The Missing Series (Margaret Peterson Haddix) (Z-Library).epub

[]{#titlepage.xhtml} []{#index_split_000.html} ::: {#index_split_000.html#calibre_pb_0.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_001.html} [A]{.bold}[[LSO BY]{.bold}]{.calibre1} [M]{.bold}[[ARGARET ]{.bold}]{.calibre1}[P]{.bold}[[ETERSON ]{.bold}]{.calibre1}[H]{.bold}[[ADDIX]{.bold}]{.calibre1} []{#index_split_002.html} The Shadow Children series []{#index_split_003.html} [Among the Hidden]{.italic} []{#index_split_004.html} [Among the Impostors]{.italic} []{#index_split_005.html} [Among the Betrayed]{.italic} []{#index_split_006.html} [Among the Barons]{.italic} []{#index_split_007.html} [Among the Brave]{.italic} []{#index_split_008.html} [Among the Enemy]{.italic} []{#index_split_009.html} [Among the Free]{.italic} [The Girl with 500 Middle Names]{.italic} []{#index_split_010.html} [Because of Anya]{.italic} [Say What?]{.italic} []{#index_split_011.html} [Dexter the Tough]{.italic} []{#index_split_012.html} [Running Out of Time]{.italic} []{#index_split_013.html} [The House on the Gulf]{.italic} []{#index_split_014.html} [Double Identity]{.italic} [Don't You Dare Read This, Mrs. Dunphrey]{.italic} []{#index_split_015.html} [Leaving Fishers]{.italic} []{#index_split_016.html} [Just Ella]{.italic} []{#index_split_017.html} [Turnabout]{.italic} []{#index_split_018.html} [Takeoffs and Landings]{.italic} []{#index_split_019.html} [Escape From Memory]{.italic} []{#index_split_020.html} [Uprising]{.italic} ::: {#index_split_020.html#calibre_pb_20.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_021.html} ![](images/00143.jpg){.calibre_1} ::: {#index_split_021.html#calibre_pb_21.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_022.html} SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS\ An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division\ 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020\ This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.\ Copyright © 2008 by Margaret Peterson Haddix\ All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.\ S[IMON]{.calibre1}& S[CHUSTER]{.calibre1}B[OOKS FOR]{.calibre1}Y[OUNG]{.calibre1}R[EADERS]{.calibre1}is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.\ Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\ Haddix, Margaret Peterson.\ Found / Margaret Peterson Haddix.---1st ed.\ p. cm.---(The missing; \[bk. 1\])\ Summary: When thirteen-year-old friends Jonah and Chip, who are both adopted, find out that they were discovered on a plane that appeared out of nowhere, full of babies, with no adults on board, they realize that they have uncovered a mystery involving time travel and two opposing forces, each trying to capture them.\ ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9692-9\ ISBN-10: 1-4165-9692-5\ \[1. Adoption---Fiction. 2. Time travel---Fiction. 3. Science fiction.\]\ I. Title.\ PZ7.H1164Fo 2008\ \[Fic\]---dc22\ 2007023614 Visit us on the World Wide Web:\ [[http://www.SimonSays.com]{.calibre_10}](http://www.SimonSays.com) ::: {#index_split_022.html#calibre_pb_22.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_023.html} For my brothers ::: {#index_split_023.html#calibre_pb_24.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_024.html} [[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS]{.bold}]{.calibre3} With thanks to Steve Tuttle, vice president of communications for TASER International; and my friend Erin MacLellan, for answering my research questions. Thanks also to Nancy Roe Pimm, Jenny Patton, and Linda Stanek for their comments; and to my editor, David Gale; and agents, Tracey and Josh Adams, for having faith in my ideas before I did. And, finally, thanks to my family, for their many (mostly hilarious) plot suggestions. I am particularly grateful to my daughter, Meredith, for suggesting the plot twist that made everything work. ::: {#index_split_024.html#calibre_pb_25.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_025.html} [[CONTENTS]{.bold}]{.calibre4} [[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS]{.bold}](#index_split_024.html#filepos4296) [[PROLOGUE]{.bold}](#index_split_000.html#filepos8302) [[THIRTEEN YEARS LATER]{.bold}](#index_split_027.html#filepos23411) [[ONE]{.bold}](#index_split_028.html#filepos23524) [[TWO]{.bold}](#index_split_029.html#filepos34443) [[THREE]{.bold}](#index_split_030.html#filepos49881) [[FOUR]{.bold}](#index_split_031.html#filepos56878) [[FIVE]{.bold}](#index_split_032.html#filepos67051) [[SIX]{.bold}](#index_split_033.html#filepos73031) [[SEVEN]{.bold}](#index_split_034.html#filepos88622) [[EIGHT]{.bold}](#index_split_035.html#filepos104895) [[NINE]{.bold}](#index_split_036.html#filepos108037) [[TEN]{.bold}](#index_split_037.html#filepos134989) [[ELEVEN]{.bold}](#index_split_038.html#filepos149197) [[TWELVE]{.bold}](#index_split_039.html#filepos154176) [[THIRTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_040.html#filepos164795) [[FOURTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_041.html#filepos175843) [[FIFTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_042.html#filepos189825) [[SIXTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_043.html#filepos211092) [[SEVENTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_044.html#filepos220858) [[EIGHTEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_045.html#filepos241270) [[NINETEEN]{.bold}](#index_split_046.html#filepos264214) [[TWENTY]{.bold}](#index_split_047.html#filepos271334) [[TWENTY-ONE]{.bold}](#index_split_048.html#filepos281585) [[TWENTY-TWO]{.bold}](#index_split_049.html#filepos304022) [[TWENTY-THREE]{.bold}](#index_split_050.html#filepos315885) [[TWENTY-FOUR]{.bold}](#index_split_051.html#filepos322118) [[TWENTY-FIVE]{.bold}](#index_split_052.html#filepos331810) [[TWENTY-SIX]{.bold}](#index_split_053.html#filepos359715) [[TWENTY-SEVEN]{.bold}](#index_split_054.html#filepos378726) [[TWENTY-EIGHT]{.bold}](#index_split_055.html#filepos388127) [[TWENTY-NINE]{.bold}](#index_split_056.html#filepos400015) [[THIRTY]{.bold}](#index_split_057.html#filepos411539) [[THIRTY-ONE]{.bold}](#index_split_059.html#filepos428518) [[THIRTY-TWO]{.bold}](#index_split_060.html#filepos439666) [[THIRTY-THREE]{.bold}](#index_split_061.html#filepos462514) ::: {#index_split_025.html#calibre_pb_26.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_026.html} PROLOGUE {#index_split_026.html#calibre_pb_28.calibre6} -------- It wasn't there. Then it was. Later, that was how Angela DuPre would describe the airplane---over and over, to one investigator after another---until she was told never to speak of it again. But when she first saw the plane that night, she wasn't thinking about mysteries or secrets. She was wondering how many mistakes she could make without getting fired, how many questions she dared ask before her supervisor, Monique, would explode, "That's it! You're too stupid to work at Sky Trails Air! Get out of here!" Angela had used a Post-it note to write down the code for standby passengers who'd received a seat assignment at the last minute, and she'd stuck it to her computer screen. She knew she had. But somehow, between the flight arriving from Saint Louis and the one leaving for Chicago, the Post-it had vanished. Any minute now, she thought, some standby passenger would show up at the counter asking for a boarding pass, and Angela would be forced to turn to Monique once more and mumble, "Uh, what was that code again?" And then Monique, who had perfect hair and perfect nails and a perfect tan and had probably been born knowing all the Sky Trails codes, would grit her teeth and narrow her eyes and repeat the code in that slow fake-patient voice she'd been using with Angela all night, the voice that said behind the words,[I know you're severely mentally challenged, so I will try not to speak faster than one word per minute, but you have to realize, this is a real strain for me because I am so vastly superior]{.italic}.... Angela was not severely mentally challenged. She'd done fine in school and at the Sky Trails orientation. It was just, this was her first actual day on the job, and Monique had been nasty from the very start. Every one of Monique's frowns and glares and insinuations kept making Angela feel more panicky and stupid. Sighing, Angela glanced up. She needed a break from staring at the computer screen longing for a lost Post-it. She peered out at the passengers crowding the terminal: tired-looking families sprawled in seats, dark-suited businessmen sprinting down the aisle. Which one of them would be the standby flier who'd rush up to the counter and ruin Angela's life? Generally speaking, Angela had always liked people; she wasn't used to seeing them as threats. She forced her gaze beyond the clumps of passengers, to the huge plate glass window on the other side of the aisle. It was getting dark out, and Angela could see the runway lights twinkling in the distance. [Runway, runaway,]{.italic}she thought vaguely. And then---had she blinked?---suddenly the lights were gone. No, she corrected herself,[blocked.]{.italic} Suddenly there was an airplane between Angela and the runway lights, an airplane rolling rapidly toward the terminal. Angela gasped. "What now?" Monique snarled, her voice thick with exasperation. "That plane," Angela said. "At gate 2B. I thought it---" What was she supposed to say?[Wasn't there? Appeared out of thin air?]{.italic} "---I thought it was going too fast and might run into the building," she finished in a rush, because suddenly that had seemed true too. She watched as the plane pulled to a stop, neatly aligned with the jetway. "But it...didn't. No worries." Monique whirled on Angela. "Never," she began, in a hushed voice full of suppressed rage, "never, ever, ever say anything like that. Weren't you paying attention in orientation? Never say you think a plane is going to crash. Never say a plane could crash. Never even use the word[crash.]{.italic} Do you understand?" "Okay," Angela whispered. "Sorry." But some small rebellious part of her brain was thinking,[I didn't use the word]{.italic} crash.[Weren't you paying attention to]{.italic} me[? And if a plane really was going to run into the building, wouldn't Sky Trails want its employees to warn people, to get them out of the way?]