Untraceable (27 page)

I spin around and face her, steaming mad. “Hi
Pot
, my name is Kettle.”

She gives me a stern look. “Damn it, Grace, I’m your mother, and you
will
respect me. This is my house you’re living in, and my hard-earned money you wasted when you didn’t show up for your session the other day.”

This time, I yell back. “I’ll pay for the stupid session! I make my own money, in case you forgot.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not the point. You need to tell me where you’re going and what you’re doing. You’re only sixteen.”

My mouth gapes open. My mother’s MIA for months and now, the one time I’m happy, the one time I don’t check in, she wants to be my mother again? I don’t think so. “So, what … you can stay out all night, but I can’t go camping without sending home a freakin’ status report every hour?”

She screeches. “I don’t have to answer to you, I’m an
adult
!”

I squawk back. “Then act like one! Because you haven’t since Dad went missing.”

Mom screams in my face. “You mean, the day your dad
died
!”

I yell even louder. “Uh, news flash … he’s not dead!”

Before I know what’s coming, Mom’s hand comes out of nowhere and makes contact with my face. Shocked, I touch a hand to my stinging cheek and stare her down. She’s never slapped me before.

Mom takes in a deep breath, and her shoulders hunch forward. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that … I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I shield my face and turn my back so she doesn’t see me tear up. “You never do.”

She speaks in a monotone voice as if she’s a computerized robot. “That’s it, Grace. I’ve tried to reason with you. But you seem determined to fight me every step of the way. I can feel you slipping away. It’s like you’re a different person. Out of control.”

I cross my arms with my back still facing her. “Oh! Now you care. You sure you’re not mad because you can’t control me anymore? Or is it because you can’t control yourself?”

She sighs, and her voice becomes monotone. “That’s it. You’re grounded.”

Spinning around, I scream in a high-pitched voice. “What?!” Balling my hands into a fist, I dig my nails into my palms. Squinching my face, I challenge her. “You can’t
ground
me.”

Mom cranks up her volume again. “The hell I can’t!”

I shrug as if I don’t care. “Whatever. It’s not like you’ll be here to enforce it anyway.” The second the words spill out of my mouth, I wish I could reel them back in.

She frowns and raises her eyebrows in a question. “Oh, really? If that’s what you think, I’ll just take your bike with me.”

I grit my teeth, holding back what I really want to say for fear I’ll be slapped again. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She leans in close to my face. “Watch me.”

We stand there in a stare down, waiting for the other to cave. I crack first and break eye contact, like a dog submitting to his Alpha.

Mom switches her voice into a softer tone. “Listen, Grace. I’m sorry about everything. I never meant to let you down. I know I’ve made mistakes. Your dad’s death has been hard on both of us. Maybe we can find a way to put all this behind us and start over.”

“He’s not dead,” I mumble.

She continues pretending I didn’t utter a word. “So when you’re ready to apologize, come talk to me.”

I throw out my last dagger. “You mean,
if
you’re available.”

Mom tightens her lips into a thin line and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind her. I smash my face against the glass and make foggy clouds on the window as I watch her dragging Luci into the back of her truck. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with my bike, Mom tears out of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dirt behind her.

I throw myself onto my bed and punch a pillow. It isn’t fair. I’m more responsible than she is, and I’m grounded? She has no business touching my bike. I can’t wait to leave this crappy house, crappy town, and crappy life.

As tears blur my vision, I flop down on my bed and stare at a line of glowy stars pasted along the white-pocked ceiling. Mo’s constellation pops into my head. The thought of him relaxes everything stirring around inside. Then I realize being grounded means I can’t be with him. Mom’s already messed up my life. I’m not about to let her screw that up too. My night wth Mo was the best thing that’s happened to me since all this happened.

As soon as I think of Mo, the bullet pops into my head. I run to get my bag. In all the drama, I’d completely forgotten about it. I dig through the front pocket of my backpack until my fingers touch the cold metal. After pulling out the cylinder, I twirl it in the light. The bullet is long and thin with a steel point on one end and a welded seam running down one side. A long scar.

Maybe I can find it online. I race downstairs to the kitchen where I left my laptop and sit at the table. For the next several hours, I skim through pictures of bullets from rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Some look familiar, but I can’t tell from the blurry photos. Dad used to have a book about guns in his office. Maybe that would be better.

I walk down the hall and stop in front of the office door. My breathing quickens. I haven’t been inside this room since before Dad disappeared. I cup the knob to stop my hand from shaking and slowly turn. The door clicks and swings open. The room is dark and chilly. Even musty.

Like a tomb.

Reaching in, I flip on the light. As the room lights up, my heart darkens. Everything is in its normal place except for one thing. Dad. I move in front of his mahogany desk and wipe my hand across the silky surface, streaking through a thin layer of dust that’s collected while waiting for his return. When I sit down in his old tweed chair, Dad’s scent overwhelms me. I vault out of the chair and back away before noticing the old sweatshirt hanging on the back. My body trembles as I clutch the garment and raise it to my nose.

