Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy) Page 2

  I thought about all the crazy things my dad had put me through: How he’d overwhelmed the mothers in our neighborhood with his overzealous lists of do’s and don’ts until the invitations for play dates had shriveled up. How he’d insisted on accompanying me on every field trip and social event, going so far as to sit with me on the bus, until I was so embarrassed I didn’t even want to go. The forced marches through obscure Biblical texts, drilling me in preparation for God knows what. His odd security procedures and mock safety drills. I’d always thought my mother had willingly left me with my father so she could focus on her high-powered job as a partner in a consulting firm. In a weird way, I’d blamed her for my father’s behavior and for how circumscribed my world had been. I’d never understood why any of it had happened, until now.

  Mom’s eyes were watery now as she hesitated, then reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. This time I didn’t flinch.

  “I didn’t tell you this before, Hope, because I didn’t want you to do anything but love your Dad. I guess I kept hoping things would get better, and that one day you would be old enough to understand. I just want you to know that I never, ever thought that things would turn out the way they did. And I never thought it would take so long to get you back home with me.”

  She gave my hand a little squeeze before continuing.

  “Maybe it’s just as well that whatever happened is locked away in your memory. But there’s no need for you to be locked away, too. Now that you’re here, maybe you can spread your wings.”

  The cell phone in her pocket started chirping. She pulled it out and flipped it open, frowning.

  “I have to take this, Hope, I’m sorry. But it should only be a minute.”

  With that she stood. She answered the phone brusquely and I marveled at her transformation as she stepped into the hall. Her voice seemed to drop an octave as she drilled the person on the other end of the line with a sharp staccato of questions. Even though I couldn’t hear what she was talking about, I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was not happy.

  She slipped back into the den, her face crumpled in a frown, her long manicured nails tapping absently on the phone.

  “There’s been a legal challenge to the project I’m working on. My client is demanding I come out a day early.” She plopped down next to me. I saw the effort she put into steeling herself. “Of course, I told him no.”

  I thought of all the times I’d blamed her, unfairly, for putting her job first. I needed to let her know that I understood.

  “You should go, Mom.”

  She looked up, startled. “What?”

  I launched into my reasoning before she could stop me. “It sounds really important. I mean, your client wouldn’t call you on the weekend if it wasn’t, right?”

  She nodded her head, the grooves in her forehead growing deeper.

  “You’ve already taken care of everything for me at school. And I really don’t need you to take me in. I’m fifteen, Mom,” I added, gently. “I would really prefer it if you let me go in by myself, just like any other kid.”

  Her eyes got a little misty again as she tucked the phone back into her pocket and folded her hands in her lap. “Like any other kid,” she echoed back wistfully.

  “Maybe we should go over the instructions again,” she said, struggling to feel in command.

  “Mom, I’ve got it. I promise.”

  She sighed, her shoulders sagging in acceptance. Then, she stood up, resting one hand gently on my head, stroking my hair just like she had when I was little, smiling ruefully.

  “I guess I’d better let them know and go pack, then. If you need me, I’ll be just down the hall.”

  She left me alone in the den, the clippings and pictures from my past in my lap, wondering just what else about my past I didn’t know about.

  *****

  I woke up to an empty house and a note written on the back of an old grocery receipt. “Note” is actually an exaggeration; it was a list of what my Mom calls “bullet points”:

  · Bus at 7:30, end of cul de sac

  · Wear hat

  · Lunch money

  · Mrs. Bibeau after school

  Love, Mom.

  Mom had taped it to the bathroom door along with a twenty dollar bill. I glanced at the alarm clock. It was only 7 a.m., but already my mom was long gone to catch her flight to wherever – I didn’t know how I was ever going to keep track. She flew to a different city every day.

  This was what I wanted, I reminded myself as I brushed my teeth. Anonymity. Space. A parent who didn’t hover around me all the time, afraid I’d disappear if he looked away for even an instant. I was tired of being the girl who’d been abducted, the girl who had never been able to remember a thing that had happened to her.