{.italic} Just as rebelliously, Angela kept watching the plane parked at 2B, instead of bending her head back down to concentrate on her computer. "Um, Monique?" she said after a few moments. "Should one of us go over there and help the passengers unload---er, I mean---deplane?" She was proud of herself for remembering to use the official airline-sanctioned word for unloading. Beside her, Monique rolled her eyes. "The gate agents responsible for 2B," she said in a tight voice, "will handle deplaning there." Angela glanced at the 2B counter, which was silent and dark and completely unattended. There wasn't even a message scrolling across the LCD sign behind the counter to indicate that the plane had arrived or where it'd come from. "Nobody's there," Angela said stubbornly. Frowning, Monique finally glanced up. "Great. Just great," she muttered. "I always have to fix everyone else's mistakes." She began stabbing her perfectly manicured nails at her computer keyboard. Then she stopped, mid-stab. "Wait---that can't be right." "What is it?" Angela asked. Monique was shaking her head. "Must be pilot error," she said, grimacing in disgust. "Some yahoo pulled up to the wrong gate. There's not supposed to be anyone at that gate until the Cleveland flight at nine thirty." Angela considered telling Monique that if Sky Trails had banned[crash]{.italic} from their employees' vocabulary, that maybe passengers should be protected from hearing[pilot error]{.italic} as well. But Monique was already grabbing the telephone, barking out orders. "Yeah, Bob, major screwup," she was saying. "You've got to get someone over here.... No, I don't know which gate it was supposed to go to. How would I know? Do you think I'm clairvoyant?...No, I can't see the numbers on the plane. Don't you know it's dark out?" With her free hand, Monique was gesturing frantically at Angela. "At least go open the door!" she hissed. "You mean..." "The door to the jetway!" Monique said, pointing. Angela hoped that some of the contempt on Monique's face was intended for Bob, not just her. Angela imagined meeting Bob someday, sharing a laugh at Monique's expense. Still, dutifully, she walked over to the 2B waiting area and pulled open the door to the hallway that led down to the plane. Nobody came out. Angela picked a piece of lint off her blue skirt and then stood at attention, her back perfectly straight, just like in the training videos. Maybe she couldn't keep track of standby codes, but she was capable of standing up straight. Still, nobody appeared. Angela began to feel foolish, standing so alertly by an open door that no one was using. She bent her head and peeked down the jetway---it was deserted and turned at such an angle that she couldn't see all the way down to the plane, to see if anyone had opened the door to the jet yet. She backed up a little and peered out the window, straight down to the cockpit of the plane. The cockpit was dark, its windows blank, and that struck Angela as odd. She'd been on the job for only five hours, and she'd been a little distracted. But she was pretty sure that when planes landed, the pilots stayed in the cockpit for a while filling out paperwork or something. She thought that they at least waited until all the passengers were off before they turned out the cockpit lights. Angela peeked down the empty jetway once more and went back to Monique. "Of course I'm sure there's a plane at that gate! I can see it with my own eyes!" Monique was practically screaming into the phone. She shook her head at Angela, and for the first time it was almost in a companionable way, as if to say,[At least]{.italic} you[know there's a plane there! Unlike the other morons I have to deal with!]{.italic} Monique cupped her hand over the receiver and fumed to Angela, "The incompetence around here is unbelievable! The control tower says that plane never landed, never showed up on the radar. The Sky Trails dispatcher says we're not missing a plane---everything that was supposed to land in the past hour pulled up to the right gate, and all the other planes due to arrive within the next hour or so are accounted for. How could so many people just lose a plane?" [Or, how could we find it?]{.italic}Angela thought. The whole situation was beginning to seem strange to her, otherworldly. But maybe that was just a function of being new to the job, of having spent so much time concentrating on the computer and being yelled at by Monique. Maybe airports lost and found planes all the time, and that was just one of those things nobody had mentioned in the Sky Trails orientation. "Did, uh, anybody try to contact the pilot?" Angela asked cautiously. "Of course!" Monique said. "But there's no answer. He must be on the wrong frequency." Angela thought of the dark cockpit, the way she hadn't been able to see through the windows. She decided not to mention this. "Should I go back and wait?..." Monique nodded fiercely and went back to yelling into the phone: "What do you mean, this isn't your responsibility? It's not my responsibility either!" Angela was glad to put a wide aisle and two waiting areas between herself and Monique again. She went back to the jetway door by gate 2B. The sloped hallway leading down to the plane was still empty, and the colorful travel posters lining the walls---"Sky Trails! Your ticket to the world!"---seemed jarringly bright. Angela stepped into the jetway. [I'll just go down far enough to see if the jet door is open,]{.italic}she told herself.[It may be a violation of protocol, but Monique won't notice, not when she's busy yelling at everyone else in the airport....]{.italic} At the bend in the ramp, Angela looked around the corner. She had a limited view, but caught a quick glimpse of a flight attendants' little galley, with neatly stowed drink carts. Obviously, the jet door was standing wide open. She started to turn around, already beginning to debate with herself about whether she should report this information to Monique. Then she heard---what? A whimper? A cry? Angela couldn't exactly identify the sound, but it was enough to pull her on down the jetway. [New Sky Trails employee saves passenger on first day on job,]{.italic}she thought to herself, imagining the praise and congratulations---and maybe the raise---she'd be sure to receive if what she was visualizing was real. She'd learned CPR in the orientation session. She knew basic first aid. She knew where every emergency phone in the airport was located. She started walking faster, then running. On the side of the jet, she was surprised to see a strange insignia:[TACHYON TRAVEL]{.calibre1} , it said, some airline Angela had never heard of. Was that a private charter company maybe? And then, while she was staring at it, the words suddenly changed into the familiar wing-in-the-clouds symbol of Sky Trails. Angela blinked. [That couldn't have happened]{.italic}, she told herself.[It was just an optical illusion, just because I was running, just because I'm worried about whoever made that cry or whimper....]{.italic} Angela stepped onto the plane. She turned her head first to the left, looking into the cockpit. Its door also stood open, but the small space was empty, the instruments dark. "Hello?" Angela called, looking to the right now, expecting to see some flight attendant with perfectly applied makeup---or maybe some flight attendant and a pilot bent over a prone passenger, maybe an old man suddenly struck down by a heart attack or a stroke. Or, at the very least, passengers crowding the aisle, clutching laptops and stuffed animals brought from faraway grandparents' homes, overtired toddlers crying, fragile old women calling out to taller men, "Could you pull my luggage down from the overhead for me? It's that red suitcase over there...." But the aisle of this airplane was as empty and silent as its cockpit. Angela could see all the way to the back of the plane, and not a single person stood in her view, not a single voice answered her. Only then did Angela drop her gaze to the passenger seats. They stretched back twelve rows, with two seats per row on the left side of the aisle and one each on the right. She stepped forward, peering at all of them. Thirty-six seats on this plane, and every single one of them was full. Each seat contained a baby. ::: {#index_split_026.html#calibre_pb_29.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_027.html} [[THIRTEEN YEARS LATER]{.bold}]{.calibre3} ::: {#index_split_027.html#calibre_pb_30.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_028.html} [[ONE]{.bold}]{.calibre4} "You don't look much like your sister," Chip said, bouncing the basketball low against the driveway. Jonah waited to answer until he'd darted his hand in and stolen the basketball away. "Adopted," he said, shooting the ball toward the backboard. But the angle was wrong, and the ball bounced off the hoop. "Really? You or her? Or both?" Chip asked, snagging the rebound. "Me," Jonah said. "Just me." Then he sneaked a glance at Chip, to see if this made a difference. It didn't to Jonah---he'd always known he was adopted, and as far as he was concerned, it wasn't much more of a deal than his liking mint chocolate-chip ice cream while Katherine liked orange sherbet. But sometimes other people got weird about it. Chip had one eyebrow raised, like he was still processing the information. This gave Jonah a chance to grab the ball again. "Hey, if you're not, like, related by blood or anything, does that mean you could date her?" Chip asked. Jonah almost dropped the ball. "Yuck---[no]{.italic}!" he said. "That's sick!" "Why?" Chip asked. "Because she's my sister! Ugh!" If Chip had asked him that question a few years ago, Jonah would have added, "And she's got cooties!" But Jonah was in seventh grade now, and seventh graders didn't talk about cooties. Anyhow Jonah hadn't known Chip a few years ago---Chip had moved into the neighborhood just three months ago, in the summertime. It was kind of a new thing for Chip to come over and play basketball. Carefully, Jonah began bouncing the ball again. "If you think me and Katherine don't look alike, you should see my cousin Mia," he said. "Why?" Chip asked. "Is she even cuter than Katherine?" Jonah made a face. "She's only four years old!" he said. "And she's Chinese. My aunt and uncle had to go to Beijing to adopt her." He could remember, the whole time Aunt Joan and Uncle Brad were arranging to adopt Mia---filling out the paperwork, sending away for the visas, crossing dates off calendars, and then buying new calendars to cross off new dates---his own mom and dad had spent a lot of time hugging him and exclaiming, "We were so lucky, getting you! Such a miracle!" Katherine had been jealous. Jonah could just picture her standing in the kitchen at age five or six, wispy blond pigtails sticking out on both sides of her head, a scowl on her face, complaining, "Weren't you lucky to get me, too? Aren't[I]{.italic} a miracle?" Mom had bent down and kissed her. "Of course you're a miracle too," she said. "A big miracle. But we had nine months to know you were coming. With Jonah, we thought it would be years and years and years before we'd get a baby, and then that call came out of the blue---" "The week before Christmas---" Dad added. "And they said we could have him right away, and he was so cute, with his big eyes and his dimples and all that brown hair---" "And then a year later, lovely Katherine came along---" Dad reached over and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close, until she giggled. "And we had a boy and a girl, and we were so happy because we had everything we wanted." Jonah's parents could be so sappy. He didn't have too many gripes about them---as parents went, they were pretty decent. But they told that story way too often about