No Passengers Beyond This Point(30)

The cart is way fun, but the ride is too short. We’re already back at the familiar alley crowded with shops. Dean pulls the cart to a graceful halt and waits for me to get out.

He salutes as if he’s in the military. “Give ’em heck, India,” he says as he backs his vehicle around.

I smile and wave as he takes off, and then suddenly it hits me. “Hey! Wait! You can’t just leave me here!

“Wait! Wait!” I shout, my legs spinning under me, I’m running so fast. I’m gaining on the cart too, but it’s impossible to keep up this pace. Dean doesn’t turn around. He can’t hear me. “Wait! Stop! Dean? Dean person?”

My chest aches. I have to slow down and when I do, the cart zips out of sight.

Something inside me begins to crumble. And then suddenly birds are everywhere. A mass of feathers, beady eyes, and sharp claws.

Beaks clip my ear, my shoulder, the back of my head. Birds peck my arms. Birds dive for my eyes. Big black birds, sharp-eyed blue jays, and vicious brown hawks surround me.

“Bird strike!” somebody yells.





CHAPTER 16

PLUM-COLORED PANTS

The birds are gone. I think it was that white cat that scared them away. I take my hands from my face, wondering where the cat is now. I don’t see her.

The look on the hawks’ eyes as they dove for me was mean. I have pecks on my arms, little torn pieces of skin, and one hawk ripped a hunk of my hair. My wrist is bleeding. I mean seriously, those birds wanted to kill me.

What did I do wrong? This is so completely unfair. I need to find Mouse and Finn. We need to get out of here. Weren’t they supposed to meet me? It’s just like Mouse to wander off. She probably saw some sign she wanted to read.

All I see is a pile of feathers and popcorn on the narrow alley. There aren’t a lot of people, unless you count the shop owners. A man wearing the midnight blue uniform is maneuvering a trash can on wheels over to the feathers and popcorn. He sweeps it all into neat piles.

The popcorn reminds me of Maddy. She loves popcorn. She probably insisted Ariana have it at her party. Ariana’s party must be over now. They had it without me.

I wave to the guy. “Hello, um, sir!”

“Bonjour,” he says.

Oh great, he’s French. How do I say I need help in French? I’m supposed to know this. “J’ai assist,” I say.

He hands me a broom.

Terrific . . . I just asked him if I could help him.

Then I spot Mickey walking toward me. “India.” His face is full of concern. “What happened?”

He’s a scummy guy. He probably caused the bird strike. That’s what Dean said. I trust Dean, right?

“India,” Mickey calls again in his singsong voice with his black greasy hair, his yellow teeth, his motorcycle black eyes, and his pointy beard. I glance over at him—his eyes are mesmerizing. I can’t look away.

“I have something to tell you,” Mickey reports, beckoning in slow mo. “It’s urgent.”

I get right in his face and shout. “I want my money back! And call your stupid birds off.”

“What are you talking about? What birds?”

“The birds that attacked me.”

“Our birds aren’t vicious. Who told you that?” he asks.

“Somebody I trust,” I say. “I want my money back.”

“Oh no!” His mouth freezes in a perfect O. “You didn’t let them mislead you. You still have your ticket?”

“Void—void where prohibited. That’s what the fine print said. You lied!” An alarm goes off inside my head telling me not to get into this with him, but I can’t help myself. People shouldn’t get away with cheating you. How dare he!

“Oh.” He shakes his head and his eyes well up with tears. “You didn’t believe him, did you? Not my beautiful India.” The beady eyes of the crow perched on his shoulder are fixated on me.

Why didn’t I see what a grease ball he is? I know why . . . it’s because of his eyes. They are large, deep, singer-songwriter eyes.

Mickey shakes his head, clucking sadly. “They always try that. They don’t want you to have a second chance.”

“Second chance,” chirps the white parrot perched on a nearby rooftop.

“But why not?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“They’ve got their policies and procedures and they don’t like when a person”—his pointer fingers move all around, like fingers gone haywire—“messes with the system, but you know the truth, India.”

I hate that this makes sense.

He leans forward hopefully. “You still have your ticket?”

I shake my head.

“No? It’s gone. Ohhhhhh . . .” He lets the sound trail off. “Okay, okay. Let me think about this. Maybe old Mickey can help.” He taps his temple then winks at me. “Old Mickey has a trick or two up his sleeve. It has worked before.”