Vendetta (25 page)

"Where were you tonight
?" he finally asks, voice low.

"The warehouse. Down by the boardwalk."

"Shit," he mutters. "We have to get out of here." He grabs my hand and pulls me across the living room. We dodge the couch, an end table.

"What?"

"It's breaking news. There was some kin
d of explosion. A bomb. They've declared martial law on the entire city. They're bringing in the National Guard."

He flips on the bathroom light and dumps the contents of a plastic bag onto the counter.

"They're looking for someone for questioning. A girl
, seen leaving the parking lot just after it happened. They got the description of your car wrong, but the warehouse is burning now. It won't take long for them to piece everything together."

He fumbles with the cardboard packaging of a box of hair dye. H
ands trembling. He rips a switchblade from his pocket and slices the box in two.

"I got this for tomorrow, just in case." He dumps the bottles and vials and instructions into the sink, then bolts from the room. As I combine the liquids, the only kind of c
hemistry I ever excelled at, I can hear kitchen drawers clattering. Opening and slamming. Opening and slamming. Their contents rattling inside. He returns with a pair of scissors. Pink polka-dotted handle. From the Desk of Kitty Fleming.

I slip my sweatshi
rt over my head and toss it in the hallway. "What about your parents?"

"They're out. I left them a note," he says. "I'll call when we get somewhere safe."

My breaths grow shorter.

Somewhere safe. I don't know where that is, anymore. If it even exists.

"H
old still," he says. He grabs a fistful of my hair and cuts. "It's going to be really short."

"It's fine." My reflection stares back at me, eyes wide.

"I'll take you somewhere to get it fixed."

"I said it's fine!" My heart pounds behind my ribcage.

Carter
cuts. The hair falls lifelessly to my shoulders. To the floor at my feet. Clumps of strawberry blonde.

"
Here.
" He hands me the scissors. "You can even it out."

There's a catharsis in cutting hair. And, for me, the action is a familiar one. When there wa
s no money Mom relied on me to cut her hair. Whenever I was tired of the world and everything in it, the first thing I reached for was a pair of scissors. And then, after the accident—the accident that might have set this entire . . . whatever it is . . .
in motion—I cut the black out of my hair, thinking it would somehow change me. That it would make everything better. Tonight, I will be black again. Back with Carter. Full circle, but nothing's the same. 

I nod toward the bottle. "You should do yours, too
," I tell him, feeling the weight of the scissors in my hand, the cool metal against my skin as I layer the sides.

"You first."

"There's plenty. If they suspect me and word gets out you're missing, they'll be looking for both of us."

Carter hesitates, the
n pulls the latex gloves over his hands. He reaches for the bottle, black dye leaking from the sides, and squeezes the somber liquid onto his head. The ammonia smell assaults my nose, makes my eyes water, as he works it in with his fingers, covering the su
n-lightened brown.

"I'm ready," I tell him.

The dye is cool on my scalp. Carter massages it into my hair. Adding more. More. Until my entire head is covered.

"We have fifteen minutes," he says. "Go pack a bag."

I run to the bedroom and fall to the floor, a
rm grasping beneath the bed, feeling for my blue duffle bag. I shove everything I can inside it. Socks and underwear and shirts and shorts. My tennis shoes.

I glance around the room, desperately searching for "what else."

What else?

Anything mine
worth taking, rendering the rest sacrificial.

My rose
.

I snatch the rose from the vase on the dresser and stuff it in the front pocket. This would destroy any other flower. The petals would tear. Smash together. Wither to a soft brown. But not this one. W
hen I remove this rose—wherever we go, wherever we end up—it will be just as perfect then as it is now. The one constant. The only piece left of the Guardian I love. Proof that he exists.

The water is running when I return to the bathroom, and Carter is b
ent over the tub, washing the dye out of his hair. I open the medicine cabinet. Swipe things off shelves. Makeup. Cleansers. Soap. Deodorant.

"I have money," I remind him.

"Me too. We'll stop at an ATM and get out whatever we can tonight, just in case the
y try to freeze our accounts."

He stands to his full height, gray water dripping down his face. I pass him a towel and we switch places. I close my eyes, run my fingers through my hair, rinsing out the black. When I open them again, the blood from my arm i
s slithering down the drain. I blink a few times and it
disappears. Water streams into my eyes, down my face. Collecting in my ears. Wetting my cheeks.

When it runs clear I shut off the water, grab a towel, and dry my hair. When I finish I gaze at my refl
ection. The black is harsh, calloused, and accentuates my light skin. My green eyes are muted and empty. Hair much too short. Pixie-like, and already curling at the ends.

Please let this be enough.

Carter returns with a trash bag and vacuum cleaner. The d
ye has changed him, too. He looks broader. Stronger, somehow. A bit more dangerous than before. He passes into the mirror behind me, and we could be siblings.

"Wipe down the tub with a towel and put everything we used in the trash. We'll get rid of it outs
ide of town."

I slip my tank top over my head and shake the hair off. The tiny pieces flutter, falling, like dandelion fluff after a thousand wishes. I pull it back on, dry the tub, the water on the floor, and toss the damp towel inside the trash bag. The
hair dye, the boxes, the sweatshirt connecting me to this night, even the scissors—it all falls to the bottom of the bag.

