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  Copyright © 2017 by Stewart Lewis

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Rohappy/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  18 Months Later

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Rowan

  Chapter 1

  A giant, white snake of fog twists through the rolling hills of the campus, making it look slightly medieval. Even though I hate this place, Norwalk River School is like a glossy brochure come alive. The weathered brick buildings crawl with ivy; old oak trees perfectly surround a manicured quad; and the students, including my roommates (the Borings), are mostly overachievers trying to live up to the expectations of their parents. When they talk about Dad who chills with Obama or Mom who teaches at Yale or other Mom who’s on the cover of Anthropology Today, I usually veer the conversation away from mine. Somehow a dead mother and a one-hit wonder father who wears guy-liner don’t measure up.

  I am walking with Fin the janitor, much to the chagrin of the ninth-grade girls and senior prefect boys passing us. Yes, Fin is my friend. Who cares? It’s not like we’re sleeping together. They wish.

  “So, drama, right?” Fin says, knowing my schedule.

  “Unfortunately. I am clearly meant to be behind the scenes.”

  “Not with a face like yours,” Fin says in a totally un-creepy way.

  “Yeah, that’s me, Cover Girl.”

  “Well, remember what I told you? You should be more involved.”

  “Fin, I never asked to come here. I feel like I’m in a holding tank. I mean, I do well in my classes, but I only really feel like myself when I’m shooting or editing footage—or hanging out with you.”

  Fin starts to blush a little, and for a second he looks like a boy.

  “I don’t feel the pressure everyone here feels to succeed, to be like their parents, because I don’t have parents. Well, I have a father, if you could call him that, but he’s not really in my life. And I’m definitely not Ivy League material.”

  “Of course you are, if you want that.”

  “I just want something to happen, something else. I’m sick of going through the motions.”

  Fin laughs, as if my problems are a joke.

  “Guess what? I think you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Whatever.”

  We do a fist bump explosion, and I enter the Black Box, where my drama class is. The theater is supposed to be all indie and artsy, like something you would see in Greenwich Village, and it almost feels like that—until I see Mrs. Balshak, our drama teacher, who all the boys call Mrs. Ball Sack. She looks like Bette Midler but with a longer nose and no makeup. She’s wearing a wrap dress and Birkenstocks, and she has this look of eagerness on her face that is off-putting.

  I sit in my usual place in the back next to Max the Goth. I overhear some kids talking about the break-in that took place at the infirmary—apparently kids looking for drugs. Also, someone spray-painted Dick Wakely Before He Dicks You on the side of the gymnasium, referencing our somewhat tyrannical headmaster, Richard Wakely. They’re discussing whether or not the two incidents were related. Frankly, I couldn’t care less.

  “OK!” Mrs. B claps her hands to silence everyone.

  I mostly zone out while a girl with a black bob recites a monologue about getting raped. It’s clearly done for shock value and not authentic sounding. Mrs. B stops her halfway through, makes her hold a chair in the air above her head, and then tells her to continue the monologue. The girl starts to weep from exhaustion, but any tears are good tears as far as Mrs. B is concerned. She’s an emotion whore.

  The last part of the class is improv, and she calls Max the Goth and me first. I’m supposed to be his mother, catching him in a lie. We’re not supposed to say what the lie is, just convey it obliquely. Mrs. B actually says that to us.

  “Don’t smirk at me,” I say to Max, whose mouth is always smirking. “I know what you did.”

  “No you don’t. You don’t know me at all.”

  “Oh, yes, I probably do,” I say, snapping out of character. “You come from money, but your parents ignore you. They’ve probably sent you to boarding school since you were prepubescent. The black clothes and the spiked bracelet are just armor. Inside is a scared little boy. No amount of lipstick, Marilyn Manson, or anime porn will ever change that. And if you’re not gay yet, you probably will be.”

  Max looks at me, his jaw slack. I can see Fin in the doorway, holding a mop, shaking his head, and smiling.

  “What the…” Max says, dumbfounded.

  Mrs. B picks the next round and asks me to stay after class.

  Max calls me a bitch under his breath, but he’s kind of impressed.

  After the next two groups go, class ends and everyone files out. The rape monologue girl comes up to me and says, “That was totally real. How did you know that stuff?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, actually. How do you know about rape?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Also obvious.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be mean about it,” she says, flipping her bob and walking away.

  Mrs. B gives me a condescending look and asks me to sit down.