how excited they'd been, getting that call out of the blue, getting Jonah. Also, if he was listing grievances, he often wished that they'd had the sense[not]{.italic} to name him after a guy who got swallowed up by a whale. But that was kind of a minor thing. Now he aimed carefully and sent the ball whooshing through the net. It went through cleanly---the perfect shot. Chip flopped down onto the grass beside the driveway. "Man," he said. "You're going to make the basketball team for sure." Jonah caught the ball as it fell through the net. "Who says I'm trying out?" Chip leaned forward. "Well, aren't you?" he asked. "You've got to! That's, like, what everyone wants! The basketball players get all the chicks!" This sounded so ridiculous coming out of Chip's mouth that Jonah fell into the grass laughing. After a moment, Chip started laughing too. It was like being a little kid again, rolling around in the grass laughing, not caring at all about who might see you. Jonah stopped laughing and sat up. He peered up and down the street---fortunately, nobody was around to see them. He whacked Chip on the arm. "So," he said. "Do you have a crush on my sister?" Chip shrugged, which might mean, "Yes," or "Would I tell you if I did?" or "I haven't decided yet." Jonah wasn't sure he wanted to know anyway. He and Chip weren't really good friends yet, but Chip having a crush on Katherine could make everything very weird. Chip lay back in the grass, staring up at the back of the basketball hoop. "Do you ever wonder what's going to happen?" he asked. "I mean, I really, really want to make the basketball team. But even if I make it in seventh and eighth grades, then there's high school to deal with. Whoa. And then there's college, and being a grown-up.... It's all pretty scary, don't you think?" "You forgot about planning your funeral," Jonah said. "What?" "You know. If you're going to get all worried about being a grown-up, you might as well figure out what's going to happen when you're ninety years old and you die," Jonah said. Personally, Jonah didn't like to plan anything. Sometimes, at the breakfast table, his mom would ask the whole family what they wanted for dinner. Even that was way too much planning for Jonah. Chip opened his mouth to answer, then shut it abruptly and stared hard at the front door of Jonah's house. The door was opening slowly. Then Katherine stuck her head out. "Hey, Jo-No," she called, using the nickname she knew would annoy him. "Mom says to get the mail." Jonah tried to remember if he'd seen the mail truck gliding through the neighborhood. Maybe when he and Chip were concentrating on shooting hoops? He hoped it wasn't when they were rolling around in the grass laughing and making fools of themselves. But he obediently jumped up and went over to the mailbox, pulling out a small stack of letters and ads. He carried the mail up to Katherine. "You can take it on in to Mom, can't you?" he asked mockingly. "Or is that too much work for Princess Katherine?" After what he and Chip had been talking about, it was a little hard to look her in the eye. When he thought about the name Katherine, he still pictured her as she'd been a few years ago, with pudgy cheeks and those goofy-looking pigtails. Now that she was in sixth grade, she'd...changed. She'd slimmed down and shot up and started worrying about clothes. Her hair had gotten thicker and turned more of a golden color, and she spent a lot of time in her room with the door shut, straightening her hair or curling it or something. Right now she was even wearing makeup: a tiny smear of brown over her eyes, black on her eyelashes, a smudge of red on her cheeks. Weird, weird, weird. "Hey, Jo-no-brain, can't you read?" Katherine asked, as annoying as ever. "This one's for you." She pulled a white envelope off the top of the stack of mail and shoved it back into his hands. It did indeed say[Jonah Skidmore]{.italic} on the address label, but it wasn't the type of mail he usually got. Usually if he got mail, it was just postcards or brochures, reminding him about school events or basketball leagues or Boy Scout camp-outs. This envelope looked very formal and official, like an important notice. "Who's it from?" Katherine asked. "It doesn't say." That was strange too. He flipped the envelope over and ripped open the flap. He pulled out one thin sheet of paper. "Let me see," Katherine said, jostling against him and knocking the letter out of his hand. The letter fluttered slowly down toward the threshold of the door, but Jonah had already read every single word on the page. There were only six: [YOU ARE ONE OF THE MISSING]{.calibre1}. ::: {#index_split_028.html#calibre_pb_31.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_029.html} [[TWO]{.bold}]{.calibre4} Katherine snorted. "Missing link, maybe," she said. Jonah reached down and picked up the letter. By the time he'd straightened up again, Chip had joined him on the porch, either because he was curious about the letter too, or because he really did have a crush on Katherine. "What's that?" Chip asked. Jonah shrugged. "Just a prank, I guess," he said. Seventh grade was all about pranks. You could always tell when someone in the neighborhood was having a sleepover, because then the kids who weren't invited suddenly had gobs of toilet paper in all the trees in their yards. Or their cell phones rang at midnight: "I'm watching you...." followed by gales of laughter. "Pranks are supposed to be funny," Katherine objected. "What's funny about that?" "Nothing," Chip said. Jonah noticed that Chip was smiling at Katherine, not looking at the letter. "Now, maybe if it said, 'It's ten o'clock---do you know where your brain is?' or 'Missing: one brain cell. Please return to Jonah Skidmore. It's all I've got'---maybe[that]{.italic} would be funny," Katherine said. She yanked the letter out of Jonah's hand. "Give me a few minutes. I could turn this into a really good prank." Jonah snatched the letter back. "That's okay," he said, and crammed the letter into his jeans pocket. He knew it was just a prank---it had to be---but for just a second, staring at those words,[You are one of the missing,]{.italic} he'd almost believed them. Especially since he'd just been telling Chip about being adopted.... What if somebody really[was]{.italic} missing him? He didn't know anything about his birth parents; all the adoption records had been sealed. He'd had such trouble understanding that when he was a little kid. He'd been a little obsessed with animals back then, so first he'd pictured elephant seals waddling on top of official-looking papers. Then, when his parents explained it a little better, he pictured crates in locked rooms, the doors covered with Easter Seals. He'd been a pretty strange little kid. In fact---his face burned a little at the memory---he'd even given a report in second grade on all the different uses of the word[seal]{.italic} , from Arctic ice seals to Navy Seals to sealed adoption records. The report had included the line, "And so, that's why it's interesting that I'm adopted, because it makes me unique." His parents had helped him with that one. Wait a minute---Tony McGilicuddy had been in his second-grade class, and so had Jacob Hanes and Dustin Cravers.... What if they remembered too? What if they'd sent this letter because of that? Jonah narrowed his eyes at Katherine, who took a step back under the intensity of his gaze. "You know what?" he said, glaring at her. "You're right. This isn't funny at all." He pulled the letter back out of his pocket and ripped it into shreds. He dropped the shreds into Katherine's hand. "Throw that away for me, okay?" "Um...okay," she said, apparently too surprised to think of a smart-alecky comeback. "Want to come out and play basketball with us when you're done?" Chip asked, as she started to close the door. Katherine tilted her head to the side, considering. Jonah figured she was adding up all the possibilities:[seventh grader acting interested plus a chance to tick off older brother plus a chance to show off]{.italic}. (For a girl, Katherine was pretty good at basketball.) It seemed like a no-brainer to Jonah. But Katherine shook her head. "No, thanks. I just did my nails," she said, and pulled the door all the way shut. Chip groaned. "She's your sister," he said. "Tell me---is she playing hard to get?" "Who knows?" Jonah said, but he wasn't thinking about Katherine. By dinnertime Jonah had convinced himself that Tony McGilicuddy and Jacob Hanes and Dustin Cravers were a bunch of idiots, and he didn't really care what they thought or did. They could send him stupid letters all they wanted; it didn't matter to him. He stabbed his fork into his mashed potatoes and savored the sound of the metal tines hitting the plate. He didn't pay much attention to what Mom and Dad and Katherine were talking about---something about some brand of jeans that all the popular girls in sixth grade owned. "But, honey, you're popular, and you don't have those jeans, so you can't be right about all the popular girls having them," Mom argued. "Mo-om," Katherine said. Then the doorbell rang. For a moment, everybody froze, Dad and Jonah with forkfuls of food halfway to their mouths, Mom and Katherine in mid-argument. The doorbell rang again, one urgent peal after another. "I'll get it," Jonah said, standing up. "Whoever it is, tell them to come back later. It's dinnertime," Mom said. Mom always made a big deal about family dinners. The way that certain other parents made their kids go to church, Jonah's parents made him and Katherine sit down at the dinner table with them just about every night. ([And]{.italic}they usually had to go to church, too.) Jonah realized he was still holding his fork, so he stuck it into his mouth as he walked to the door---no point in wasting perfectly good mashed potatoes. It didn't take him long to gulp them down, lick the fork one last time, and then transfer the fork to his other hand so he could grab the doorknob. But the doorbell rang three more times before he yanked the door back. It was Chip standing on the porch. At first he didn't even seem to notice that the door was open, he was so focused on pounding his hand against the doorbell. "Hey," Jonah said. Finally Chip stopped hitting the doorbell. The chimes kept ringing behind Jonah for a few extra seconds. "I've got to talk to you," Chip said. He was breathing hard, like he'd run all the way from his house, six driveways down the street. He shoved his hands through his curly blond hair---maybe trying to wipe away sweat, maybe trying to restore some order to the mess. It didn't help. The curls stuck out in all directions. And Chip kept darting his eyes around, like he couldn't keep them trained on any one thing for more than an instant. "Okay," Jonah said. "We're eating right now, but later on---" Chip clutched Jonah's T-shirt. "I can't wait," he said. "You've got to help me. Please." Jonah peeled Chip's fingers off the shirt. "Um, sure," Jonah said. "Calm down. What do you want to talk