Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(3)

Not until the moment I hit the rocks.

• • •

I wake up in the woods. It's dark, and I'm alone.

I remember.

The man. The push. The jagged boulders. I begin to cry. Tears streak down my cheeks as I run my hands over my arms and legs.

I'm not hurt. My dress isn't even dirty.

I scream for anyone who might hear me, racing down the mountainside toward the distant glow of town. I find a path, a road, then a man walking a Yorkshire terrier. His eyes widen as he shouts for someone named Gail. 

A blanket enfolds me. Flashing lights. A warm drink with marshmallows.

I get to ride in a police car! All the way home to the trailer park. Mom is there. She's been crying, hugs me so hard I can't breathe.

Everyone has questions. Mom. Neighbors. A police officer. Then a hefty man with a mustache appears, and everyone else moves aside. It's Sheriff Watson, here at our trailer, which means this is a Big Deal. He asks me to tell him what happened, real slow.

I tell about the man in the suit. Cotton candy by the canyon's rim.

Gasps, quickly covered. I see frightened glances among the adults, but I'm not supposed to notice, so I don't say anything. Instead I tell them about the fall. How the man pushed me over the edge, the rocks rushing up, and how everything went black.

Silence. Then Sheriff Watson asks me to repeat the last part.

So I tell it again. I keep going, adding details, even though I know my story is making the adults upset. I tell them about waking up alone in the forest. Running toward the lights.

Sheriff Watson turns his back and whispers something to the others. Heads begin to nod. My mother swoops in, crushing me to her chest, telling everyone I need rest. I've been traumatized, whatever that means. More nods. I'm hustled off to bed.

As Mom tucks me under the covers, I ask her the question that's been bugging me.

Who was the black-suited man? Did she see him? Does she know him?

The flinch is slight, but I catch it. She says no. Of course not. My imagination has gotten the best of me. Then she kisses me fiercely, fat tears leaking from her eyes.

Mom tells me not to be afraid. That I'm safe. That I need to sleep more than anything.

The light flicks off. She closes the door.

But I don't sleep.

I'm only eight, but I know lies when I hear them.





3



"Hey, Sleeping Beauty!"

My head jerked, and I nearly fell over sideways. I grabbed the post I'd been leaning against. Impossibly, I'd drifted off while waiting. Or maybe not so impossibly. Had I slept at all in the last twenty-four hours?

Thomas "Tack" Russo was marching toward me, a slight kid with unruly black hair and penetrating blue eyes. He wore a Kickpuncher sweatshirt and beige cargo pants, his camouflage backpack hooked over both shoulders.

"Out cold by the gate is not a good look." Tack shook his head. "You should've grabbed a spot by the Wilson fire. Looks like those guys had a killer campout."

"We're going to be late," I grumbled, stifling a yawn.

"No one'll care." His smirk slipped a fraction as he rubbed his arms, chasing away the morning chill. I spotted bags under his eyes as well. "Honestly, I wonder how many kids will even show up."

Pushing off the post. "Nobody actually knows anything. Not yet. And I doubt Principal Myers will suddenly learn to relax."

"Wait wait wait!" Tack swung his backpack around and unzipped it, pulling out a lumpy parcel wrapped in Sunday comics. Dropping to a knee, he held the ugly bundle aloft, head bowed like a knight swearing service. "Please accept this token as a symbol of my undying pleasure at your continuing to be alive for another year."

I blanched, my stomach abruptly churning.




       
         
       
        
Alive another year. Am I really?

Tack glanced up. Registered my discomfort, if not the cause. He rose quickly, cheeks reddening as he thrust the package into my hands. "Sorry. I tried to find you yesterday, but . . ." He trailed off with a wince.

Tack knew I hated birthdays. That I spent them alone when I could.

He just didn't know why.

Tack was my best friend, and utterly irreplaceable. One of the few things I liked about Fire Lake, other than the scenery. I couldn't risk our friendship by telling him the truth. Couldn't stand for him to think I was crazy, too.

"You shouldn't have bought me anything," I scolded. Every year I told him not to. And every year he did anyway.

Tack's grin returned. "If it makes you feel better, I didn't. I stole it."

My eyes rolled as I tore into the newsprint. After I'd ripped through a near-seamless ball of tape, a small cardboard box fell into my hands. Inside was a pair of vintage Ray-Ban sunglasses. Silver frame. Reflective lenses.