The faint scent of pine needles mixed with wood teases my nose. Tears fill my eyes. I miss his smell. Something I never thought about before he left. Emotions clog my chest, creating shallow breaths. I flop back down in Dad’s chair and lay my head on his shirt. Touching his pens, I can almost picture him writing, taking notes. Next to his antique phone sits a brass frame holding a picture of our family, hugging and laughing. I clean the glass with the edge of my t-shirt.

If it wasn’t for these grainy pictures collecting dust around the house, I don’t know if I’d remember as much as I should. Somehow, even though I fight it, the details are peeling away. The little things are fading, no matter how hard I try to hold onto them. The day Dad disappeared changed everything I believed about families, about the woods, about my life. Like dynamite exploded under the foundation of my world. The ashes of my memories are all that remains.

Charred, disintegrating, and floating away.

I focus away from the photo and skim the bookshelf. For some time, I flip through books on hunting rifles and ammo and find some facts to note. Eventually, I make my way back to Dad’s desk and comb through the drawers for paper to write on. When I pull out a few sheets, a manila folder lies hidden underneath.

Curious, I take out the file full of articles and pictures.

One news clipping discusses how bear parts are a hot commodity in Asia used to make food and medicine. Anything from bear claws, gall bladders, and bile. A few pictures slide out and drift to the floor. I drop on my hands and knees to collect them from under the desk. My stomach churns at the graphic images of mutilated bears, all missing four paws. Bears locked in cages with tubes running from their bodies, collecting bile. Photos showing a row of bear hides and boxes of bear parts confiscated by customs. Then I come across a stack of stapled memos from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and skim through the headings:

Bile and body parts, taken from bears using horrifically inhumane means, feed an illegal trade in bear products, which extend worldwide.

Poachers will hunt and remove bears from their natural habitat and deliver them into a life of pain and suffering in the bear farms.

Wild bear gall bladders are of higher quality than those of farmed bears.

It is the black bear in North America that has become the victim of poachers looking to turn a quick profit in the Asian medicine market.

Bear Poachers Busted as Congress Considers Federal Bear Bill.

I never heard Dad talk about this level of bear poaching before. Not to such an extreme. At the bottom of the paper stack is a letter. When I read the name, my breath catches in my throat.

Chief Reed.

Basically, he politely threatens Dad if he “continues creating a stink about the bear pits.” Evidently, Dad’s constant chatter is “real bad for business.”

Unable to absorb any more, I return the file to the desk and scan the empty room, imagining Dad sitting in the squeaky chair with his feet propped up on the edge. That’s when I notice the fireplace. I walk over and kneel in front of the soot and half-burned logs. Little pieces of paper with charred edges hide in the soot. My breath catches in my throat as I pick up a small piece. It’s the remains of Mom and Dad’s wedding picture. On second glance, there are several more, all burnt. My dad would never do that. I frown. Only one person could’ve done this. Mom.

In that one moment, I hate her. Why would she do this? She’s Miss Scrapbook.

Mom’s betrayal and Chief Reed’s letter fill my mind. Followed closely by the disgusting images of mutilated bears.

I take out the bullet and twist the cylinder between my fingers.

What does it all mean? There seem to be several pieces from different puzzles scattered around me. But none of them match to make a complete picture. Or at least one that makes sense.

Just then, someone bangs on the front door. My heart bounces around in my chest, clambering for steady rhythm. I sneak out of my dad’s office and tiptoe over to the door.

Just as I peer out, a face pops up in the window.

I scream as Wyn presses a piggy nose against the glass.

Sliding off the chain lock, I swing the door open. “Dude, you gave me a heart attack.”

“Why?”

I stand there, holding the door wide open. “Your face scared me.”

Wyn strolls by me without being invited. “Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime.” I slam the door shut and follow him into the living room.

“Man, it’s been ages since I’ve crashed your pad.” He walks around the house looking at things before he jumps into another subject. “So, where yah been? I’ve been calling you the last two days.” He doesn’t face me.

I try not to stutter. “Oh, my phone isn’t charged. I keep forgetting to plug it in.”

He points at the bag of Spicy Cheetos on the counter. “I see you’re eating a nutritiously balanced meal.”

“Yup! Carbs, fat, and protein.”

He wrinkles his face. “I don’t get the protein part.”

“Cheese!” I shove a fistful of cheesy nuggets into my mouth.

“That’s disgusting.”

I flash him an annoyed look. “Surely, you didn’t come over to discuss my eating habits. Why are you here?”

“Well. Your mom called my house last night looking for you. She was kinda wigged out.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sorry about that. She’s a little drama these days.”

He studies me in an odd way. “Seems to run in the family. Saw your bike in her truck at the diner. Is it broken or something?”

I scoff. “Believe it or not, she
grounded
me.”

“Seriously? What are you, ten?”

“My point exactly.”

Wyn sits down with one foot up on his leg and bounces his knee. “So where were you?”

I twist my hair into a bun. “Uh … no place special. Just out and about.”