about?" Chip's darting eyes took in the houses on either side of Jonah's. He peered down the long hallway to the kitchen, where he could probably see just the edge of the dinner table. "Not here," Chip said, lowering his voice. "We've got to talk[privately]{.italic}. Somewhere no one will hear us." Jonah glanced back over his shoulder. He could see the perfectly crisped fried chicken leg lying on his plate beside his half-eaten potatoes. He could also see Katherine, peering curiously around the corner at him. "All right," Jonah said. "Wait here for just a second." He went back to the table. "Mom, Dad, may I be excused?" he asked. "No clean plate club for you," Katherine taunted, which was really stupid. Mom and Dad had stopped making a big deal about clean plates years ago, after Mom read some article about childhood obesity. "I'll put everything in the refrigerator and eat it later," Jonah said, picking up his plate. "I'll take care of that," Mom said quietly, taking the plate and fork from him. "Go on and help Chip." Jonah cast one last longing glance at the chicken and went back to the front door. He'd kind of wanted Mom and Dad to say no, he wasn't allowed to leave the table. He didn't know what anyone thought he could do to help Chip. The way Chip was acting, it was like he was going to confess a murder. Or maybe it was something like, he just found out that his parents were splitting up and he had to decide which one to live with. Jonah knew a kid that had happened to. It was awful. But Jonah couldn't give advice about anything like that. Chip practically had his face pressed against the glass of the front door, watching Jonah come back. "Come on," Jonah said. "Let's go to my room." This was strange too because Chip had never been in Jonah's room before. They were play-basketball-in-the-driveway-and-maybe-come-into-the-kitchen-for-a-drink-of-water friends, not let's-go-hang-out-in-my-room friends. Jonah held the front door open for Chip, and then Chip followed him up the stairs. Chip didn't even glance around when they got to Jonah's room. Which was good---maybe he wouldn't notice that along with his sports posters, Jonah still had one up from third grade that showed a LEGO roller coaster. Jonah shut the door and sat down on the bed. Chip sank into the desk chair. "I got one, too," Chip said. He was clutching his face now, almost like that kid in the[Home Alone]{.italic} movie. "One what?" Jonah asked. "One of those letters. About being missing." Chip pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. Jonah could tell that Chip had already folded and unfolded it many times: the creases were beginning to fray. Chip unfolded it once more, and Jonah could see that it was just like the letter he'd gotten, six typewritten words on an otherwise blank sheet of paper: [YOU ARE ONE OF THE MISSING]{.calibre1}. "Chip, it's a[prank]{.italic} ," Jonah said. "A joke that's not even funny." But he was thinking,[Chip wasn't in that second grade class with Dustin and Jacob and Tony. He's not adopted, I don't think. So this is]{.italic} really[stupid]{.italic}. Jonah leaned back against the wall, more relaxed than he'd been in hours. "It's[nothing]{.italic} ," he told Chip. "Yeah, that's what I thought," Chip said. "You know what the worst thing is? I was even kind of happy when I pulled this out of the mailbox. Like, 'Hey, I'm not just the new kid anymore. Somebody's actually noticed me enough to try to play a prank on me. A stupid prank, but still.'" Jonah shrugged. "So, stay happy," he said. "Congratulations. You got a prank letter." Chip bolted forward, his face suddenly hard. "No," he said. "No. 'Cause, see, then I went inside. And my dad was standing there, and I was like, 'Look, Dad, I got this prank letter.' And then I'm telling him all about it, about how you got the same letter, and you'd just told me about being adopted, and I could tell you were kind of mad about this letter, and I thought it might be because you're sensitive about the whole adoption thing---" "No, I'm not!" Jonah said. Chip ignored him. "And you ripped up the letter and threw the pieces in your sister's face---" "I did not! Not in her[face!]{.italic} " Chip kept talking, as if Jonah hadn't said a word. "And I'm just going on and on, about how obviously the letter had nothing to do with you being adopted because[I]{.italic} got the same letter and[I'm]{.italic} not adopted and---and---I don't know what I was thinking, because then I said, 'Right, Dad? I'm not adopted, am I, Dad?' And then my dad said...my dad said..." Chip's mouth kept moving, but no sound came out. It was like he'd run out of words. Or at least run out of words he wanted to say. Jonah froze, sitting very precisely in the center of his bed. "What did your dad say?" he asked very carefully. Chip was staring straight ahead, his eyes vacant. "[Are]{.italic}you adopted?" Jonah whispered. Wordlessly, Chip nodded. ::: {#index_split_029.html#calibre_pb_32.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_030.html} [[THREE]{.bold}]{.calibre4} "Well, why didn't you tell me that this afternoon?" Jonah asked. He felt kind of silly. It was like when he was on the swim team and some of his friends had hidden his clothes, so he had to walk through the rec center lobby wearing nothing but a Speedo while everyone else was fully clothed. "I told you I was adopted---why didn't you tell me?" "I didn't know!" Chip exploded. His whole face was red. "Mom and Dad never told me anything! All this time I thought my parents were my real parents---" "They're still your real parents," Jonah corrected automatically. "They are not!" Chip said furiously. "They're total strangers to me now! How could they not tell me?" That wasn't a question Jonah could answer. After a certain point, he'd stopped reading all the kid-approved "Isn't adoption wonderful!" books his parents had bought for him and had started sneaking peeks at some of the books on their bookshelves:[Raising the Well-Adjusted Adopted Child, What to Tell Your Adopted and Foster Children, Adoption Without Secrets.]{.italic} All the adoptive-parents books Jonah had ever seen acted like there was one commandment Moses had forgotten to bring down from Mount Sinai: tell adopted kids the truth. Chip was running his hands violently through his hair again. If he kept that up, he'd end up pulling it all out. "Stop that," Jonah said. "Your parents probably thought they were doing the right thing." Chip laughed bitterly. "Yeah---the right thing for[them]{.italic}." He stood up abruptly, knocking the desk chair over backward. "This is just like them. They always want to pretend that everything's[normal]{.italic} , that everything's[fine:]{.italic} 'No, Chip, you didn't hear anyone yelling last night. Your father and I never fight---'" "Adoption is normal," Jonah said stiffly. "It's been part of human society for centuries." Chip shot him a "get real" look and began pacing. When he reached Jonah's door, he pounded his fists on the wood. Then he lowered his forehead onto his fists and just stood there. "Uh, Chip?" Jonah said nervously. "Are you okay?" "You know what's funny?" Chip said in a strangled voice, without lifting his head. "It's kind of a relief...not being related to them. I don't want to be like Mom and Dad, anyhow. But who am I for real? Who are my real parents?" "Birth parents," Jonah said quietly. "They're called birth parents." Chip rolled his head to the side. "Would you stop that?" he said. "It's like you're brainwashed or something." "What?" Jonah said defensively. "Those are the correct terms. Birth parents are the people who give birth to you. Real parents are the ones who change your diapers and get up in the middle of the night when you're a baby and show you how to ride a bike without training wheels and, and...." He stopped because he thought maybe he was quoting directly from[What to Tell Your Adopted and Foster Children]{.italic}. Chip slid down to the floor, crumpling like one of those rag dolls Katherine used to drag around by the feet. "My parents didn't show me how to ride a bike," he said. "They left that to the babysitter." Jonah thought for a moment. "Well, at least they were the ones who paid the babysitter." Chip groaned. He balled his hands into fists again and pressed them against his eye sockets. "Why?" he whispered. "Why did my real parents give me up?" This time, Jonah didn't bother correcting Chip out loud, though his brain translated,[You mean, your birth mother set up an adoption plan....]{.italic} "You know, there are lots of reasons people can't take care of their own kids," Jonah said cautiously. "Maybe your birth parents died. Maybe you're adopted from Russia or someplace like that, where things are different." He waited a second. Chip didn't move. "Maybe...maybe now that you know you're adopted, your mom and dad might tell you more about your story, if they know it. Sometimes, even if the records are sealed at the time of the adoption, people change their minds and decide they want to be more open...." Okay, now Jonah was almost certain that he was quoting directly from one of his parents' books. Chip began shaking his head again, so hard it rattled the door behind him. Then he glared over at Jonah, his eyes burning. "My dad said---" Chip choked, swallowed hard, tried again, "---my dad said I didn't need to know anything else. He said he never wanted to talk about this again." And then Jonah felt the anger boiling up inside of him. Jonah didn't get mad often. He'd never met Chip's dad, just seen him drive by. (He drove a nice car---a BMW.) Jonah probably couldn't have picked Chip's dad out in a line-up. But right now Jonah wanted to stalk over to Chip's house, swing his best punch, and hit Chip's dad right in the mouth. He wanted to hit him a couple of times. Jonah clenched his fists. Chip was still staring up at him, but his expression had slipped over into helplessness now---helplessness and hopelessness. "What can I do?" Chip asked. "When you're a grown-up," Jonah said, "you can try to find your birth parents. You won't need your mom and dad's permission for anything then. And until then---until then, I swear, I'll do everything I can to help you." ::: {#index_split_030.html#calibre_pb_33.