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.”“I was drooling?”She laughs.“Not too much.”I hide my head in my hands.The air in the room is stale and smells like crusted-up blood and doubt.Betty pulls my hands away.Her face is smiling.“He likes you, Zara.He took care of you.That’s what men do when they take a shine to you.”“He obviously has some rescue-the-damsel-in-distress gene, which is totally inappropriate because I am hardly a damsel in distress,” I say, a little too bitterly.Even I can hear it.“Hardly.You’re too busy trying to rescue people you don’t know.” She points at my pile of Amnesty International papers.“Like that’s a bad thing?”“It’s a good thing, Zara.It’s just.Well.we all need a little bit of rescuing from time to time.It doesn’t make us weak.”“He doesn’t like me like me.”“You know, there’s nothing wrong with admitting he likes you.There’s nothing wrong with feeling good things, Zara.Your dad doesn’t want any of us to stop living.”My bedcovers are all tangled up on the mattress.None of them are in the right place.I try to straighten them.My pile of books and Amnesty International human rights reports topple against my foot.The book with my dad’s name in it awaits.“This place is such a mess,” I mumble, trying to stack the reports up again.“I’m sorry I’m so messy.I bet my mom wasn’t messy when you guys took her in.”“She wasn’t messy, but she never put the cap back on the toothpaste.”“She still doesn’t!” I shake the human rights report at Betty for emphasis.There are so many numbers in those reports, and each number represents someone’s pain, someone’s story.My stomach crumples and I put the book gently on the pile.Then I pick up the book from the library.“Dad took this book out.His name is in the back.”She takes the book and stares at it.After what seems like forever, she says in a quiet voice, “Do not fear.Here there be tygers.”“Do you think he wrote that?” I touch her arm.She suddenly seems frail.“Looks like his handwriting.”“What do you think it means?”“It was a Ray Bradbury story.” I must give her a look because she adds, “He was a science fiction writer.One of the best.”“Oh, I’m not really up on my science fiction.”“Hmm.” Betty becomes serious, shuts the book, and hands it back to me.I hold it against my chest for a second, even though it sounds super corny.The book feels kind of special.Like it’s a message left from my dad to me.Betty eyes me.“You went outside, alone, last night.”I place the book on top of the pile of human rights’ reports.“I know, I—”“Zara?” Betty’s voice turns into a warning.I haven’t responded as quickly as I should have.“I’m sorry,” I rush out.“I told Nick and Issie what I was doing.Well, I left them text messages so they couldn’t talk me out of it.And I.I just wanted some answers.”“And you thought you’d go looking for answers in the dark?” She picks up a pillow.I haul in a massive breath.“Look.I was trying to find someone.”“Someone?”“That man on the side of the road.We saw him when you brought me home from the airport.” I keep smoothing the already pretty smooth sheets.They feel cool against my hands, soft and stable.Betty sucks in her breath.“Zara, that is not a good idea.”I straighten up.“Why?”She stops fluffing a pillow.It dangles.“He’s dangerous.”“How? How do you know he’s dangerous? How is he dangerous?”She takes a step away from me, backing into the bed.She starts making it all over again, tucking the sheet corners tightly into the mattress.“I think he’s the one who kidnapped the Beard-sley boy.”“I think so too.So why don’t we arrest him?”“You have to be able to catch someone to arrest them.” She fidgets more with my pillow, jerking it around with quick, aggressive movements.The sun shines onto her gray hair and makes it glisten like snow.“And he seems to leave no trace, no tracks, just appears and disappears.I’m surprised we even saw him that evening.I’d like to see him again.”“Why?”“To catch him,” she snarls, and for a moment it’s like my grandmother is gone.It’s like she’s someone different, primal, and then she snaps back.“Anyone who can kidnap boys.”“But you aren’t positive it’s him.”“No.I’m not positive.”I want to tell Nick and Issie and Devyn.“I’m super late for school.”“I’ll drive you.”“You don’t have to,” I say, whirling back around to look at her.Her shoulders are broad, like a swimmer’s, but skinny.I don’t know how she can be an EMT heaving all those people around, saving them when she’s so old herself.“I want to,” she says, smiling.“Let me be your grammy for a day and take care of you.Okay?”I smile back.“Okay.If you make me hot cocoa.”“Plus, you might have a slight concussion.”“I do not have a slight concussion.”“Of course you do.”Betty drops me off at school.We sit in the truck for a second even though I’m already tardy and I’ll have to go get a note from Mrs.Nix.“Your mother misses you, Zara,” Betty says out of nowhere.Something tightens inside me.“Uh-huh.Did you know that some people are afraid of ugliness? Really.There’s a name for it and everything.It’s called cacophobia.”“And some people are afraid of talking about their mothers.”“Oh, nice one.”“Don’t roll your eyes,” Betty says, but not in an angry way.She taps her fingers on the steering wheel.“I’m just a little worried about your relationship.It seems like you’re avoiding her.”I close my eyes so I don’t roll them again.“She sent me away.”“Because she was worried about you.You lost your spunk.” Betty reaches over and squeezes my knee.The skin on her hand is fragile and paper thin.“I think you’re getting your spunk back.”I raise my eyebrow, just one, on purpose, to show her what I think of that.She slaps my knee and laughs.“There’s talent right there.Now, get going.”She honks her horn good-bye and leaves me, off to go rescue the world for another day.I drag myself through the freezing wind into school and down the corridors, past the big wooden Eagle statue and the art students’ self-portraits.I really don’t want to be here, but it’s better than being home alone all day thinking about the voice in the woods.The school secretary’s office door is closed but I open it and stand by the counter waiting for Mrs.Nix to turn around and notice me.She’s filing and trilling out a country song about wasting time and driving in cars.I clear my throat so she’ll know I’m here.It works.She turns around and smiles.“Zara!”She puts down her papers on her desk and walks to the counter [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]