  “You know, my first concert was your father’s,” she says like it’s some rev
elation.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  She sighs like she’s just a vessel for my attitude to travel through.

  “Candy, I think maybe you’re more like Max than you think.”

  “Honestly, I’m not like any of these kids.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No. I just want to go away sometimes. You know, disappear.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” she says, tightening her wrap dress.

  We look at each other in some kind of staring contest. Eventually I lose, because her face is too open, too genuine. She really wants to help me. The thing is, she can’t bring my mother back, and she can’t try to take her place. The world is just a stage to Mrs. B. Real life is what I’m trying to navigate.

  I go back to my room and start working on my latest film. It’s a series of shots of Fin and his dog, set to music. The beginning is a long shot through the glass door, so as the dog jumps up for his treat, it looks like he’s also jumping through the bushes outside Fin’s kitchen. Film is all about reflection. In a good film, ten minutes shouldn’t pass without viewers seeing some kind of reflection—through a mirror, the side of a building, the lenses of a character’s sunglasses. It speaks in metaphor without hitting you over the head and adds a layer of visual depth to a scene. I’m not sure where this film is going; I just know it’s pleasing to watch. It’s more about how it makes you feel than the content itself. Like the plastic bag in American Beauty.

  “That’s cool,” one of the Borings says over my shoulder. “That dog is adorable.”

  I was going for nuanced or majestic, but I probably shouldn’t expect anything more than adorable from one of the Borings.

  “Thanks,” I say feebly.

  “So, who do you think did it? The senior day students?” she asks, referring to the break-in and the vandalism.

  “Some kids desperate for attention, I guess.”

  She looks at me, and a daze washes over her face. Then she walks back to her bed where her homework is spread out.

  When lights-out comes, I can hear the Borings whispering. I’m sure they are talking about something really intellectual like lip gloss or some boy’s lame ponytail. I know I don’t belong here, but I also don’t want to be back in Oakland. I think about Max the Goth and why I felt the need to call him out. Does it mean I like him? God no. Was Mrs. B right in saying that I was projecting? Maybe.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream of an open road that bends and climbs, eventually disappearing into the horizon. There’s a girl smiling, wind in her hair. I’m pretty sure it’s me. The world outside NRS is beckoning, big and complex and beautiful. But when I wake up, I can still hear Mrs. B’s voice in my head.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter 2

  The fog is still clinging to the ground. I am walking toward the dorms from the dining hall, pretty much by myself as usual, when a hand grips me above my elbow and yanks hard. In a split second, I’m in the backseat of a car that smells like sweat and gasoline. The first thing I think is that it must be some kind of prank. The kids that broke into the infirmary? The car is not a black van like in a horror flick or a shiny SUV like in a contemporary thriller. It’s a faded red Toyota. The shattered rearview mirror has cracks spreading through it like tiny tree branches.

  Before I can even react, the guy in the passenger seat turns and shoves a ski mask over my head. I see his eyes for a split second: black, with a piercing shine, pupils shaking. My world goes dark, and then he duct-tapes my wrists behind my back.

  The mask is backward, so there are no holes for my eyes, but the fabric is thin enough that I can breathe. As the car peels out through the slush by the curb, I hear some random girl yell, “Oh my God!”

  Then I am pushed down onto the floor of the backseat.

  What the…

  The air is thick with urgency—something is telling me it’s not a prank. The nasty smell in the car is making me nauseous. I can feel the soup I had at lunch swishing around my stomach, threatening to come up.

  What the hell is going on?

  It’s the day before winter break in my junior year of boarding school, and I’m being abducted. As the car gains speed, I can picture the buildings of campus—the spire of the chapel, the ancient dining hall, the huge colonial houses that act as dorms—getting smaller and smaller, now probably enveloped in the fog.

  As we take a sharp right out of the school’s main gates, questions blink in my brain like fireflies: Who are these people? Is it really me they want? Where are we going? Why were his pupils shaking?

  I start thinking about my homemade films on my laptop in my room, the tea I was drinking, left on my desk…

  “Where are you taking me?” I manage to say, shifting my body to get a little more comfortable, if that’s even possible on the floor of a backseat. I wonder if anyone is even following us. I doubt it—the security at NRS is kind of a joke. They’re not going to do anything except call the police, and probably too late.

