trajectory, were the words Tyler had chosen . . . just for me.

The script was so different from the morning before, yet just as elegant and lovingly crafted, each letter carefully placed and delicately drawn. But it was the meaning of them, those words, all together that made me pause as I stepped closer, taking them all in at once:

The best things in life are worth the risk
.

I inhaled sharply, telling myself I shouldn’t be grinning but unable to stop myself. I thought of the way he’d taken my hand when I’d jumped from my window yesterday, or the way his dimple carved into his cheek whenever he smiled at me. I doubted
those
were the “best things” he meant, but my mind went there anyway, because clearly I was beyond redemption.

“Come on,
Juliet
,” my dad said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “Let me buy you some coffee with
real
cream. Maybe we’ll even get eggs from a chicken instead’a that Egg Beaters crap your mom buys.”

It wasn’t half bad, hanging out with my dad. He wasn’t the same or anything, but he was trying way harder than my mom was. Or maybe he was trying
differently
. It was like he wanted to be his old self, but he’d forgotten who that was exactly.

Five years is a long time.

He didn’t push me, though. I think he wanted to, especially when I hadn’t touched more than a bite of my Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity, the pancakes smothered in strawberries and whipped cream that had always been my favorite. From the worried looks he shot my way, you’d’ve thought I’d kicked a puppy or something.

“It’s no big deal,” I told him, shoving the plate away from me. “I guess I just don’t like it anymore is all.”

He lifted his hand to wave our server over, but I stopped him. “It’s okay. I wasn’t really hungry anyway.” He dropped his hand, looking more satisfied by that answer than he had by the idea that my tastes might have grown up over the past five years. “Sure. Okay.” He reached for his coffee and dumped in a disgusting amount of cream, until it was more tan than brown.