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_031.html} [[FOUR]{.bold}]{.calibre4} "Try 10-28-66," Chip whispered. "Why?" Jonah asked. "That's Dad's birthday," Chip said. "He's so conceited and stupid, he'd use his own birthday as the code." It'd been two days since Jonah and Chip had each gotten their "[YOU ARE ONE OF THE MISSING]{.calibre1}" letters, and Chip was acting crazier than ever. Today, coming home on the school bus, Chip had gotten obsessed with the idea that he had to see his birth certificate, that it would tell him everything he needed to know. So now the two boys were crouched beside a wall safe in Chip's basement. Jonah paused with his fingers poised over the digital keypad. "Really," he said, "even if your birth certificate's in here, it's not going to help. Like I told you---like it said on the Internet---when a kid's adopted, they issue a new certificate and lock all the old papers away. Your original birth certificate's not going to be in here unless it was an open adoption and somehow, I don't think, if your parents won't even talk about you being adopted---" "Just try the code," Chip insisted. "My hand's shaking too bad." Jonah glanced over at his friend, who did indeed look shaky. Even in the dim light of the basement, Jonah could tell that Chip had a panicky sheen of sweat on his face. Chip's curly hair was mashed down because he kept clutching his head, like he had to work hard to hold himself together. He seemed about one step away from being one of those loony types who mumbled to themselves on the street downtown. Jonah sighed and began punching in numbers: 1 0 2 8 6 6. Nothing happened. "When's your birthday?" Jonah asked. "Mine?" Chip said. "September nineteenth." "And you're thirteen?" "Yeah, why?" Jonah didn't answer, just began punching in a new combination: 0 9 1 9... The safe beeped, then there was audible click. The safe door sprang open, just a crack. "Bingo!" Jonah said. He kind of wished his own mom or dad were there just then, because they would be able to tell Chip, "See? Your parents must care about you some, if they use your birthday as the code to their safe." But Jonah couldn't say anything that goopy himself. "Go ahead and open it," Chip said. "I can't look." He had his shaking hand over his eyes, but he kept lifting it to peek out. Jonah gripped the door to the partly open safe. "Are you sure you want me to do this?" he asked. "This is like breaking and entering or something." Chip scowled at him. "You're in[my]{.italic} house," he said. "I[asked]{.italic} you to open the safe." "But your parents---" "What they want doesn't count," Chip said harshly. There was some saying Jonah's mom always quoted---usually to Katherine---about how eavesdroppers never heard anything good about themselves. Jonah wondered if that also applied to boys opening locked safes and looking at secret papers. But that was something else he couldn't say to Chip. He jerked on the door, swinging it completely open, and reached in to take out the first few sheets of paper on top of the stack. "This is just stuff about buying your house," Jonah said, leafing quickly through the papers. "Real estate settlements, title insurance..." Chip moved his hand away from his eyes and squinted at the papers. "Maybe that's connected too," he said slowly. "My dad says they got a really sweet deal for this house. Maybe I was supposed to meet you, so that I'd find out about being adopted...." Jonah carefully put the house papers in a stack on the floor. "About four out of every one hundred Americans are adopted," Jonah said. "I think you could have met someone who was adopted in[any]{.italic} neighborhood you might have moved to. Now you're sounding really crazy, like those conspiracy theorists who think the moon landing never happened, or that the government has a bunch of aliens locked up on some military base in New Mexico." "But they[do]{.italic} ," Chip said. "Those aliens are real." "You really believe that?" Chip slugged him in the arm. "No. Fooled you!" Jonah was glad that Chip could still show some sense of humor, that he hadn't totally crossed the line into insanity. Jonah reached into the safe again and pulled out more papers. He was careful to keep them in order as he sorted through them. Three-fourths of the way down into the stack, he let out a low whistle. "Here it is." He held up a document labeled,[BIRTH CERTIFICATE]{.calibre1} ---Cook County, Illinois. Chip evidently forgot that he was too stressed out to look. He crowded against Jonah's shoulder. "Charles Haddingford Winston the third, huh?" Jonah teased. Chip grimaced. "Crazy, isn't it?" he said bitterly. "I'm Charles Winston the third, and I'm not even related. They just had to have some kid to stick that name on." "Chip, you[are]{.italic} related. Or, as good as related. They've[raised]{.italic} you," Jonah said. "Not very well," Chip said. Jonah took one look at Chip's face and decided not to argue. He rifled through the rest of the papers. Beside him, Chip groaned. "'Happy Family Adoption Agency'?" Chip muttered. "You have got to be kidding." Something slipped out of the stack of papers Jonah was holding against one knee, while he braced his other knee against the floor. Trying to catch the one sliding paper, Jonah lost his balance and fell over sideways. The whole stack cascaded down to the carpet, skidding toward the wall. "Sorry," Jonah said. "If things are out of order, your dad's going to be able to tell---" "I don't care," Chip said acidly. Jonah frowned and began gathering up the papers. He thought he'd gotten everything until he saw a scrap of yellow sticking out from under a chair a few feet away. "That's what started this whole mess," he muttered. He reached under the chair and pulled out a yellow Post-it note. It said,[James Reardon, (513) 555-0192.]{.italic} He held the note up so Chip could see it too. "Was this with the adoption papers or the house stuff?" Jonah asked. Chip narrowed his eyes. "I know how to find out," he said. He took the Post-it note from Jonah's hand and walked to the other side of the basement, where couches and chairs clustered around a huge entertainment center. He reached into a cabinet of the entertainment center and pulled out a cordless phone. "Here---I'll put it on speakerphone so you can hear too," Chip said. "Chip, I don't think---" Jonah stopped, because he couldn't explain why this suddenly seemed like such a bad idea to him. Chip was already punching in numbers, each digital beep adding to Jonah's sense of apprehension. Jonah rushed over to Chip's side, as if being able to see the phone as well as hear it would make everything easier. The phone clicked, making the connection, and then smoothly flowed into ringing. It rang once, twice.... Another click. Then a gruff voice boomed out of the phone: "Federal Bureau of Investigations. Reardon speaking." Jonah stabbed his finger at the button to break the connection. ::: {#index_split_031.html#calibre_pb_34.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_032.html} [[FIVE]{.bold}]{.calibre4} "What'd you do that for?" Chip demanded. "I---I don't think this is the right way to do this," Jonah said. "Sneaking around, looking at papers your parents don't want you to see, calling people...I know you're really mad at your parents right now---okay, fine. I don't blame you. But this isn't going to help. Calm down; let them calm down; wait until you can all sit down and talk about it...." Chip shoved hard against Jonah's chest, pushing him away. The phone fell to the floor between them. "I don't know what your parents are like," Chip said harshly. "But if my dad says he doesn't want to talk about something, he...doesn't...talk!" He grabbed the phone and began punching numbers again. Okay, so maybe family therapist was out as a future career option for Jonah. "Maybe you should talk to one of the counselors at school or something," Jonah said. Chip kept punching numbers, stabbing them even harder now. "I'm not crazy!" he insisted. "I never said you were," Jonah countered. He guessed Chip had hit about five of the seven numbers for James Reardon now. "But tell me---what do you think the FBI has to do with your adoption?" Chip stopped hitting numbers. Jonah eased the phone out of Chip's hands. He pressed the button to hang up. "Think about it," Jonah said. "This Reardon guy probably doesn't have anything to do with you. That Post-it must have been on some other paper in there. Maybe...Is your dad a spy or something?" "He's a stockbroker," Chip muttered. He cleared his throat. "If he was a spy, he'd probably be on the terrorists' side." "Maybe he's secretly working for the government," Jonah said. "Maybe he's like a double agent, and he's pretending to launder money for some terrorists, but really he's reporting everything to the government. And maybe if you call this number and blow his cover, like, five years of secret-agent work will go to waste, and they'll have to start all over again. And it will all be your fault." Jonah had seen a movie once where something like that happened. "You think my dad's a hero?" Chip asked. "Fat chance." But he didn't grab the phone back to begin dialing again. He just stood there, looking lost. "I just want to know who I really am," Chip said. His words came out as a whimper, the kind of sound no self-respecting thirteen-year-old boy would want anyone to hear him making. Jonah decided not to make fun of him for it. "I do, too," Jonah said. "You do?" Chip asked, and this, too, came out sounding pitiful. Jonah nodded. "Well, yeah. I mean, my parents are okay, and I guess it'd be[possible]{.italic} to have a worse sister than Katherine. But sometimes I wonder...who do I look like? Are my birth parents good people who just kind of made a mistake? Or are they druggies, alcoholics, criminals...are they in jail? Mental hospitals? Did they have any other kids besides me? Did they---did they keep the other kids?" Sometimes Jonah's mom would say things like, "You have such great dimples and such beautiful eyes---do you suppose those came from your birth mother or your birth father?" Or, "You're so good at math---wonder who you inherited that from?" It annoyed him, because he knew those lines came straight out of the adoption books. And, generally, people whose lives were going great---NFL quarterbacks, rock stars, famous actors and actresses, genius scientists---generally, they didn't give up their kids for adoption. What bad things had he inherited along with the eyes and the dimples and the ability to glide through seventh-grade math? Chip was nodding. "Monday morning," he said in a hoarse voice. "When I walked into school, I kept looking around thinking, 'I could have a brother or sister here, and I wouldn't even know it.' So I stared at everyone, looking for curly hair and long skinny legs and nostrils that flare out a little...." "Is that why you walked into that wall, on the way to lunch?" Jonah asked. "Uh, yeah," Chip said. He sounded embarrassed. Jonah eased the Post-it note out of Chip's hand. He waved it slightly in front of Chip's eyes. "This isn't any good," Jonah said. "No matter what, you're always going to have more questions." "How do you know?" Chip challenged him. "Have you ever tried to get your questions answered?" ::: {#index_split_032.html#calibre_pb_35.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_033.html} [[SIX]{.bold}]{.calibre4} It was Cincinnati chili night. Mom liked to have themed dinners every so often, and lately she'd been on a geographic kick: spicy New Orleans jambalaya one week, thick New England clam chowder the next, authentic (she said) Mexican hot tamales the next. At least Cincinnati chili was fairly normal, though Jonah failed to see the point of putting chili on top of spaghetti, when Ragú worked just as well. "Do you think...," he started to say, but everyone was passing around the containers of shredded cheese and chopped onions, and no one seemed to hear him. A few minutes later, while Katherine was chewing and actually had her mouth shut for once, he tried again. "You know how you always said that if..." Katherine finished chewing. