Strike (41 page)

It chokes me up, hearing her say that. I want to hug her, but she doesn't look like she'd welcome a hug just now. I settle for squeezing her hand and saying, “I will. We will.”

We drift together through the store, picking out Pop-Tarts and tossing makeup in each other's carts. The bubblegum-pink lipstick she recommends for my new red hair is most definitely not my style.

“Yeah, that's the point,” she says. “So you're getting it.”

When we get in line to check out, our entire party is spread out with carts full of bags. My mom and Kevin sit in the food court as he slams down pizza and slushies, and when she sees me
looking, she smiles and waves like she still can't believe I'm alive. I feel a wash of gratitude—that she's alive, that she's here, that she has someone with her who can give her chemo once we're on the other side of this bullshit. I leave my cart behind Gabriela's and race to the card aisle, where I pick out one with pearly hearts and flowers on it “Wishing My Beloved Mother a Happy Birthday.” As the cashier rings me up, I use her pen to write,
I love you, Mom!
on the inside. I want to write so much more. But the simple truth will have to do.

That little hitch of worry is back as soon as I slide my gift card through the machine. It's accepted almost immediately, and I can breathe again. Soon we're all out, stuffing bags into the car trunks, trying to figure out where to put the huge dog bed I just had to buy, and waiting for my dad, who's still sitting in the in-store coffee shop, borrowing their Wi-Fi to reserve the hotel rooms where we'll spend the rest of the day becoming different people and quietly freaking out.

I slide into the backseat of Wyatt's Lexus, next to Bea. I still can't get a read on her, especially why she left the CFF with us. She bought just as much crap as the rest of us, although most of her food selections are, oddly, green. She looks the same as she did that first night in the high school: petite and dainty, pale and washed out, eyes big and dark and empty. I don't know if she's coming tonight, but I do know she took and spent the gift card my dad offered. I'm sick of treating her like a murderous doll, so I turn to her and ask, “So are you coming to the mall tonight?”

She meets my eyes for longer than is comfortable.

“Yes,” she finally says.

“Why?” I have to ask.

She blinks slowly, like an owl. “Because everything is an army now, and this army pays the best and demands the least.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Oh. I thought you were younger.”

“Everyone does.”

“So why did you join us? I kind of feel like . . . you don't like us very much.”

“I don't like anyone, Patsy. But I got bored with Leon's little pranks.”

“Okay.” Because what do you say to that?

Her head swivels to face forward again. “I'm pretty sure I'm a sociopath,” she says softly. “But probably the least dangerous kind.” She glances at Rex, who's bopping his head to whatever music is currently on his iPod and can't hear us. “I don't want to kill innocent people, eat anybody, or dissect them. I'm not very fond of blood. I only like to eat green food, and I don't know why. Green just tastes better. It's clean. I'm telling you all this because I think you and I have the most in common, but you still manage to understand people. You can tell everyone else what I said so I don't have to say it again. They probably already know.”

“You think we have a lot in common?” I ask, a chill zipping down my spine.

She nods and gives me the coldest, sweetest smile. “That's why Valor selected us. We're very good at killing.”

I desperately want to switch cars, but that would be way too obvious. I'd rather the murderous sociopath think nice things about me than put her in the car with chatty, obnoxious Kevin or my fragile mom. Wyatt bought his usual crossword puzzle book and is on page one, the tip of his tongue poking out in that adorable way it does when he's thinking. Bea keeps staring straight ahead like a robot in sleep mode. And my dad is taking his damn time getting back from the café. When I finally see him, laptop under his arm, I'm ready to hug him again just because I'm that glad we can drive away. I don't like Mark's anymore. But, then again, nowhere feels safe. I never noticed how many video cameras there were in the world until Valor took over.

My dad looks up and hurries into the car.

“Don't drive,” he says. “Wait until the choppers pass. Nobody get out.”

I hear them now and scan the sky. They certainly look Valor when they appear, black and sleek with no discernible logo. They zoom in from one side and keep going.

“Do you think they're looking for us?” I ask.

My dad pulls down his mirror and gives me a reassuring smile.
“They're always looking for something. If you see Valor out in the world, just treat 'em like a bear: Don't run. Don't cower. Just walk away. Or, better yet, don't ever let them see you in the first place.” He thumps the dashboard to get Wyatt's attention and gives him directions to the hotel.

The ride is quiet. My dad turns on the radio and scans a few stations, but it's just pop and country music and the usual inane commercials. I'm still surprised that we're not getting emergency broadcasts and news reports about Valor's wave of violence, which just goes to show you how powerful they are, how completely they're controlling the media. Neighbors get shot on their doorsteps and houses get burned to the ground, but no one is publicly talking about it. It's kind of brilliant, really. The flashes of anti-Valor graffiti we pass as we drive are the only real signs of the war being waged behind radio silence.

“I wonder when Valor is doing the big reveal,” I say out loud.

“You're not the only one,” my dad says, warming to the topic. “There's been lots of chatter about certain signs. Media buy, blocks on the cable guides, Internet URLs going dark in anticipation of a redirect. The first wave was supposed to take around a week as the mercs activated and spread. Despite the radio silence, fewer kids and debtors are living through their shifts now. Whenever the clock counts down on a van, it explodes, and that means there aren't many vans left. People are scared.”

I remember those red numbers on the dash and shiver.

If I'd waited a few seconds longer to knock on Wyatt's door . . .
kaboom.

“It's a flawed system. You see your neighbor get shot when he opens his door, you either stop opening your door or you buy a bigger gun,” Wyatt says.