  I rifled through the closet to find something that would help me blend in. Everything in there was too ridiculous for words – I guess I’d have to remind Mom that I was not going out for cheerleading, nor was I planning to be an extra on some stupid teenage soap opera. Besides, after years of wearing uniforms I had no idea what went with what. I fought back a rising sense of panic and pulled out a pair of jeans and sweatshirt, hoping it would do the trick. I fiddled with my hair, worried that my Mark would show. I settled for wrapping a chunky scarf around my neck, thanking my stars it was still cold and the scarf wouldn’t attract attention. I glanced at the clock again and frowned – time to catch the bus.

  I walked swiftly to the end of the cul de sac, mowing down a granola bar on the way. Nobody else was waiting. I kicked at the pothole in the pavement and shifted my backpack, fervently hoping that the pothole would open up and swallow me before I’d have to board the bus and suffer through this day. The sound of gears grinding uphill warned me I’d have no reprieve before the yellow lights came into view.

  I boarded the bus like a prisoner walking to the gallows. The minute I stepped on I slunk into the first seat I could find, hoping to avoid all the “new girl” stares I was sure to attract.

  “Fresh meat!” Raucous laughter mocked me from the back of the bus. Something hit me in the head – a wad of paper. I sunk even lower into my seat, fiddling with my scarf and praying they’d just ignore me.

  “New girl! New girl!”

  I looked up at the boy demanding my attention. His long bangs fell into his eyes which were full of undisguised curiosity and mischief. He shook his hair and darted a look into the back of the bus. His friends shouted, egging him on. I hugged my backpack more tightly and waited with a sinking feeling for him to continue.

  “Watch this!” He plopped down on my seat, deliberately crashing into me, and proceeded to belch the alphabet at me. My face burned with embarrassment. The entire bus seemed to be laughing at my discomfort. I huddled next to the window, trying to make myself as small as possible. Emboldened, the boy snatched my hat and began playing keep away with his friends. Instinctively, I felt for my scarf, making sure it was still wrapped safely around my neck, its ends tucked away where nobody could get them.

  What if I’d made a mistake coming to this school? How would I ever fit in if I couldn’t even handle this?

  As soon as the bus lurched into its parking spot, I dashed out of my seat, climbing past the boy and into the aisle.

  “New girl, wait up!”

  I pushed through the door, not bothering to respond to the moronic boy. Dunwoody High was bigger than I thought – two stories of gleaming glass and clean brick, surrounded by massive parking lots and playing fields. Buses were disgorging kids and a steady buzz was already building from the crowd. I squared my shoulders and walked through the set of double doors, willing my stomach to be calm.

  A tide of students rushing through the hallways swept me into its current. People jostled about me, not paying me any notice as they bumped and pushed me aside. I looked around and realized with relief that I’d lost the horrible boy from the bus. It would be easy to get lost in the shuffle here, I thought, in a good way. I resisted the temp
tation to pull out any of the detailed lists and maps my mom had compiled for me – too conspicuous -- and instead felt my way to the front office.

  “What is it, sweetie? Do you need the nurse?” the bustling woman at the front counter demanded as I crossed the threshold. It was an oasis of quiet compared to the hallway, and I felt wrong interrupting it.

  “Um, no, ma’am, I’m just checking in. I’m a new student starting today – Hope Carmichael?”

  I braced myself for the knowing look of recognition and curiosity that always came after I announced my name, but the woman gave no sign of having heard of me. Instead she started shuffling through piles of papers. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.

  “Carmichael…Carmichael…ah, yes, here it is, Carmichael!” She triumphantly produced a clipped set of pages from the bottom of the pile. “Your mother was in here last week. Quite a handful. Very on top of the details, shall we say.” She rolled her eyes at the memory.

  “That sounds like her,” I said, smiling to myself.