Carter sucks up what's left of the blonde with the vacuum, then empties the container.

"We have to go."

I grab my duffle bag and hoi
st it over my shoulder. Carter carries the trash.

I spot the note on my way out—the one with Carter's cell phone number scribbled across it. I pull it off the wall and grab a pen from one of the drawers. At the top:
Joshua. Mara. Seth
. I swallow hard, figh
ting back tears as I write the letters that form his name.

What's going to happen to him?

Just below Carter's name, I sign my own. I don't know if they'll come back. If they
can
come back. If
I
can ever come back. What the world will be like when I do. 

P
lease. Please keep him safe
.

I don't know who or what I'm praying to. I only hope, at that moment, someone is listening.

I flip off the light and shut the door behind us, following Carter down the walkway. He throws the trash into the back of his SUV, sl
ams the door, and we climb in.

"Where's my car?" I ask.

"I took off the plates and parked it in the storage garage. It'll be fine," he insists. "Only the gardeners go in there."

"You don't have to do this, Carter. I can get out myself."

"No, Gee, that's no
t happening."

He cranks the engine.

"But you're leaving your home! Your family! And for what?"

"For you," he says. He holds my headrest, peering over his right shoulder, backing into his circular driveway. Too fast. He switches gears, and we swing
wide around the fountain. Into the street. "Whatever we are, Genesis, whatever I'd like us to be—it doesn't matter anymore. You're my best friend first and foremost. That means getting you out of here. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."

And I reme
mber. . . . The conversation between him and Seth. He
knew
. Seth
knew
there was a possibility. . . . He made Carter promise he would step in if something ever happened. Something like this.

Was that only last night?

It's like a million hours have passed s
ince then. A lifetime.

I watch Carter. His eyes are fixed on the road. Concentrating.

My mom is gone. Seth is gone. Mara. Joshua. Carter is all I have left. He's my Guardian now.

And a calm washes over me. And it's like Seth is here all over again—still t
aking care of me from wherever he is. And for a moment I believe I could turn around and find him here. In the back seat. Waiting for me.

Carter flirts with the speed limit of his neighborhood. We race by the massive homes, the sprawling lawns, leaving it
all behind.

"Thank you, Carter," I say.

He glances over at me, a warm smile lighting his eyes. "No problem. I mean, I'm always up for a good road trip. This could be fun."

A feeble laugh wells inside, but it never breaks the surface.

Carter takes back ro
ads through town. He grips the steering wheel, anxious, checking his rearview mirror, eyeing the speedometer. The homes and trees blur as we pass. We whip onto a street running parallel to the ocean. It's lined with bungalows, cars parked on either side. I
reach for the handle above the door, and, at every intersection, see the ocean. The black heavens and inky water. The sliver of moon hanging in the sky.

I know that, just ahead, the warehouse is still burning. An orange glow hovers above the houses, tree
s. An acrid smoke seeps through the vents.

We pull back on The Strip, and, a few miles later, reach the city limits.

A blue sign:
You Are Leaving South Marshall
. 

Maybe,
I think, watching it as we pass.
But I'm coming back.

The traffic thins, and, as we
fly down the country highway, I have to remind myself to breathe.

We see it at the same time, up ahead, just as we reach the county line. "Shit," Carter mutters.

He presses the brakes, slowing.

A barricade. Orange and white barrels blocking all but one lan
e going out of town. There are police cars, their flashing blue lights piercing the night sky, blinding us. And a military
humvee
. A line of cars waiting to pass through.

Carter rolls down the windows, letting the balmy, late summer air into the cab.

"We
can turn around," I say. "Take another way out."

"It'll look suspicious. They'll come after us in a second."

"What do we do?"

"Relax. It's summer. We're heading out of town for the weekend. People do it all the time."

I sit in the passenger's side of Car
ter's SUV, restless as we wait. I wipe my palms across my jeans, damp from fear and the Southern, summer humidity. 

Every few minutes we inch forward. They're letting people pass. It's not a road block. We can still get out. But my hands begin to tremble
as the line grows shorter and shorter. A few cars left. One car in front of us. Then it's our turn.

"It's fine," Carter says. "Relax."

How can I possibly . . . ?

We roll to a stop, and a policeman shines a light in the cab.

"How are you this evening?"
he asks.

"Fine, Officer," Carter replies. "Is everything okay?"

"Just a precaution," he says. "You from this area?"

"Yeah, we live here, actually."

"So you know there's been some random violence, lately."

Some not so random violence
.

Carter laughs. "Yeah
. It's crazy around here. Heard those guys were called in," he says, nodding toward the military vehicles. The Guardsmen in their fatigues and burgundy berets. M16s ready. "My girlfriend and I are headed to the mountains for the weekend."

"Do you know anyt
hing about the explosion at the warehouse tonight?"

"Saw something on the news about it when I was packing. That's it," Carter replies, shrugging.

The officer turns to me. "You?"

"No. Sorry."

"Have you seen anything suspicious? Heard anyone talking? Know
of anyone who might be able to pull something like this?"

"I don't," Carter says.

"Me neither."

The officer remains expressionless. "Can I see your license?"