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she exploded. "Guess who says she's trying out for cheerleader next year?" "Do you mind?" Jonah asked. "I was talking first." Katherine took a gulp of milk. "Okay, okay, go on," she said. "But hurry up, because this is really funny!" "All right," Jonah said with injured dignity. "What I was saying was...I mean..." He swallowed hard. "Would you just spit it out?" Katherine demanded. Jonah glared at his sister. He could hear Chip's question echoing in his head:[Have you ever tried to get your questions answered?]{.italic} "What was the name of the adoption agency where you, you know, got me?" he blurted. For a moment, it felt like he'd thrown a grenade out into the center of the table. Even Katherine was speechless for once. Then Mom smiled. "We've told you that before, but I guess you forgot," she said. "It was called 'Hope for Children.' Awfully schmaltzy, I know, but it felt right to us then, because we had so much hope---and that was all we had. Until---" "Okay," Jonah said quickly, because he could tell she was about to launch into the miracle story ([the call out of the blue...the week before Christmas...everything we ever wanted...]{.italic}). He didn't have the patience for that right now, not when he had so much to think about. Hope for Children was a stupid name, but he was relieved, somehow, that it wasn't the Happy Family Adoption Agency, the same one that Chip's family had dealt with. This made the matching letters about being one of the missing seem more like a coincidence, more like an ordinary seventh-grade prank. Dad was wiping his mouth with his napkin. "Was there anything else you wanted to know, Jonah?" he asked in a voice that was trying way too hard to sound casual. It was almost as bad as the time Dad had said, on a fishing trip, "You know you can ask me anything you want about puberty." "Um...," Jonah couldn't decide. "Can we talk about something that isn't ancient history?" Katherine interrupted. "Katherine, wait your turn," Mom said. "Jonah?" Across the table, Katherine crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Jonah looked down at his plate. "Well, I kind of wondered, now that I'm older, if there's any more information they could give us about, uh, my birth parents," Jonah said. "I mean, not that it really matters. I'm just curious, like---did either of them have dimples? Like me?" "Dimples!" Katherine snorted indignantly. Mom shot her one of those looks that said, as clear as day,[If I hear one more word out of you, young lady, before you have permission to speak, I will cover your mouth with duct tape for the rest of the night.]{.italic} Of course, Mom had never done anything like that, but her looks always made you believe that she might. Dad very, very carefully laid his fork on his plate. "I can certainly call the agency and see if there's any more information available," he said. "But I have to warn you, it's not likely. They weren't even willing to give us a medical history." "Not that we minded," Mom added quickly. "We were just happy to get you!" Now Mom and Dad were both beaming at him, stereo smiles. Jonah kicked Katherine under the table. "Tell your stupid cheerleader story," he muttered. Later that night, while Jonah was sitting at his desk doing his social studies homework, Katherine shoved her way into his room. "Don't do this," she said, standing dramatically in his doorway. "What? Social studies?" Katherine cast a glance over her shoulder. She stepped aside and eased the door shut behind her. Then---almost cautiously, for her---she sat down on the edge of his bed. "No, you know," she said. "That whole adopted-kid search-for-identity thing." Jonah pressed his pencil down too hard on the[sapiens]{.italic} part of[homo sapiens]{.italic} , and the lead snapped. He dropped the pencil and whirled around. "What's it to you?" he asked. "Hey, I'm part of this family too," Katherine said. "No, duh." He thought about snarling,[Of course you are. You're actually related by blood. You belong more than I do.]{.italic} But that wasn't a very Jonah thing to say. It was like all those cruel things Chip had been saying about his dad all afternoon, that were just Chip being mad and surely couldn't be true. He decided to stick with "No, duh," as his best comeback. Katherine rolled her eyes. "Look," she said. "It makes them mental, every time you bring up the adoption, or your birth parents, or anything like that. They start pussyfooting around and being so careful, like, 'Now, Jonah...'" She'd dropped her voice an octave, in a pretty decent imitation of Dad. "'...I can certainly call the agency.... We'll do anything we can.... We would never want your adoption to impede your self-actualization....'" Whoa---where had Katherine learned a term like[self-actualization]{.italic} ? "So what?" Jonah said. "And why's it my fault? They're the ones who always bring up the story of how they got me. 'Blah, blah, blah, call out of the blue...blah, blah, blah, blinding rainstorm the night we picked you up...'" Katherine giggled. Then she leaned forward, her eyes round and earnest. "Yeah, but see, that's the[past]{.italic} ," she said. "That's the beginning of the story of them having kids. It's their story[with]{.italic} you. It's like them telling about giving me Barbie stickers to get me potty-trained. Or telling about the time I threw up into Mom's purse." Jonah snorted, remembering. That had been funny. Katherine eyed him suspiciously. "You haven't told anybody at school those stories, have you?" she asked. "No---why would I? Who cares?" Katherine nodded approvingly. "You better not," she said. She glanced toward the door once more. "When you start talking about wanting to know more about your birth parents, that's different. You know what they're doing down there right now, don't you? They're reading those books again." Jonah didn't have to ask which ones she meant. "They're trying to figure out what they're supposed to say so you don't start acting out and using drugs and flunking out as your cry for help." Jonah realized that Katherine had probably read[Raising the Well-Adjusted Adopted Child]{.italic} and[Adoption Without Secrets]{.italic} too. "I'm not going to do any of that stuff," Jonah said. "That's crazy." "Yeah, well, so's getting all worried about your birth parents. Because, Jonah"---Now she was leaning so far forward, she was only inches from falling off the bed---"your birth parents don't matter. You're Jonah. They could have dimples or they could have three eyes apiece and six fingers on every hand, and it doesn't change a thing about you." Jonah kind of thought that might be impossible---twelve-fingered, three-eyed parents having a ten-fingered, two-eyed kid---but he wasn't sure. Genetics had never been a big interest for him. "That's easy for you to say," he muttered in a huff. "You can look in a mirror and know exactly where everything came from. Eyes---brown like Mom's. Nose---ski slope, like Dad's." "I do not have a ski-slope nose!" Katherine protested. "It's...classical." She turned sideways, as if modeling. "Classical ski slope maybe," Jonah said. "It is not! Er---never mind." Katherine waved her hands in front of her face, like she was trying to erase the nose debate. This was a miracle---Katherine backing away from an argument? "What I meant to say is, that doesn't matter either. If you're going through some adolescent 'Who am I?' phase, it's not because you're adopted.[Everyone]{.italic} goes through that. I don't know who I am either." Jonah reached out and tapped her on the arm. "Katherine Marie Skidmore, remember?" he said. "Daughter of Michael and Linda. Granddaughter of---" "No, no, who am I really?" Katherine interrupted. "Like, next year when we can try out for things, do I want to be a cheerleader or a basketball player? Do I want people to think, 'Katherine Skidmore, airhead, but what a hottie,' or, 'Katherine Skidmore, what a jock!'?" Jonah was torn. He wanted to tease,[Regardless, it'll be, 'airhead, definitely not a hottie.']{.italic} But he also kind of wanted to offer some profound big-brotherly advice along the lines of,[Katherine, you idiot, it's what you are that matters, not what people think you are.]{.italic} He was saved from making a decision because someone knocked on his door just then. Both he and Katherine jumped guiltily. "Is this a private party, or are adults allowed too?" Mom called from the hallway. Katherine shot Jonah a glance that said,[See, I told you they're acting mental.]{.italic} Jonah frowned back at her and called out, "Come in" to his mother. Mom pushed open the door, but still stood there a little hesitantly. "That Cincinnati chili took so long to make---chopping all those onions!---I totally forgot...you got some mail today, Jonah," she said, holding out a white envelope. Jonah felt a nervous twitch in his stomach. Mom walked across the room and laid the envelope on his desk, beside his social studies book. Once again, there was no return address. It was just a plain ordinary unmarked letter addressed to Jonah. "If that's an invitation to a birthday party or some other event you want to go to, let me know so I can put it on the calendar," Mom said, still in that unnatural, careful voice she'd used at dinner. "Okay. I will," Jonah said. He made no move to open the letter. He didn't even touch it. He bent his head over his social studies book like the most dedicated student in the world---[Look, Mom! I'm not in any danger of flunking out!]{.italic}---but he could feel Mom and Katherine both staring at him. He sighed. "I'll look at it later, okay? I've really got to finish this social studies. We've got a test tomorrow, and I haven't even done the whole study sheet yet," Jonah hinted. "Oh! All right. Come on, Katherine, we're being kicked out," Mom said. "Jonah, let me know if you want any help reviewing later." Jonah waited until they were both gone, and the door was firmly latched. He picked up the envelope and went over to sit on the floor with his back pressed against the door, so he'd have some warning if anyone tried to come in. Carefully, he eased his finger under the flap of the envelope and gently lifted it. He could tell even before he pulled the letter out that most of it was blank. He fumbled unfolding it, one edge of the paper getting stuck against the other side. And then it was open. He flattened the paper against the floor, so he could see every word all at once. There were seven this time: [BEWARE]{.calibre1}![THEY'RE COMING BACK TO GET YOU]{.calibre1}. ::: {#index_split_033.html#calibre_pb_36.