Until the Day I Die(80)

“I’m sorry, Shor. It was acting up, so I took it in for repair.”

“It’s okay.” I give him a pat on the shoulder. “I can work on it later.”

He smiles down at me. As a child, I never had to wonder what books meant when they said someone’s eyes twinkled. I knew exactly what they meant because my grandfather’s eyes did just that. But now they just look tired and old.

“Arch?”

He sighs and upends his glass. “Ah. I was thinking. How life is a constant ebb and flow. How we lose things and gain others.”

“We lost Dad,” I say. “What do you think we’ve gained?”

He cocks his head at me. “Time will tell, I suppose. Time will tell.”

Right then Gigi calls us to come for dinner. In the dining room, the table glows, candlelight reflected in china, crystal, and silver. Gigi’s gone all out for the guest of honor.

“Sit, everybody,” she says. Arch has already settled at the head of the table, so I know she means me. I take the chair across from Gigi and drape a starched linen napkin embroidered with a G in the corner over my lap and wait for my grandmother to begin to eat. It takes her forever.

“Shorie?” Gigi says. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“Water’s fine.” I go to work on my dinner, but the roast feels like a rock in my throat, and my eyes start to burn from the effort of holding back the tears. I set down my fork, blinking.

“Darling?”

“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m not, and they can both see it.

“Sweetheart,” Arch starts to say, but I cut him off with a sob. A loud, strangled cry that makes them both sit bolt upright and stare at me, eyebrows nearly to their hairlines.

“Oh,” Gigi says.

I plant my hands on either side of my plate and, surprising even myself, burst into a series of dry, cawing sobs. After a moment or two, the tears follow, and eventually my nose runs unchecked, all of it mingling in a giant mess on my cheeks and mouth and chin.

Resignation . . . flipped out . . . powerless.

I have so many emotions, I give up trying to list them because they’re all in one roiling clump inside me. I am crying, but I also want to wreck Gigi’s dining room. To smash her crystal and break her china. I’m out of control. I’ve become the Godzilla of emotion.

“Now, now,” says Arch faintly.

“Shorie,” Gigi says over him. “You have to tell us what’s wrong if you want us to help.”

“I want my mother,” I scream at their stunned faces.

In thirty minutes, the pot roast has been Tupperwared, dishes stacked in the washer, and Arch’s travel agent has the two of us on a flight to Saint Lucia first thing in the morning.





44

PERRY’S JOURNAL

Saturday, March 16

TO DO:

Talk to Mom & Dad about their finances

Send Shorie another Jax message???—do NOT let Gigi send extra $$

Call Mason P. @ Global Cybergames



IDEA: New functionality for merchants—make corporate social responsibility (CSR) public/accessible to all users in real time?

Pop-ups for participating merchants—nonintrusive, piggyback spending suggestions?

Environmental, philanthropic, employee ethics, etc.—best practices

Monetize?



Shor, you’ve got the skills, I’ve seen to that, just do me a favor? Be careful how you use them. In life, it’ll be tempting to use your talents to get ahead of others, but your talent is a gift for the betterment of humanity . . .

No, too preachy





45

SHORIE

At six thirty in the morning, the Birmingham airport is deserted and creepy, just like in a horror movie right before the zombies stagger out. I’m rolling Gigi’s hot-pink carry-on with some toiletries and the few spare clothes we picked up from my house when I grabbed my passport.

It’s no wonder I’m thinking about zombies. Everything feels off—inside of me and out. I don’t know if Mom’s responded to my Jax message yet, but if she hasn’t, I’ll send her another message anyway. Just to let her know I’m coming to help her. To let her know I love her.

I did, for one brief second, consider telling Arch what was going on with Jax and my worries for Mom’s safety. But he’s old, and he’s been through so much already with my dad’s death. He doesn’t need more to worry about. Once we get to Ile Saint Sigo, I’ll have to figure out something to tell him while I simultaneously search for Mom.

And then there’s my message to the FBI. I wonder if anyone’s read it, or if it just got dumped into a backlog file. Nobody’s called me back, and I’m worried that means they laughed off the kooky teenage girl’s message.

Arch and I have just gotten in the practically nonexistent TSA line when I see a kid race-walking toward us. It’s Rhys, auburn hair sticking up behind a green bandana, cutoff sweats flapping around his shins, flip-flops slapping on the tile. He’s carrying something strapped around his chest, and he’s headed toward me. Running toward me, to be specific.

I step away from the line, nerves jangling. This is it, I think. The moment of truth. If Rhys is somehow caught up in this situation at Jax, this is the moment when he tries to keep me from going to help my mom. If not—if he’s truly my friend, I guess this is when I find out.