  Fin. Maybe he can help…

  Fin and I share a love of movies, and we hang out a lot at his crappy house down the street from campus, which we are probably passing now. I relate to him more than to the Borings, who study constantly and iron their pajamas, or the girls in my dorm with names like Bree and Gwen who excel at sports and obsess over where they’re going to college—“Brown? No way, Williams.” Yes, he is probably the father figure I never had, but he’s on my level too. He looks out for me. I’m hoping maybe he saw the car. He seems to be omnipresent, like some kind of white-trash god.

  I can’t stand dead air, and since no one’s speaking in the car, I do.

  “You realize I already saw both of you, right?”

  One of them turns up the radio, which is playing a country song. (Something Lana Del Rey would be way more appropriate—this twangy, three-chords-and-the-cheese song is taking the whole scene from Tarantino to Lifetime.)

  The passenger strikes a lighter, and tobacco smoke immediately infuses the already-stale air.

  I start to describe them, so they know that I’m not bluffing.

  “Cancer Stick over here is riding shotgun. Six feet…African American the correct term? Someone told me we could just say black now. Anyway, tattoo of a blurry rose behind his ear—super original. I’m surprised it doesn’t say ‘Mom’ on it or some crap.”

  That’s when I feel it. A fist on the side of my head with enough force that my ears start ringing. “Ow!” I yell. I can’t hold my head ’cause my hands are tied. I tell myself not to cry, but the tears have minds of their own.

  I never cry. Not since my mother died a long time ago. I grew up with my grandmother Rena, who doesn’t do emotions. But this is different. I was just punched in the head. Hard.

  When the ringing finally subsides, the car is quiet, except for the whir of the wheels and my heart, which is smashing against my chest. I can hear Cancer Stick laugh, but it sounds more like a snicker. Flashes of kidnapping films flip through my mind in a kind of cinematic Rolodex. Along Came a Spider, Don’t Say a Word, Funny Games. I start counting in how many of them the girl dies. But this is more real than a movie could ever be. There’s a dent in my head, there are tears drying on my cheeks underneath the mask, and I may not make it out of here alive.

  Is this about Wade?

  My father, Wade Rex, is the lead singer of a band called the Black Angels. I call them the Butt Crack Angels. Even though they’re all pushing fifty, they still party like the rock stars they were twenty years ago. My father wrote their one hit, “Spill It on Me,” which is actually pretty good music-wise, but the lyrics are lame. Still, the song has basically subsidized my life, even though I haven’t seen my father in years. I get tuition, random gifts, or a two-minute phone call once in a while, but the guy is basically a narcissistic tool. Also known to be impulsive and pea brained, whi
ch I’m guessing is the reason I’m bound in the back of this smelly Toyota. Bound, that’s another kidnapping film. Did she die?

  I try to take long breaths to slow down my rapid heartbeat, but it’s not working.

  “Is this about my father? ’Cause he doesn’t care about me.”

  Cancer Stick reaches over and wraps his hands around my neck, pulling me up on the seat.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he says, thrashing my head around with each word. He lets go, and I start to gasp for air. Now I’m shaking.

  “Enough,” the driver says, but he doesn’t sound that concerned. The one thing I noticed about him was that he was sort of smiling. A half smile. I take more long, deep breaths. My throat is burning. Cellular. Taken. Where’s Liam fucking Neeson right now?

  Judging by how much we’ve picked up speed, we must be on Route 2.

  Yes, my mother died and my dad dropped me off at my heartless grandmother’s house, but nothing like this has ever happened to me. It’s starting to sink in.

  They are hurting me.

  They are taking me away.

  Chapter 3

  For the next few miles, I just listen to the drone of the engine and try to breathe normally, but it’s not easy. I think the guy damaged my throat. Tears start to thrum at my eyelids again, but I don’t let them out. I have to try to be strong. I start to hum a little, but it sounds more like a whimper. I don’t believe in God, but I start to pray. Don’t let me die with these losers. Please, whoever is out there, help me.

  I must have passed out for a while, because when I come to, we seem to be at a rest area. I can tell by the other car doors opening and closing, children laughing. Cancer Stick gets out, but Half Smile stays. I don’t know if it’s safe to talk again, but I have to when I’m nervous. Otherwise I’ll explode.

  “So…I saw you from a glimpse through the broken rearview. What junkyard did you hot-wire this ghetto-ass car from?”

  I’ve never been this nervous before, and the words seem to leave my mouth on their own accord. He doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t stop me, so I keep talking. “You’ve got black hair to your shoulders that you cut by yourself. Seventeen, maybe a little older. Definitely young for a kidnapper.”