Tumble & Fall (10 page)

The TV was set up with seven hundred channels and the Internet. Not that there had been anything on worth watching since the announcement. Late last night, George had escorted him to the living room, where they’d all gathered to watch the president on TV. While George shook his massive head, swearing lightly under his breath, and Luisa, the Brazilian housekeeper, repeated a prayer in Portuguese, Caden tried not to notice Sophie, or the way that Arthur was stroking her hair, tender and protective.

The announcement itself Caden hadn’t found all that impressive. They were going to send yet another nuclear device into space, hoping that
this
time, it might make a difference. What else could they do? The president had to give them something. He couldn’t just twiddle his thumbs and say:
Well, we’ve done what we can. Let’s just wait and see how this thing shakes out …

Which is what Caden would have said, if he had been president. Persephone was either going to hit them, or she wasn’t. This was real life, after all, not some big-budget Hollywood movie. There was no last-minute Bruce Willis space-cowboy, riding a rocket to save them. If there were any way to weaken the asteroid, or to somehow alter its course, it would already have happened, months or even years ago. It couldn’t possibly work now. He’d never thought it would.

As he lies awake the next morning, tucked between the high-thread-count sheets and soft down comforter on the strange, guest-room bed, he can’t help but think about Ramona and Carly. Where had they been when the announcement was made? What are they doing now? He’s been gone two nights. Has Ramona even noticed? Carly is definitely freaking out. They’d probably both assumed that he left on purpose. It’s not like he never thought about it. Why not spend whatever time was left bumming around on the beach? The nights were warm enough, and there would always be people around. It would sure beat tiptoeing around Ramona and one of her epic hangovers.

But Carly would go out looking. And when he wasn’t at the docks, or at any of the bars downtown, trying to sneak in with the rest of the underage hopefuls, she’d know that something was up.

Caden turns off the TV. CNN and the other news, science, and weather stations just rehash the same endless, exhausting speculation. The religious stations are just as obsessed. The rest of the channels play a constant loop of upbeat movies, syndicated sitcoms, classic sports broadcasts, nonthreatening cooking shows, and zany children’s cartoons. Caden wonders if there is a backlog of programs like these, kept together for this exact purpose. Filed under: B
ROADCAST
W
HEN
A
LL
H
OPE
I
S
L
OST.

He looks down at the grimy stains on his two-day-old clothes and rummages through the drawers of the armoire. His father had said it was stocked with clean clothes when he’d knocked on the door before bed. Caden pretended to be asleep. His father could lock him up for as long as he wanted. It didn’t mean they had to be friends.

In one drawer is a stack of plain white crewneck T-shirts, and an unopened six-pack of boxers. In another, a few pairs of stiff, dark jeans. Caden gets dressed, though he’s not really sure why. He leaves his old clothes in a heap on the floor, except for his gray, hooded sweatshirt, which he throws back on at the last minute.

The door, which Arthur had locked, is now open a crack. The hallway is lit up by the glow of morning sun, and George and his neck are nowhere in sight. From the kitchen, Caden hears the distinct sounds of a dishwasher being emptied, the clatter of plates and glasses returning to their cupboard homes.

He pads softly down the steps, half expecting to be scooped up and carried back to his room at any moment. But he spies George leaning against the stone wall outside, smoking a cigarette and inspecting the soles of his enormous black loafers.

In the kitchen, he runs into Luisa. Literally. “Caden!” She beams at him, fumbling with the tray she has balanced on both hands. “You were a baby the last time I see you. So much of a man now, yes?”

Caden stares at her, and then beyond her, to where the girl—woman?—from the pool is standing over the stove. Today, she wears a boxy button-up shirt, faded yellow and rolled up at the sleeves, and black leggings. Her hair is messy and loosely pulled back. Somehow, she looks even better in grungy clothes, her tanned forehead creased as she squints at the pan, scraping a spatula around its low, square edges.

Luisa inches toward him with the tray. “I was just bringing you breakfast. Sophie make crepes. You like crepes?”

