“What is the big deal about that stupid ring? I was going to put it back, if everybody hadn’t totally freaked about it.”
“If you were just borrowing it, why didn’t you ask?”
“I just forgot. Man, you better be careful, you’re starting to sound like Rules, India.”
“You’re wrong about that, Maddy. I don’t sound like my mother, I sound like me,” I tell her, and then all at once I want Maddy to disappear. I can’t think with her talking to me this way.
And as surely as if I switched an off button the wrist screen fades gray, flickers green, and flashes off.
Okay, you’ve got to think this out, I tell myself. If I try to lie my way through the checkpoint, I’m toast. I’ll never make it. They’ll send me back to Passengers Waiting. I can’t let that happen. Mouse and Finn are on the other side.
I pull off the highway and drive parallel to the wall, hoping to spot a break. But the wall goes on forever. Mile after mile of shiny aluminum, rounded at the top and three or maybe four stories tall.
I make a U-turn and head back across the road to the other side, but it’s the same thing in this direction—just wall as far as I can see. Even if I could manage to climb over, they’d see me, plus, I’d be on foot. How would I ever find Finn and Mouse on foot?
Then I see a lone cart moving along the wall. It pulls behind the tram stop. The driver leans out, pulls a lever, and a small gate opens. The cart scoots through and the gate shuts behind it, but the opening is too small for the feather cab—it’s cart-size.
Here comes another cart with a young girl driving. I grab the paste-on sideburns and stick them on, jump out of the feather cab, and tear across the grass waving my arms. “Wait!” I shout.
She comes to a whiplash halt, and I jump into the passenger side.
“Hey,” I say, deepening my voice as if I’m the driver, Ed. “Hi!”
She takes me in warily, snapping her gum. The name on her badge says Pamela. “Where’s your cab—” she asks.
“I parked it already.”
“You parked it?”
Oops. Guess I’m not supposed to have done that. If I backtrack and launch into another story, that will be worse. I keep going.
“Yeah, sure. You just have to know how.” I try for a swagger.
Pamela gives me another once-over. She clearly isn’t buying this. Then her eyes light on my wrist screen.
“Wow. I’ve never seen one of those. They’re really rare. Only Headquarters people are supposed to have them. Is yours free roaming or does it have a chip?” she asks.
“A chip?”
“It allows Headquarters to alter the information.”
“Oh. I don’t know,” I say truthfully.
She wants the wrist screen as much as the people in Passengers Waiting. I can see it in her eyes. “Yeah, check it out,” I say, directing all my attention toward the screen. I know how to do this now. I can turn it on with my mind. I focus on Maddy and how much I like to talk to her. The dull gray flickers tentatively and Maddy pops up.
“In, don’t do that again. I hate when you shut me out like that.” Maddy has that peeved look on her face.
Pamela’s riveted to the screen. “Who’s that?” she asks.
I smile at Maddy. But something inside me has changed.
“My friend, when I lived in California,” I say.
“Can I see?” Pamela asks, her voice suddenly vulnerable, needy.
“Sure,” I say, “if I can, um, borrow your cart.”
Pamela’s eyes snap back to me. “You’re that girl they’re looking for.” She snatches the radio on her dashboard and pulls the curly cord toward her.
“No! Wait!” I plead.
She freezes, her finger hovering over the transfer button.
I unbuckle the half-broken strap. “You take it. Go ahead. There must be someone you want to talk to . . .”
“In! What are you doing?” Maddy’s face is pale; her hazel eyes fill the screen, but as it moves away from my skin, wavy lines disrupt the picture.
“Bye, Maddy,” I whisper as Pamela buckles the screen onto her own wrist and in place of Maddy’s ghosted image comes a new face, sharply in focus. It’s a pale boy with eyes an unnatural shade of blue, a thin face full of dark shadows, and the beginning of a beard.
“Pamela,” he says in a thick Australian accent. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Jack. Oh Jack,” she says, her throat full, her eyes captivated. The radio falls from her hands as she strokes the screen with the tips of her fingers.
Slowly, I move my hand to the transmission stick. Then in one fierce motion, I bump Pamela out of the driver’s seat, switch the transmission to drive, and pounce on the gas pedal. The cart lurches forward, I grab the wheel and sit down.