They were alone, but it wasn’t romantic, it was focused. He’d been in her gymnastics class—Emily’s mom took her every Saturday morning. Jeremy’s mom taught ballet, was once second soloist with the Chicago ballet. She’d seen Emily doing floorwork at the start of their class—the choreography in her routine, the leaps and spins—and told Emily’s mom she had to join Jeremy’s ballet lessons.
“She has talent,” Jeremy’s mom had said as they walked to the car afterward, past the Olive Garden, crisp Minnesotan air cooling the sweat on Emily’s skin.
“Yes,” said Emily’s mom. “She’s very strong. Flexible.”
“No,” said Jeremy’s mom. “I mean, she can dance.”
Emily’s mom made a face like she didn’t understand. “We’re not…um,” she said. “My husband had to leave the army. Ballet sounds kind of expensive.”
“I’ll teach her for free,” said Jeremy’s mom. “If I didn’t, it would be a crime.”
That was why Emily was here, gliding with Jeremy across the floor, pirouetting, again and again, until it was right. His mom—Francesca—said she was good enough to audition for Chicago or even New York. Already she and Jeremy were going to exhibitions, dancing as a couple.
“Concentrate,” said Jeremy as she slipped, went down on her knee.
“Sorry,” she said. “Let’s go again.”
He put his arm around her, their fingers intertwined, both of them reaching up, and then he swung her out and around and she was spinning away from his touch—
Only, no, because the room dissolved around her, the floor fell away, and she was in freefall for a moment, until a hand was on her again, a proprietorial hand, not gentle like Jeremy’s but squeezing her, squeezing her behind, a hand that said, you are mine….She was in the corridor leading to the locker rooms, after the second game of the season, and Brad Mecklenburg, linebacker, was grabbing her and turning her to face him, grabbing her just above the line of her skirt, in a way that made her superconscious of how short it was, her stupid pleated cheerleader’s skirt.
“Hey, Minnesota,” he said.
“Hey, asshole,” she said, pulling away from him.
Rain clouds crossed the blue sky of his eyes. Little muscles in his jaw twitched.
“Quit playing hard to get,” he said.
“I’m not playing.” She could still feel his fingers on her, though they weren’t anymore. He had his arms crossed. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His helmet swung from one hand.
She glanced around. There was no one. The corridor was empty. It was only afternoon, but the rectangle of outdoor air, behind them, was already black, the sun long since set, the stadium lights shooting down a shaft of sodium glow. She couldn’t believe he was hassling her again.
“You’re going to prom with me, Vasquez,” said Brad.
“It’s Perez, and no, I’m not,” she said.
He laughed. “We’ll see.” He took a step toward her, smiling now, a smile she could tell he thought was charming, a smile she could tell he’d used before. “I usually get what I want,” he said.
Emily was sure he did. Even Rachel, the cheerleading coach, seemed to think that was half of what they were there for. “Cheerleading teaches team spirit,” she’d said. “And core strength and athleticism and discipline. It will look great on your college applications.” And then she’d winked. “And, of course, it significantly raises your chances of getting a boyfriend on the football team and a killer date for prom.”
The other girls had laughed.
Emily had not.
Now Brad took another step forward, put out his hands, and held her by the waist. Tight. Everyone else seemed to have left—it was as if the whole stadium was empty. She felt one hand move down, and he was so strong, and she tried to twist away from him because no—
This wasn’t what had happened—
He’d sneered and walked off—that time anyway—
This wasn’t her memory—
But then the corridor melted into blackness and cold and the texture of pine needles, all around her, and she heard Aidan call out her name in distress; someone was shaking her, the men from the government, and, “No, no, you can’t have him, leave us alone, I swear to God I’ll—” she shouted, but when she opened her eyes fully and let the light in, she saw it was Bob crouching over her.
The fire was low and smoking. Aidan was whimpering, curled into her side. His skin was near-blue with cold; he felt trembling and weak against her. Soft sunlight, coming through the branches above, made specks and sparkles on everything.
Bob held something in front of Emily’s face. Something small and orange.
She peered at it. The SPOT tracker.
Oh.
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT’S THIS?” BOB said.
“It’s a SPOT tracker.”
“I know it’s a SPOT tracker. It’s my SPOT tracker. What I want to know is what it was doing in your goddamn pocket.” He was sweating, despite the cold; pale-looking.
She looked down; touched her jeans. “You’re frisking me now?”
She felt Aidan move in closer.
“I wanted to know why those men came after us with frickin’ assault rifles. You said you’d explain, but I haven’t heard any explanation coming out of your mouth.” It was about the longest thing he’d said since they’d crashed.
“It’s…hard to put into words. And anyway, you fell asleep as I was about to tell you. Last night.”
He barked a short, unamused laugh. “You know we could have been rescued by now if I’d just pressed a button on this thing?”
“No,” she said. “The men with assault rifles would just have come quicker.”
A pause.
“Why? What did you do? I mean, apart from burning down the goddamn school.”
She shook her head. “It was the stadium,” she said. “Not even that. Not really. A locker room. And apart from that, I didn’t do anything.”
His forehead creased. “Someone else did?”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother?”
“He didn’t do anything, either.”
“Then what?” asked Bob.
“I did do something,” said Aidan quietly. “I existed.”