You Can't Catch Me(33)

By that time, though, it’s starting to get dark out. Jessie suggests we stop at a roadside motel, get some dinner, and rest. I agree. We drive through a McDonald’s, then find a place a few miles away, the twin of where Liam and I stayed in Wilmington. I offer to share a room to cut down on expenses, but Jessie says that she “values” her “privacy.” So, I eat my burger alone, take a shower, change into my pajamas, and climb into bed. It’s early, but I’m exhausted. I fall easily to sleep.

I wake up in a cold sweat with my arm throbbing.

I was having the dream. The Dream.

It’s always the same.

Black-cloaked figures in the Gathering Place in the middle of the night. The other children all lined up in their uniforms. The lights down low. I’m wearing a white robe that’s scratchy against my skin and smells like mold. My mother and father are standing on either side of me, holding an arm apiece. Todd appears, his skin burnished, his robe white as snow. He talks about the importance of family, the sins of the world, the reason we chose to leave it. Then he asks me if I’m joining the group willingly, which makes my twelve-year-old self want to laugh. You’re holding me down, I want to shout. Who would do this willingly? But instead, I nod and say, “Yes, Todd.” This is the only acceptable response.

Then that glowing light. The heat as it approaches my skin. The pain.

It stops as suddenly as it starts, though the echo is almost as bad. The burned-flesh smell makes me want to vomit, and then I’m in Todd’s arms and he’s telling me that I’m welcome, that I’m beautiful, that I’m amazing, and that together we will do fantastic things.

“You’re through the worst of it,” he says.

I wake up with the word No caught in my throat.

I lie on my back trying to slow my heart. Headlights arc into the room from the highway and light up the ceiling through the slatted blinds. It almost makes me miss the tailgate party from the night before, which leads to thoughts of Liam. I check the time. It’s only eleven. Not that late. I send him a text.

Checking in.

He answers a few minutes later.

Where are you?

Some small town on the way to Philly.

Jessie agreed to go with you?

Yes.

Why are you stopped?

I got pulled over by the cops for speeding. Apparently, they care about the speed limit on this side of the Hudson.

You have a lead foot.

? Miller says that too.

?

You don’t know who Miller is?

Ha, ha. I meant when.

I drove him to the Hamptons last summer. I think I scared him.

Ah. I did not know that.

We went to a party. No biggie.

Hmm.

Jessie’s in another room, I write. She didn’t want to share. Do you think that’s weird?

No.

Not even a little?

No.

We shared a room.

That’s different. And not the first time.

True. Liam didn’t take me to New York right away after I leaped into his car and told him to “drive, drive, drive” me away from the LOT. Instead, we hid out in a hotel room in the Catskills for three days. It was in one of those resorts that was popular in the 1950s, like the one they go to in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which Daisy and I watch together.

It was a hot July and the resort was full of rustic cabins with no air-conditioning. Mostly, I lay on the bed, watching the ceiling fan rotate while I tried to absorb the information Liam was feeding me. I’d been in a “cult,” only that was a word I’d never heard. What did it mean? I wasn’t “programmed”—that’s what everyone in the outside world was, enslaved to the government. Todd was a bad person. That, I didn’t have any trouble believing.

I’m not sure I ever thanked you properly for that, I write.

You thanked me plenty.

Well, thank you again.

You’re welcome.

We are better off because of you.

Maybe.

You done saving people?

?

It’s been a while, I meant. No new people.

Are The Twists feeling like they need new members?

I smile at the use of the name I know he hates. No, I write, I just realized that we haven’t met anyone in a while.

There have been a few in the last couple years. They don’t always want to meet the group.

Oh?

They’ve been through enough.

Okay, I get it.

It’s late. You should get some rest.

Okay.

Sleep well.

You too, I write. Love you.

The words whoosh away, and I wish I could take them back. I’ve never written this to Liam before. Never said it. Does the fact that I didn’t put “I” in front of it make it less of a confession? Is there a way I can diminish it further?

Oops, I write, but don’t hit “Send.” Liam’s typing something. Or thinking about it.

Then: Same.

I put my phone down with a smile on my face, but before I can settle in, my phone flashes again, that distinctive light pattern getting my attention. Is Liam taking it back? I shouldn’t reach for my phone, but I can’t ignore it.

It’s not a text from Liam.

It’s from Jessica Two.

Stop it, it says. This is your last warning.

I hold on to the phone tightly. One of the things she doesn’t know about me yet: I don’t respond well to threats.