Sophie smiles shyly at Caden. There’s an uneven gap between her two front teeth, which Caden hadn’t noticed yesterday, probably because he was busy noticing everything else, and a small bump at the top of her nose, as if it had been broken, long ago. Somehow, these slight imperfections make her face even harder to look away from, as if it needs to be studied, close up. Caden feels his face getting hot. He shifts his eyes quickly to the sand-colored tiles on the floor.

“And bacon,” Luisa continues. “You used to love the bacon.”

Caden looks at her suspiciously. It’s true. He did love the bacon. The smell of it still makes him giddy and warm, though he has no idea why. Ever since Carly spent a summer taking care of the cows at Laughton’s dairy, she’s been a raging vegetarian. And since Carly does the shopping, Caden eats what Carly eats. He hasn’t seen bacon in years. “How do you know that?” he asks Luisa. “How—have we met before?”

Luisa lowers the tray to the counter, the crisp fold of her starched white shirt cut around her waist by the looping black tie of her apron. “You come to visit,” she says. “When you are very small, you, your mother, your sister, you come stay here at Hart Haven.” She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of orange juice. She pours a tall glass and passes it to Caden, bustling her way out of the kitchen. “I check on the laundry. Sit, Caden. Eat.”

She moves the tray to the far side of the kitchen island, across from the built-in stove top where Sophie stands, ladling scoopfuls of gooey batter onto the sizzling pan. Caden pulls out one of the high stools, wincing as the wooden legs screech across the tiles.

Sophie passes him two bowls, one full of berries, the other with peaks of frothy whipped cream. He spoons out a little of each and digs in. Despite Luisa’s many attempts, he hasn’t had a full meal in days.

“You’re still here,” Sophie says lightly, once Luisa has gone. She rests one hand on her side as she moves the pan with the other, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of her full lips.

Caden swallows a too-big bite and prays he doesn’t choke. His temples throb as he remembers being hauled across the kitchen and up to his room, passing Sophie on the stairs. Not exactly the slickest of first impressions.

“Yeah,” Caden says, washing down the syrupy bite with a long sip of OJ, in a way that, he hopes, looks casual and collected. “Figured I’d at least stick around for breakfast.”

Sophie turns and reaches into the glass-covered cabinets for a plate on a high shelf. Her baggy shirt inches up toward the curve of her hips, a smooth patch of tanned skin exposed along her side. Caden cuts another bite, the side of his fork squawking across the top of his plate.

“And?” Sophie asks, flipping a new batch of crepes out of the pan. “Was it worth it?”

Caden swallows and smiles. “Not bad,” he says with a shrug.

Sophie switches off the burner, the blue flame swallowed in a sudden swoosh. She brings her plate to the other side of the island and sits, her elbow angled on the counter just a few inches from his.

After a few long moments of careful chewing and the clipped clatter of utensils, Caden clears his throat. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Sophie answers. She takes a small swig of juice and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “You mean another one?”

Caden rolls his eyes playfully. “I guess so.”

“Go for it,” Sophie allows, between bites.

“What are you—”

“What am I doing with a guy like your father?” she interrupts. She tilts her head to one side, her lips pulled tight in a wry little smile.

Caden holds his fork frozen in the air, a laugh trapped in his throat. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s start there.”

“Probably for the same reasons that you’re still here.” Sophie shrugs, cutting the rest of her crepe into even, manageable bites.

Caden leans back on his stool. He thinks of the locked door, the heavy weight of George’s hands still burning beneath his ribs. She can’t possibly think that he
wants
to be here, can she? “I haven’t run away because there’s a fathead bodyguard watching my every move,” he says flatly.

Sophie makes her eyes into wide brown saucers. “Really?” she asks, looking dramatically around the kitchen, under the table, behind the sliding glass doors. “Where?”

Caden stabs a final bite with his fork. He feels the tips of his ears burning and hopes his disheveled hair is long enough to hide them.

Sophie leans across the island, her hair falling over one shoulder. “Hey,” she says, gently. “I just meant that he’s not such a bad guy. I mean, yeah, he thinks he can do whatever he wants and get away with it, but once you look past the—”

“He had me drugged and kidnapped,” Caden says sharply. “It’s kind of hard to look past all that.”

Sophie looks away. “You’re right,” she says after a pause. “I’m sorry.”