I slipped them on. They fit perfectly.

A stony visage crashed my thoughts. He wore shades like these.

I shoved that aside. Wouldn't let the evil bastard's shadow darken every moment of my life. Who cared if they were similar? I liked these damn glasses.

"See there!" Tack crowed triumphantly, slapping his hands together. "Perfect! Who's the dopest Bella now? Melinda Juilliard Wilder, that's who!"

"Shut it, dork. And don't triple name me today, or my mom'll get jealous."

Plus, I hated my middle name. It was the sole legacy of my father-being named after a prestigious performing arts conservatory on the other side of the country. Yet I couldn't dance. Or act. Or sing. I didn't even play an instrument. Another letdown courtesy of a man I never knew.

"What's Virginia worked up about this time?" Tack snatched the sunglasses from my nose and slipped them on. "Something from yesterday? Did you offend Jeebus at your private birthday shindig?"

"It was nothing." I began walking up the drive. I hated lying to Tack, but the conversation had strayed into dangerous territory. I wished I still had the shades to cover my eyes.

Tack fell in beside me. "You're right, we need to get moving." He handed back the glasses and hitched his pants. "Our classmates wouldn't know what to do if the prom king and queen were late on Announcement Day. They'd probably crap themselves." 

I snorted. We hiked up to Quarry Road, then started into town. A light breeze was rippling the lake, which gleamed like a sapphire in the heart of the valley. We crossed a handful of quiet blocks before hanging a left onto Library Avenue. Street names in Fire Lake are pretty straightforward. The place never got big enough to require creativity.

"NASA really torpedoed business this month," Tack said, pointing to a cluster of vacant condos near the marina. "My dad's had zero work. No tourists clogging their toilets."

"People are staying home, I guess. Waiting. A trip to Fire Lake just isn't in the cards."

Tack raised both palms, rounding his eyes dramatically. "But Outdoor Weekly named us the best weekend getaway in the Rockies! What better place to spend your last days on Earth?"

"People can be so dumb, right?"

"The worst."

The hike to school usually takes twenty minutes, unless the weather is crappy. But that morning it was all sunshine and blue skies, with the temperature hovering around fifty-five degrees. A gorgeous day in the northern Idaho mountains. It felt like a prank.

As we moved deeper into town, unusual signs of neglect cropped up. A busted streetlight. Trash in the gutter. An Explorer was parked with its front two wheels on the curb, soaped letters on its windshield saying, "You can have it, Sheriff."

I was born in Fire Lake, knew it heart and soul. I'd never seen anything like it before. The disarray felt fundamentally wrong.

A tricked-out Wrangler rounded the corner, music thumping, a chrome gun rack welded to its rear. The top was down, and three shirtless boys were hanging over its sides.

"Oh, shucks." Tack sighed dejectedly as they tore up the block. "We missed our ride! I really wanted to flash the guns today, too."

"I'd rather crawl on my stomach than hitch a ride with Ethan. New car or not."

Tack shook his head. "Lay off my dudes. We're going camping next week, gonna really bro-down. Probably get wasted. Kill something and eat it. It's gonna be lit."

"Lovely. I'll be at the spa with Jessica and the squad."

Ethan Fletcher is the one who gave Tack his nickname, though it didn't work out like he'd planned. During sixth grade, as a prank, Ethan and the Nolan twins fastened Thomas Russo to a bulletin board by his clothes using thumbtacks. They left him hanging there, miserable and humiliated, until he was found by Mr. Hardy. In the halls the next morning, the other boys began calling him Thumbtack.

When Thomas heard, he immediately adopted the name as his own, refusing to respond to anything but Tack. Adults. Teachers. Classmates. Not even when called on in class. He was Tack, and that was final. After a while Ethan even tried to get him to stop, and Tack took a beating for refusing. A boulder could take lessons in stubbornness from that kid.

"Man, talk about depressing." Tack paused beneath the awning of Valley Grounds, our favorite coffee shop. A hand-scrawled sign was taped to its front door.

CLOSED UNTIL . . . GOD BLESS

His shoulders hunched. "This end-of-the-world stuff is cramping my style. We might all be about to die, but that doesn't mean I don't need caffeine. They better reopen eventually, or it's gonna be a long wait until the big boom."