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_034.html} [[SEVEN]{.bold}]{.calibre4} "You didn't tell anyone?" Chip asked. "I just told you, didn't I?" Jonah said. "No, I mean, like, a grown-up. Your parents." Jonah shrugged miserably. They were at the bus stop, but standing apart from the other kids, out of the glow of the streetlight. It was the next morning, and he'd just quietly filled Chip in on the contents of his latest letter. "What am I supposed to say?" Jonah asked, twisting his face into an imitation of a terrified little kid and making his voice come out high and squeaky: "Oooh, Mommy, Daddy, that piece of paper scared me." He dropped his voice back to its normal register. "Katherine thinks they're freaking out anyhow, just 'cause I asked a few questions last night." Chip glanced away, and Jonah followed his gaze. In the darkness, the other kids were mostly miscellaneous blobs, but Jonah could pick out Katherine's bright orange jacket in the middle of a huge cluster of kids. It sounded like she was competing with her friends Emma and Rachel to see who could squeal the loudest. "Maybe Katherine's the one who sent that letter," Chip said. "I didn't get one. Maybe she's just playing a trick on you---remember, she wanted to rewrite that letter on Saturday, to make it a better prank." Jonah thought about how serious Katherine had looked the night before, commanding, "Don't do this," how desperately she seemed to want him and his parents to just act normal. "No," he said curtly. "It's not Katherine." "Well, then...what did the letter say again, exactly?" Chip asked. "[Beware! They're coming back to get you]{.italic}," Jonah recited tonelessly. It took no effort to remember; he'd stared at the words for so long the night before that it seemed like they were imprinted on his eyeballs. "'Coming back to get you,' huh? Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with your, uh, adoption," Chip said. Jonah noticed Chip was still having trouble making himself say the word. "Maybe it's a revenge thing. Have you made anybody mad lately?" [You]{.italic}, Jonah thought, but didn't say. He couldn't blame Chip any more than he blamed Katherine. "I'm sure it's just another prank," Jonah said, but he wasn't sure. If anything, he was almost sure that it wasn't. The school bus appeared out of the early-morning darkness just then, and he and Chip crammed themselves into the screaming, squealing line of kids jabbering about how Spencer Patton was going to sneak his iPod into math class today and how Kelly Jefferson had just broken up with Jordan Cowan and, "Did you hear---six kids got sick from eating the cafeteria pizza yesterday! Do you think they'll finally fire the lunch ladies?" Jonah hoped that no one could tell that he felt like he was walking around in a bubble. Even as he climbed up the bus steps, walked down the crowded aisle, and collapsed into the first vacant seat, he felt like he was in a completely different dimension from kids who cared about iPods and math class and breakups and cafeteria pizza. [Two stupid letters---thirteen stupid words, total---and I'm freaking out? I'm as bad as Mom and Dad!]{.italic} First period was study center, and he forced himself to look over his social studies notes. He studied so hard that, second period, the test was a breeze. He filled in the meaningless words---[Homo erectus, Homo habilis, Homo sapiens, Neanderthal]{.italic}---with great relief. These, at least, were questions he could answer. He turned in his paper feeling confident that he'd gotten everything right, even the bonuses. [See, Katherine, I am not going to flunk out as a cry for help!]{.italic}he thought.[That's going to be my best test grade all year!]{.italic} Some of the other kids evidently weren't so happy. "Come on, Mr. Vincent," Spencer Patton said. "Even you've got to admit this stuff is stupid. Why do we have to study history anyway?" "So you know where you come from," Mr. Vincent said. [I wish]{.italic}, Jonah thought. "And---Oh! I know!---it'll help if anyone ever invents a time machine," Jeremy Evers wisecracked. "This way, when you go back in time, you can recognize people, so you'll know who you've got to speak Neanderthal to, and who just uses regular caveman talk." "Very funny, Jeremy," Mr. Vincent said in a tone that didn't sound amused. "Let's stay within the realm of reality, shall we?" [The realm of reality]{.italic}---Jonah liked that term. He imagined telling Mr. Vincent about the letters, and having Mr. Vincent shake his head dismissively and say, "Come on, Jonah. Stay within the realm of reality." Reality was supposed to be social studies tests and cafeteria pizza, not strange letters and worrying that someone was going to snatch him away, worrying that he'd made a big mistake not telling Mom and Dad about the letters and having them taken to the police to be fingerprinted.... [What am I thinking? Mom and Dad would laugh their heads off, me acting like they should report some seventh-grade prank to the police!]{.italic} Mr. Vincent called on Jonah to answer a question, and Jonah didn't even know what he'd asked. The rest of Jonah's day went like that too. In science class he dropped a test tube full of a liquid that tested as strongly acidic. (It turned out that it was only lemon juice, but his lab partner still got mad that he'd splashed it on her Abercrombie & Fitch top.) In gym class he got hit on the head with a volleyball. In band he miscounted the rests and came in at the wrong time, the only trumpet playing in a measure that was supposed to be all flutes. It was like he'd used up all his focus on the social studies test. He was glad when school was finally over, so he'd be able to go home and plop down in front of the TV, and nobody would notice that he wasn't paying attention. But as Jonah stepped down from the school bus that afternoon, the last one off, he heard Chip say in a tense voice, "Come with me." "Huh?" Jonah said, feeling dazed. He hadn't even noticed that Chip was right in front of him. Had he accidentally agreed to help Chip unlock more safes, sort through more records? Had he even spoken to Chip since this morning at the bus stop? "Just to my mailbox," Chip said. Jonah stopped in the street and squinted at him stupidly. "You know how you can mail two letters from the same mailbox on the same day, and they might arrive wherever they're going on different days?" Chip asked. "Even if where they're going is just two different mailboxes on the same street?" Comprehension flowed over Jonah. "You're scared you might get the letter today," Jonah said. "The same letter I got yesterday." "Not[scared]{.italic} ," Chip corrected quickly. "I mean, if you're busy, I can get the mail by myself. It's just---you're used to being adopted, and you laugh things off, but this is all new to me, you know?" [Oh, yeah,]{.italic}Jonah thought.[This day's been a bundle of laughs.]{.italic} But he silently turned and followed Chip toward the mailbox at the end of Chip's driveway. The Winstons' mailbox was one of the fancier ones on the block. Instead of being on a wooden post, it was on a brick column; at the top, the bricks encircled the entire box in a graceful arc. Dimly, Jonah wondered how the builder had done that, how the flimsy metal mailbox wasn't crushed by the heavy bricks and mortar. Chip reached into the mailbox and pulled out a thick stack of letters and flyers. "Bill, bill, ad...," Chip flipped through the stack, sounding more relieved with each letter that[wasn't]{.italic} a plain envelope addressed to him, without a return address. Jonah noticed that some of the Winstons' letters had those yellow forwarding stickers the post office used when people moved, covering an old address with the new one. "Wait a minute," Jonah said. "When you got that letter on Saturday, was it forwarded from your old address, or was it this address?" "I don't know." Chip looked up from his sorting for a moment. "This address, I guess. Why?" "Oh, good," Jonah said. "That means it could just be kids from school, fooling around. They wouldn't know your old address." Maybe most of the seventh grade had gotten weird letters like his and Chip's. He should have surveyed everyone he knew, instead of wandering around in a daze. "But how did they know I was adopted---when I didn't even know?" Chip asked, his voice breaking. He bent his head down over the mail again. "[Missing]{.italic}doesn't necessarily mean 'adopted,'" Jonah argued. "Or, maybe there's some list in the school office of which kids are adopted, and somebody hacked into the computer system, and they think it's really funny to..." He stopped because Chip didn't seem to be listening anymore. Chip's face had suddenly gone deathly pale. Slowly, he held up three letters, all of them plain envelopes without return addresses. All of them were addressed to Chip; two of the letters had yellow forwarding labels. One of the labels was peeled back a little, and Jonah could see the words, "Winnetka, Illinois" below. Winnetka was where Chip used to live. "You open them," Chip said. "I can't." Jonah took a deep breath and took the letters from Chip. He ripped them open quickly, the same way he took off Band-Aids. "[You are one of the missing,]{.italic}" he read from the first letter. Then, "[Beware! They're coming back to get you.]{.italic}" And the next one, again, "[Beware! They're coming back to get you.]{.italic}" Someone had sent Chip two copies of each letter, one to his old address and one to his new. "Wow," Jonah said. "Whoever sent these letters really wanted to make sure you got them." Chip opened his mouth, but it didn't seem like he had anything to say---it was more like he'd lost the power to control his jaw. "JO-NAH!" someone shouted far down the block, from the direction of Jonah's house. It was Katherine. "What?" Jonah shouted back. "There's a message on the answering machine," Katherine hollered. "Dad wants you to call him right away." Jonah didn't care about Katherine's big identity crisis---cheerleader versus basketball player?