Caden shrugs. The air is suddenly charged between them, and he wishes he hadn’t done that, hadn’t taken it out on her. So her taste in men is questionable, at best. It’s not her fault that he’s here.

“I guess there are worse places to be locked up,” he jokes. “And I lied before, about the crepes. They’re better than not-bad. They’re good. Really good.”

Sophie smiles into her plate. “Thanks,” she says. “I used to work at this French place in Boston. It’s where I met your dad, actually. He came in for lunch all the time.”

“Waitress?” Caden asks. He quietly stacks his fork and knife on his plate and finishes the last of his juice.

Sophie nods. “I was saving up for school,” she says. “But then I met Arthur…”

Caden pushes back his stool and brings his plate to the sink. He gives it a quick rinse and puts it in the dishwasher. He knows he could have left it for Luisa, but it feels important to do what he can for himself.

“I know it sounds lame,” Sophie says. Caden can feel her eyes on the back of his head. “But … I don’t know. I guess sometimes it’s nice to be taken care of. You know?”

Caden stares through the wall of windows. The glare of the sun paints white streaks across the pool and he wishes he could be out there, underwater, not worried about anything but holding his breath. He wishes he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Anyway.” Sophie stands and brings her own plate to the sink, just as Caden is starting toward the hall. Her shoulder brushes the side of his arm and he feels a warm shock. “You should probably go get ready. Arthur likes to get an early start.”

“An early start for what?” Caden asks.

Sophie turns to look at him, one hand on the gleaming silver faucet. “He didn’t tell you?” she asks. “He’s taking you on a trip. Some kind of last-minute bonding thing, I guess. Don’t ask me where. I never get any details.”

Caden glances down the hall at the closed front door. A trip? Who says he wants to go on a trip? Is it even possible to be kidnapped twice?

Sophie leaves her plate in the sink and grabs a towel from a hook near the patio doors. “See you when you get back?”

Caden nods and offers a hand in a sort of half wave, half salute. As he makes his way back upstairs, he considers his options. Putting up another fight will only result in more humiliating wrestling with George … or worse. And he has to get out of here, somehow. He has to talk to Carly. He has to let them know he’s all right.

Caden walks to the closet in his room and spots a generic black duffel bag, tucked away on the top shelf. He opens the dresser drawers and stuffs the bag with T-shirts and boxers, another clean pair of stiff jeans. It feels strange to be packing clothes that aren’t his, but then, everything feels strange lately.

ZAN

“So how’d they take it?” Nick asks. He swings into the harbor, his truck rattling around the sharp corner where the paved road turns to dusty dirt. “Your parents.”

Zan shrugs. She spent the morning trying to talk herself out of leaving, silently begging her parents to give her a reason to stay. But Daniel had kept himself holed up in his studio and Miranda was still in town, sneaking her vegetables into the ration boxes and lecturing whoever would listen on the enduring relevance of a healthy, varied diet. It was hard to feel needed when there was nobody around.

“I left a note,” she says, hugging the bag she’d stuffed full of random skirts and tops and a few clean pairs of underwear in her lap. Packing was a challenge when she had no idea where they were going, or how long they’d be gone. “I doubt they’ll even notice.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Nick says, his eyes steady and focused on the tapering road ahead. Zan straightens the beginnings of a smile. She remembers the way Leo used to tease Nick for never picking up on his jokes, for earnestly engaging his every sarcastic remark. There was a time when Zan thought that Nick must be a little slow. He clearly didn’t have Leo’s sharp wit or dry sense of humor. But now, she’s not so sure. Who says everything has to be a joke all of the time? Especially now—why say anything unless you really mean it?

And he’s right. Of course her parents will notice that she’s gone. No matter how deeply they bury themselves in projects and routine, it’s clear that they’re anxious, clear that they’d like her around. And for a moment, Zan wonders if she should stay. What if this really is their last week together? Does she want to spend it on some crazy mission, searching for clues and an answer she isn’t sure she wants to find?

Before she can change her mind, Nick pulls into a spot by the docks. His boat is tied up before them, a twenty-three-foot SeaCraft named (without the slightest hint of irony)
My Girl.