No Passengers Beyond This Point(32)

At last I see a dull flicker of light above, like a flashlight that needs a new battery. I speed up, full of hope, ignoring the nasty voice in my head that tells me Mickey and the other sleazes will be in my dream house now too. Mickey has everything I own that’s worth anything, but I won’t let him get my house. No way. The light glows brighter as I inch upward coil by coil, my arms shaking. My muscles are so tired but I’m doing this. I’m going to climb right back into my house!

“Way to go, India. Way to go, girl,” I tell myself as I pull my legs out of the tunnel into the bedroom suite. The tunnel comes out under my bed, but the bed isn’t broken or cracked the way it was when I fell out of it. I guess they repaired it already because it’s all in one piece now. Though when I look closely I see a fault line—an uneven crack in the mattress. Must be the repair job. I mean, how do you fix a bed split in two.

This makes me think about the street vendors selling a second chance. It’s as if there’s a whole industry built around the loss of your home. How disturbing is that?

I have to scoot on my belly to get out into my room, which looks totally different now. The bed is in the same place. The chair, the window seat, and the bathroom are too, but the decor is different. There’s a white satin comforter with pink bows, flouncy pillows, white lacey curtains, and a white shag rug. Ballerinas and pink ribbons are everywhere. Nothing about the room says me.

Then I see the cat, her white fur an exact match to the rug. Is this the same cat that scared off the birds? If so, how did she get back up here? The cat’s tail flicks, and something jingles around her neck. Her green eyes watch me as if she knows something I don’t. Next to her is a package wrapped in lime green paper, tied with bright pink and orange polka-dot ribbon and marked with the wild lettering they use for me.

India, the tag reads.

I tear it open. Inside are my jeans with my cell phone and the puzzle piece safely in the pocket. And there’s something else too. A tiny computer screen with a wristband—a cross between a watch and a computer.

I buckle it on my wrist and as soon as I tuck the end of the strap in, up pops Maddy, her corkscrew curls bouncing around her face.

My knees collapse under me. “Maddy, oh Maddy. This is so awful you can’t believe it,” I blubber from where I sit like a lump on the carpet.

“In? What’s going on?” she asks.

“I’m moving to Colorado,” I sob.

“Look, this is a terrible connection. I thought you said you were moving to Colorado. Tell me where you are. I need to come over right now,” Maddy says.

She can totally hear how upset I am.

“But Maddy . . . I’m at four-oh-one, that’s all I know . . . it’s like this big street. Four-oh-one some road.”

“Find the street name, In. My mom will take me,” she says, but the screen image is fading until I can hardly see her.

“Maddy! Maddy!” I call, but she’s gone. There’s only me yelling at an empty gray square on my wrist.

The cat is busy licking her paws. Her eyes glow green. Around her neck I notice the ring my cool mom was wearing, tied with a ribbon. She gets up and stretches, her tail in the air, as if she has all the time in the world.

I try to grab her, but she leaps easily out of my reach.

“Finn and Mouse,” I whisper to the little screen, but nothing happens. There are no buttons or dials. It isn’t a touch screen. I try to flip up the side or slide open the bottom, but this device is as smooth as an eyeball.

“Maddy,” I whisper again and again. But the screen stays dark.

“Finn and Mouse,” I enunciate as clearly as I can. I even write Mouse’s and Finn’s names in the air above it.

Downstairs in that room with all the screens, I never had to do anything. The right faces were just there.

That’s where I need to go.

But this is somebody else’s house now. The screens probably have that person’s friends.

I tiptoe to the door of the bedroom, and look out past the giant hall to the staircase.

The cat watches me as if she’s wondering what I’ll do. I take a deep breath and scoot out of the room, but the second my toe hits the first step, an alarm rings. It’s loud—a series of repetitive bips with answering beeps like an alarm and its mating call. I pull my toe back, run through the bedroom to the bathroom, and lock the door. The lock breaks off in my hand, which totally freaks me out because now I hear somebody’s coming.

I huddle in the corner of the bathroom and listen to the approaching footsteps and commanding voices. The shadows shift in the sliver of light under the door. And then all at once the door shoots open, banging against the wall. Men in midnight blue uniforms with white cloud patches and blue gloved hands stand outside.