“Only after you sign, I’m afraid.” The guy offers the tablet and I grab it, messily signing the screen with the tip of my finger.
I look at him expectantly. “The package?”
The man taps the screen a couple more times. “Left it in Q. Peters’s old bedroom closet.”
I just stare. “You’ve been inside my apartment?”
“With Q. Peters’s permission, of course.” He clears his throat loudly. “Now then, I’m afraid I’ll be needing your memory of this whole encounter. You see, we at Discreet Deliveries take pride in our customers’ anonymity. Don’t worry, you’ll still get your package. At some point during the day you’ll feel the sudden, unexplainable urge to clean out that closet, and there the package will be.”
“You need my . . . what?” I take a nervous step back.
“Just the one memory.” The guy pulls out what looks like a TV remote control. Then he squints down at the tablet again. “Oh. My mistake! Seems your name is on the Memory Intact List. Someone’s off to the Bureau, I’ll bet. Best thirty years of my life. Anyways, good afternoon!”
I blink and the man is gone. What in the world just happened?
And what’s in my brother’s closet?
Even after all this time, I half expect to hear Quinton yell at me for barging into his room without his permission. I step inside and glance around at the wrinkled rap posters hanging alongside his framed photographs of Stephen Hawking and Martin Luther King. His bed is messy, like always, and all his academic trophies and honor roll certificates fill up the back wall.
The investigators tore this place apart looking for clues about what might’ve happened to him, but me and Mama made sure to put everything back exactly like it was. I think we both secretly hoped we’d find something the police missed, something only family might recognize. But that just didn’t happen. Neither one of us has been in here since. It hurts too much.
It’s not until I get all the way inside that the memories hit me. All the times Quinton and I used to play in here. Or how sometimes he’d put on a playlist while we lay on the floor, joking and talking about how we were going to take over the world one day. How we were going to show our loser dad who ditched Mama that we’re worth something. How we’d always have each other’s backs, no matter what. Sure, Quinton might be ten years older than me, but we’ve always been tight.
Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
Okay, so . . . Quinton’s room has never ticked before. Suddenly I’ve got goosebumps all over.
Maybe that weird delivery guy was telling the truth. The package is supposed to be in Quinton’s closet. And sure enough, with each step closer to the closet, the sound gets louder. Did he send me a clock?
I bite my bottom lip and pull open the closet door. It’s empty except for a huge, ugly old chest that Quinton got from the thrift store when we were younger. While I was digging through the doll bin for a Black Barbie, he had his eyes on this raggedy chest with half the leather cover missing. Claimed he needed a place to hold all his master plans.
By the sound of it, whatever Quinton sent me is inside. Thankfully, he broke the lock years ago, so getting in is as easy as lifting the top. I dig through countless beatup folders and old notebooks, searching for anything that might tick.
It’s not till I get to the very bottom that I find a loudly ticking black briefcase, a white Postit Note on top with Quinton’s handwriting.
For Amari’s Eyes Only
Quickly, I take the briefcase out of the chest and set it on the floor. What could be inside? Fidgeting with the locks doesn’t get it open, so I try yanking it apart. No luck. That’s when I notice another Postit on the other side.
Will open at midnight,
after the last day of school
I swallow, my heart booming. Quinton never said anything about having a briefcase for me. But that’s his handwriting.
Maybe he wants to explain where he is and what happened. After six months of worrying like crazy . . . could this be how to find him?
I glance over at Quinton’s alarm clock. 4:13 p.m. Midnight is nearly eight hours away. But what is it I’m waiting for?
11:58 p.m.
I’m in my room, sitting at the head of my bed with my knees pulled up to my chest. The briefcase sits at the foot of my bed, looking suspicious.
I check the hallway again. Mama’s been home for a few hours, but no light shines under her door. She must be asleep. Good. Whatever’s inside this briefcase, Quinton made it clear that only I’m supposed see it.
11:59 p.m.
I pace back and forth. Okay, I’m totally tripping, right? What do I honestly think is going to happen?
12:00 a.m.
CLICK! HISSSSSSSSSS . . .
I swear I jump a whole foot in the air. I creep over to my bed and take a seat. After a calming breath, I lift the top of the briefcase. Greenandpurple stripes stare back at me.
I reach inside, pull the smooth fabric from the briefcase and hold up what seems like a suit jacket to the light. It might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I reach inside and pull out the matching pants. I have no idea what’s going on but I can’t help a smile. This is definitely Quinton’s corny sense of humor at work.
And there’s more in the suitcase—an envelope and a pair of thick metallic shades. Attached to the shades is a chain of Postit Notes.
#1 Please lie down before putting these on
#2 I’m serious about lying down first
#3 Pinkie swear–level serious!
Okay, okay, I get it! I bring the shades closer. Aside from being heavy, they seem pretty normal. Certainly not dangerous enough for three warnings. Are they supposed to make you dizzy or something? Well, if it’s pinkie swear–serious then fine, I’ll lie down.
I shove the briefcase to the edge of my bed and lay back before sliding the glasses onto my face. I’m not sure what the big deal—
“Amari?” comes a voice I’d recognize anywhere.
Quinton?!
3
I WHIP MY HEAD AROUND TO SEE MY BROTHER STANDING in the middle of my bedroom, a nervous grin on his face. I scramble off the bed so fast I trip over my own feet. Next thing I know, I’m across the room with my arms wrapped around his middle. I’m shaking as his arms hug me back.
“I missed you too.” He laughs.
I relax my grip on him and he steps back, out of my arms. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy in my whole life. My big brother is here. Like really here. “How? Where have you been? We’ve got to tell Mama!” I can’t get the words out fast enough as I stare up at his very alive face, a big, goofy grin sitting below his wide eyes and uneven hairline.
“I’ll explain everything. But for now, I just need you to trust me. Okay?”
Of course I trust him. But how did he just appear out of nowhere? “Um, okay.”
“Follow me!” He turns and runs out of the room.
I give chase, skidding to a stop in front of Mama’s darkened doorway. I have to tell her Quinton is back. She won’t need to be sad anymore. We won’t have to fight anymore either. Everything can go back to the way it was before.
“There’s no time,” Quinton calls from the living room. “We’ve got to hurry.” He opens the front door and dashes out into the hallway.