Part 1 (2/2)
One taillight out. Tires screeching. Gone.
Lucas. His name was Lucas.
And hers?
They'd gotten out of that white van, just a moment ago. Three rows of seats. Ripped leather upholstery that dug into her thigh.
She had spent the journey fighting sleep-or something-and working hard not to tear the blindfold off.
He'd said not to. It had been important to behave.
”Where are we?” A girl- Sarah?- screaming.
”Who was that?” Adam-his name was easy, biblical-paced. ”Who was driving?”
She studied him-his skin light brown, darker than the others'-then his clothes.
Black s.h.i.+rt.
Black jeans.
Sneakers.
Then Lucas's.
”Scar?” He was staring at her.
What scar? Where?
Oh.
Scarlett.
Her name was Scarlett.
”You okay?” He came closer.
She studied her own clothes. Swallowed to wet her throat. ”Why are we all wearing the same thing?”
”I think I'm having a panic attack,” Sarah said. ”Oh my G.o.d. OhmyG.o.dohmyG.o.d.”
”Just calm down”-the first words out of . . . K . . . K . . . K . . . Kristen's mouth.
”WHY SHOULD I CALM DOWN?” Again, Sarah. Screaming.
Something was poking Scarlett's hip.
Two of her fingers slid into her right jeans pocket, found a folded piece of paper. Took it out. Unfolded it.
”What's that?” Lucas asked.
Lines, this way and that. ”A map.”
The others dug through pockets. They all had maps.
Her eyes found a red-inked star on hers and saw her nails were also red: worn and chipped, like blood leaking out of her cuticles.
”I think this is a map to my house,” Lucas said. ”Thirty-three Locust Place.”
”Mine's not ringing any bells.” Kristen flipped to the other side of her map, and back. ”Maybe I got the wrong one?”
She wasn't chewing gum, but Scarlett pictured her that way. Always chewing.
Scarlett turned. A slide. Some swings. A gate.
A thought about a cracked tooth, a boy.
Had it been Lucas?
No, but . . .
Her feet had orders.
Marched toward the playground.
Stood at the center on the springy blacktop.
A warm wind woke an old swing. It squeaked and swung a ghost child.
”I've been here,” Scarlett said to no one.
The others came in, too.
She stopped at a red horse on a springy coil, the kind you sit on . . .
. . . and rock.
Sarah was all panic. ”Why don't we remember where we live?”
Good. Question.
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