My dad nods in approval. “If I had to guess, I'd bet that Valor has planned their big announcement for after Black Friday. Everyone would've already signed their credit slips from Thursday and Friday morning and would be at home, inside, with their families, watching TV.”

“But no one shops on Thursday, do they?” I ask.

“They will now. Valor-owned stores are offering even crazier deals on Thanksgiving than they do on Black Friday. Game consoles for ten bucks for the first ten people in the store, buy-one-get-one-free phones.” He points to a billboard offering one-dollar plasma-screen televisions if you sign up for a year of E-finity satellite TV. “Valor owns E-finity. It's just more signatures. They're trying everything they can to get people out and shopping or signing their terms of service agreements. All Valor devices will force a new terms of service agreement on Thursday morning. Either join or lose your ability to text.”

“And what about Cyber Monday?” Wyatt adds. “They wouldn't want to miss all the home shoppers and everyone who's too scared to leave the house.”

My dad sighs. “Guys, if I knew everything Valor was doing, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else, planting bigger bombs.”

We go quiet, and my dad hunts through his bag, pulling out a burner phone and flipping it open. He must not see what he wants, as he shakes his head and tosses it back in. I get lost in a thought spiral, trying to figure out how Valor can even function as a government. What about Congress? What about wars? If you already have all the money and everything is motivated by money, why could you possibly want more money? Doesn't money stop meaning anything at some point? Then again, what my history teachers called either a democracy or a republic never made sense to me in the first place. If your vote doesn't count, what's the point of a vote? It all ends up in the hands of greedy old men anyway.

Soon Wyatt is turning in at a hotel so close to the mall that I can see the glass dome over the carousel from the hotel parking lot. My dad goes in without us and comes back out with a stack of key cards. I'm about to say something about the expense, but that doesn't matter anymore, does it? He just pulls more dollars out of Valor's back pocket whenever he wants to.

“Patsy, you're with the girls.” He points to Bea and Gabriela. “Wyatt, you're with the boys.” He points to Chance and Rex. “Karen . . .” His voice cracks, and he coughs and settles for giving
the card to Heather. “Y'all bunk together with the kid. And I'm alone.”

“Why do you get your own room?” I ask.

His smile is grim. “Because I'm the one with the laptop, and if they come for me, I want to be alone on a different floor when it happens. Go on up, and do whatever you want to. Eat, sleep. If you're going to the mall, we're going to meet in the hotel lobby at nine tonight in regular clothes. Bring your stuff in your backpack. Everybody got that? Nine.”

Everyone nods. My dad turns and walks away.

Heather looks down. “We're in 247. See you!” As she helps Kevin limp through the door, I slip the sappy greeting card into my mom's hand and hug her as hard as I think she can handle.

“I love you, Mom,” I say fiercely.

She hugs me back. “I love you too. And I'm sorry—”

“Don't be.” I reach under the neck of my shirt and pull out her rosary. When she sees it, she gasps. I hold it out. “This helped me when I needed it most. I wanted you to know. I think Mother Mary is on our side.”

But she won't take it from me. She just folds my fingers over it and says, “Keep it. Keep Mary with you. Keep me with you. I don't understand why you're doing what you're doing, but I want you to come back. When I came home that morning and you were gone . . . I never thought I'd see you again. I kept praying
it was some sort of nightmare, that you were just at school, like normal. I called your phone again and again. Nothing. I thought you were dead.”

I nod, tears in my eyes. “I thought you were, too.”

She reaches in to hug me, and I'm flooded with comfort and love. Everyone else leaves, going to their separate rooms.

“We're in 315,” Gabriela says. “See you later.”

We're alone now in the lobby, and I have one more question, so I hook my arm through my mom's and pull her to sit on one of the hard leather sofas. “Mom, did Dad ever send you any money?”

She pats her pockets, blushes, and acts all flustered. I frown.

“A little,” she allows. “He sent a fifty in your birthday cards.”

“What else?”

My mom's eyes wobble with tears. “I didn't touch it, if that's what you're thinking.”

Rage starts to build in my chest. Of all her failings, I never thought my mom would lie to me. Or steal from me. “Mom. Come on. Tell me the truth.”

She steels herself, exhales, and sits up, her chin just as stubborn as mine. “I saved it. Every penny. It's in a college fund for you. They used to match it, when I worked for Haverford and Sons.” I stare, hard, in shock. “There's around forty thousand in there right now,” she adds weakly.

I'm back in her arms in an instant. “God, Mom. You idiot. You unselfish moron. You could've used it. To pay off Valor. For your meds. Or whatever. Why didn't you?”

She relaxes against me, back shaking with sobs under my hands. “You deserved so much better than you got. So much better than what I could give you. I didn't want Jack's money, but I wanted you to have a future. It was the most important thing. I didn't know Valor would do this. Who could know? It was the best I could do. I'm so sorry, honey.”

I shake my head against her, my tears falling on her sweater. “Forty thousand still wouldn't have been enough, Mom. Not even half of enough.”

“I love you, honey. I would give everything I ever had to make this okay. I made so many mistakes—”

I pull away, dash away my tears, and smile. “Mom, no. It's just . . . All this time, I thought he didn't care and wasn't helping you. And then I thought you had just used up all the money. Turns out you were both trying to help all along. Valor is the bad guy here. Not you.” I look toward the elevators. “And not him, either.”

“He was a good dad,” she says, as if it pains her. “Right up until the day he walked out.”

“He was trying to be a good dad then, too,” I say.