  “You probably have your entire schedule already, don’t you?” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Your mother wouldn’t leave until she had that. All your papers were in order; she made sure of that well in advance. So just run along to your homeroom.” She ran her finger down the page in front of her. “Home economics, Mrs. Raburn. Second floor.”

  As I was swinging my backpack over my shoulder, though, she called out, “No, wait. Post-it note here says here there’s been a change. Wait over there on the bench, honey, and let me see what this is all about.” She bustled away into a back room while I stood, waiting.

  She came bustling back, clucking like a mother hen. “I don’t know what happened, dear, but you’ll just have to make the best of it. Room 107 – past the gym.”

  “What is it?” I said, peering at the slip of paper she handed me.

  “Shop, dear. Now run along, and be sure to give Mr. Reynolds that hall pass or you will get a tardy.”

  Of course I got lost when I tried to find my locker. The bell had rung, sending everyone scurrying into their classrooms like cockroaches fleeing the sudden light, leaving me to wander until I accidentally found the gym and then, Shop.

  I stood outside the door to room 107. The smell of grease and tar wafted out to me, making me want to gag. I rewrapped my scarf, like a ritual, and pushed through the doors.

  I walked right into the middle of the lecturing teacher, who had drawn up the entire class in a semi-circle around him. My entrance provoked a multitude of stares, hoots and snickers. I looked around at the students. They all wore dingy denim or canvas aprons, heavily stained with greasy handprints. I was the only girl. I clutched the hall pass in my hand a little tighter, crumpling the paper.

  “Can I help you?” Mr. Reynolds turned to me, annoyed that I’d interrupted his class. His eyes bugged out behind the safety glasses he wore, making him look like an overgrown insect.

  “Um.” I started, uncomfortably frozen in his stare. “Um. I’m a new student assigned to your class. Which is crazy, because I’m not supposed to be in here,” I said, unable to stop the nervous chatter from escaping my lips. “I mean, I was supposed to be in Home Ec. Or AP chemistry now. Not Shop.”

  Mr. Reynolds glowered at me from behind his safety glasses. I realized I’d inadvertently insulted him.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with Shop,” I added lamely, thrusting my hall pass up at him.

  He pushed his safety glasses up onto his forehead and read the pass. “Carmichael, eh? Nobody informed me you were joining my class. I take it you have no experience with the mechanical arts?” He pinned me down with a glare as I shook my head, no.

  “Well, you’re just in time. I was just about to demonstrate the proper use of a blowtorch. You can be my model.”

  The entire class erupted into catcalls. Over the din I heard someone shout, “New girl!” With a sinking feeling, I peered into the crowd. There, in the back of the class, I spotted the obnoxious boy from my bus.

  “Come over here,” Mr. Reynolds commanded, enjoying my discomfort. “What’s the first rule of Shop, class?”

  “Safety first!” The class roared in unison, adding chest beating and more hooting to the din. Mr. Reynolds grinned and held out a big helmet, beckoning for me to come forward.

  I shifted my backpack to one side and stepped to the middle of the semi-circle. I stared at the big helmet. It looked like it belonged on a space suit from the 1950s.

  “Go on, Miss Carmichael. Demonstrate proper safety technique to the class.” Mr. Reynolds thrust the helmet at me again.

  “But, I just…” I looked helplessly at the door.

  “C’mon, how hard can it be?” Mr. Reynolds taunted me, tossing the helmet up in the air and catching it deftly with one hand.

  I reached for it and he dramatically let it go, leaving me with the helmet’s entire dead weight. It went crashing to the floor. The entire class roared with laughter as I cradled my fingers.

  “Oh, is the helmet a little heavy for you?” Mr. Reynolds said solicitously. “I forgot these older models aren’t quite as lightweight. Go ahead, pick it up and put it on.”

  I started to protest, but snapped my mouth shut. There was no way I was going to let him intimidate me. I dropped my backpack and bent over to retrieve the helmet. I heaved it up with both hands before trying to force it down over my head. When it got to my ears, I got stuck. I twisted and turned the thing around on my head but only succeeded in mangling my own ears.

  “Ow!” I cried as someone banged it down, hard.

  I could barely see out of the tiny, dark window.

  “Next time you might want to open up the helmet,” Mr. Reynolds said drily as he flipped up the top, exposing my head to the foul air of the Shop room. “You might want to pay attention to the rest of the safety tips.” My humiliation complete, he dismissed me. I hurried to the edge of the room, trying to be as inconspicuous as I could be with a giant tin can on top of my head.

  From that inauspicious beginning, my day went downhill. The school itself was like a maze, so I was late for every class, instantly earning the ire of every teacher. It turned out that all my classes were wrong -- nothing matched the schedule my Mom had so carefully prepared for me. By the time the day ended, I was exhausted from having to explain myself to the endless parade of teachers who also had apparently never heard of me. In one class, there wasn’t even a desk for me; I’d had to sit on the radiator up against the wall and nearly burnt myself.

  Everywhere I went, I could feel the blatant stares of my curious classmates. I smiled politely at their questions, giving the most minimal answers while I died inside from mortification and wished a hole would open in the floor and swallow me up. I almost relished my escape to the bus, hoping to forget my woes in a good book, when someone plopped down uncomfortably close to me.

  “New girl! What’cha reading?” Before I could even look up, grubby hands snatched away my book.

  It was the same obnoxious boy. He grinned maliciously at me and tossed the book over his shoulder toward the back of the bus. “How was your first day at school?” He asked with mock sincerity. Before I could come up with a snappy comeback, he rumpled my hair like I was a kindergartner and leapt out of my seat to join his laughing friends.

  I shrank into my seat and felt my hair, comforting myself with the security of the scarf wrapped around my neck and steeling myself for the ride home.

  I’d barely walked through the door after escaping the bus when there was a knock at the door. I peeked out and saw a short, trim woman with perfectly coifed blonde hair wearing a track suit and an apron. She held a covered tray and was rocking impatiently, a fake smile spread across her face.

  Mrs. Bibeau, I realized, remembering my mother’s note. The neighbor down the street whom Mom had asked to check in on me.

  I swung the door open, doing my best to paste a matching smile on my face.

  “You must be Hope,” Mrs. Bibeau declared, s
tepping through the door uninvited. “Your mother felt so horrible about having to go on that business trip. I told her not to worry, that I’d be happy to come on over and check on you,” she continued, her voice honeyed with a drawl I didn’t quite recognize. “I had six children of my own, you know, and we had to move five times as they grew up, so I know what its like. I thought you might like a little snack after such a big day, so I brought you my famous deviled eggs and pineapple sandwiches.” She whipped the tea towel off the tray to reveal a stack big enough for an army. “Why don’t we go sit down in the front room?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, she steered me into the formal living room and sat us down on the sofa. I could tell my Mom didn’t use this room very much. The rest of the house was so neat and organized it looked like it came out of a magazine, like no one really lived in it. But this room held my mom's entire “overflow.” I saw Mrs. Bibeau take a mental note of the abandoned stack of Zappos and Amazon boxes, the pile of clothes set aside for charity, and the scattered piano books that surrounded Mom’s old upright.

  “Mom mentioned you’d be over,” I said politely.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. I just couldn’t stand the thought of your mother worrying.” She made a small tsking sound as she brought her attention back to me. “Why she keeps up that crazy schedule of hers, I’ll never know. I remember when you were just a baby and she’d come home at all hours of the night. I thought she was going to drop dead one day, I truly did. Go on now,” she said without stopping for a breath, “have a sandwich.”

  I realized with a jolt that Mrs. Bibeau had known us before my kidnapping. Before my parents split up. Suddenly on my guard, I picked up one of the dainty sandwiches and nibbled at it.

  Mrs. Bibeau looked at me with curiosity. “We haven’t seen your father in such a long time. Tell me, how is he doing these days?”

  I took my time chewing, trying to think of the right thing to say and trying to get over the odd taste of pineapple with cream cheese.