---but, he reflected, she certainly had the lungs of a cheerleader. And it was such a relief to think that, to think about something ordinary and pointless and annoying, like Katherine. "Okay!" he yelled back, sounding completely normal. Chip grabbed Jonah's arm. "You can use my cell," he said. "Dad just doubled the number of minutes I'm allowed to use. It's a bribe, I guess. Like that's going to make up for keeping a secret for thirteen years? Like it even matters? Like minutes can make up for years? I'm going to go over the limit anyhow. If you don't use my cell phone, I'm just going to have to call some recorded message, leave the phone on for hours...." Jonah wondered if Chip was going into shock. It seemed a little irresponsible to leave him alone, babbling like that, so he took the cell phone Chip offered him. He punched in Dad's work number. "Hey, Jonah buddy," Dad said, too heartily, as soon as Jonah said hello. "Did you have a good day at school?" "I think I got an A on the social studies test," Jonah said, trying to sound however he would normally sound on a normal day. "Great!" Dad said with way too much enthusiasm. Neither of them said anything for a moment. "Well," Dad said. "I called the adoption agency today, just like I promised." He paused. Jonah could tell he was supposed to say, "Oh, thanks, Dad," or "Really, Dad, you didn't have to do that," or even just, "Yeah?" But Jonah found that his mouth was suddenly too dry to say anything. "Eva, the social worker who helped us---such a great lady---she's not there anymore," Dad said. "But I talked to another woman, who looked up your file, and...Jonah, there[is]{.italic} new information in your case." Jonah pressed the cell phone more tightly against his ear. He swayed slightly. "Oh?" he said, and it took such effort to produce that one syllable. "A name," Dad said. "The social worker was a little confused---she wasn't even sure at first that she was allowed to tell me, but...it wasn't one of your birth parents. It was just someone listed as having information about you. A contact person." "Who was it?" Jonah asked, pushing the words out through gritted teeth. "Some guy named James Reardon," Dad said. "And---get this---he works for the FBI." ::: {#index_split_034.html#calibre_pb_37.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_035.html} [[EIGHT]{.bold}]{.calibre4} The world spun around Jonah. He clutched the cell phone tight against his ear. Normally he was a big fan of cell phones---it was so frustrating that his parents had decided to buy only one cell phone for him and Katherine to share, which meant that Katherine usually had the cell phone and he got nothing. But right now he wanted something a lot more substantial than a cell phone to hold on to: a phone rooted in concrete, maybe. He settled for grabbing the Winstons' brick-encased mailbox. "James...Reardon?" he repeated numbly. "Yeah---have you heard of him?" Dad said, puzzlement creeping into his voice. [Was his name written on a Post-it note stuck to my file?]{.italic}Jonah wanted to ask.[A yellow Post-it note just like the one that was in Chip's family's safe, probably stuck on his adoption records? Identical Post-it notes, even though Chip was adopted through a different agency and lived in Illinois his whole life until now?]{.italic} Jonah felt so dizzy, even solid brick was barely enough to hold him up. "Jonah?" Dad said, sounding worried now. Jonah realized he'd probably let a lot of time pass, not answering Dad's question, trying to make his vision stop spinning. "I'm here," Jonah said. "The phone must have cut out for a minute." If in doubt, blame the technology. He gulped and tightened his grip on the bricks. "This guy...what does he know about me?" "I'm not sure," Dad said. "The social worker said it was highly unusual, the way the name was entered in your file...." [Post-it note, for sure,]{.italic}Jonah thought. "She offered to call him for us, but she was so scattered I thought it might be better if we met with him ourselves." Jonah glanced over at Chip, who looked as shell-shocked as Jonah felt. And Chip had heard only Jonah's end of the conversation. "Would you like me to arrange that, Jonah?" Dad asked, in the same super-patient, super-careful voice that he'd used when Katherine was a toddler throwing temper tantrums. [No,]{.italic}Jonah wanted to say.[Tell him to keep his information to himself. Tell him, if he's not busy hunting down terrorists right now, I'd appreciate him taking care of whoever's sending strange letters to thirteen-year-old boys. Tell him...]{.italic} "Yes," Jonah said. ::: {#index_split_035.html#calibre_pb_38.mbp_pagebreak} ::: []{#index_split_036.html} [[NINE]{.bold}]{.calibre4} Jonah sat in a molded plastic chair. Mom sat in the chair to his right and Dad in the chair to his left, and Jonah knew that if he gave either of them so much as a flicker of encouragement, they would both start clutching his hands and holding on to him just like they had when they'd walked him to his first day of kindergarten. Jonah was very careful to keep his hands in his lap, as far as possible from his parents' hands. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, hoping that the FBI had no way of knowing that he'd once hung up on the man he was waiting to see. By rights, Jonah thought, Chip should be with Jonah too, waiting in this bland government office to meet with James Reardon. Whatever James Reardon knew about Jonah, he probably knew the same information about Chip. It'd be...kinder...if they could both get their facts at the same time. [Information...facts...I just want to know who I am,]{.italic}Jonah thought.[And why I've been getting those letters. Does James Reardon know that? Does he know who Chip is?]{.italic} Chip was not sitting in any of the molded plastic chairs near Jonah. Jonah had not been able to figure out any way to convince his parents that his new friend, whom he'd barely known for three months, should be included in this intimate, private moment, when Jonah might be about to learn deep dark secrets about his past. "Maybe you should just tell them the truth," Chip had suggested, as a last resort, in desperation. Jonah had considered this for a millisecond. Telling his parents the truth would require informing them that he'd been involved in breaking into somebody else's safe. And that their new neighbors---whom Mom had taken fresh-baked banana bread to and heartily welcomed to the neighborhood---those same neighbors had been lying to their only son for his entire life. And he'd have to tell them that he was receiving threatening letters, and he believed somebody wanted to kidnap him. If he told them all that, he wouldn't get to take Chip with him to meet James Reardon. He wouldn't get to go himself. He'd be locked up, either to punish or protect him. "No," he'd told Chip. "I can't. But I promise, I'll tell you everything this guy says. And then you can get your parents to---" "My parents aren't talking to me about the adoption, remember?" Chip said harshly. "If[they]{.italic} won't even talk to me about it, what makes you think they'd take me to the FBI to talk about it?" So Chip wasn't waiting with Jonah. But there was a fourth person sitting in a molded plastic chair on the other side of Dad: Katherine. Katherine had thrown a fit when Mom and Dad had told her about the meeting, about how she'd have to be home alone for a little bit while they were away with Jonah. "We should be home in time for dinner," Mom said. "But if you get hungry without us, there's some of that leftover chili---" "No," Katherine said. "Okay, if you don't want chili, there's always---" "I'm not talking about food," Katherine said irritably. "I mean, no, I'm not staying home alone. I'm going with you." Mom and Dad exchanged glances. "Katherine, this doesn't really pertain to you," Dad said. "This is about Jonah---" "And he's my brother and I'm part of this family too, and doesn't everything that affects him affect me, too?" Katherine had said, sweeping her arms out in dramatic gestures, seeming to indicating a family so broad it could be the whole world. [Funny]{.italic}, Jonah thought.[That's not what she said that time I broke a lamp playing Nerf football in the house.]{.italic} The argument about Katherine going or not going had raged through the house for three days. And then, inexplicably, Mom and Dad had given in. Mom and Dad didn't usually cave in to Katherine like that. Jonah wondered what she'd promised in exchange: to clean up the kitchen after dinner every single night for the rest of the school year? To do her homework without complaining ever again? To not have a boyfriend until she went to college? Something beeped and Jonah jumped. Okay, he was overreacting. It was just Katherine playing Tetris on her cell phone. ([Our]{.italic}cell phone, he corrected himself.) He felt the annoyance bubbling up, stronger than ever. Here he was, staring at a door that maybe hid all the secrets of his life. And Katherine was just sitting there playing a video game? The door opened, and a man stepped out. But the man was wearing a gray sweatshirt imprinted with the words[Maintenance Staff]{.italic}. It was a janitor. "Hey," he said. "Any of you want something to drink while you're waiting? The vending machine spit out two Mountain Dews, and I only wanted one." "Jonah likes Mountain Dew," Katherine said, pausing her Tetris long enough to point to her brother. The janitor held out a green bottle to Jonah. "You should probably call the vending company," Mom said. "If the machine's malfunctioning like that, maybe next time you'll put your money in and not get anything out. And really..." she began fumbling in her purse "...we can pay for this bottle, if Jonah's going to drink it...." "No, no, it's all good," the janitor said. "I've put in money before and gotten nothing back. So this is already paid for. I just don't want it. You enjoy it, kid, okay?" He tossed the bottle lightly to Jonah, and Jonah caught it. Jonah did like Mountain Dew. At his tenth birthday party, he'd drunk an entire two-liter bottle of it, all by himself, on a dare. And he was thirsty. But something about the whole exchange struck him as weird and fake, like in a soft-drink commercial, where people took one sip and were suddenly dancing and singing and hugging total strangers. Was there a secret camera rolling somewhere? Would he be expected to do a testimonial at the end? [There I was, bummed out and a little scared, wondering who I really was, when Buster gave me that Mountain Dew and, whoa, suddenly I realized, it doesn't matter; we're all brothers under the skin.]{.italic}He and the janitor would have their arms around each other's shoulders by then, with a kick line of dancing girls behind them, and birds twittering around their heads, and the dreary waiting room transformed into a lovely meadow.... The janitor disappeared back through the door. So no dancing girls and twittering birds. Mom was still pointlessly reaching into her purse---all because of that "Pay your own way" virtue she and Dad always preached.[You'd think they'd want to emphasize the whole Don't-take-candy-from-strangers message too]{.italic} , Jonah thought. He stared suspiciously down at the bottle. This Mountain Dew could be poisoned. It could be laced with a dangerous narcotic, and the next thing he knew, he'd be waking up in a dark room, his mouth gagged, his wrists and ankles tied together. Maybe James Reardon was a kidnapper, maybe he was the one who'd been sending Jonah and Chip those weird letters, maybe... Jonah noticed that the cap of the Mountain Dew bottle had never been opened. It was still connected to the ring of plastic below it. [You are so paranoid]{.italic}, he told himself.[The reason Mom and Dad aren't suspicious is because there's no reason to be suspicious. You're thirsty; someone was nice enough to give you a Mountain Dew---drink it!]{.italic} Jonah unscrewed the lid, raised the bottle to his lips, and took a huge gulp. Beside him, Dad patted his leg comfortingly. Jonah was done with the Mountain Dew by the time the door opened again. This time a man in a suit stood framed in the doorway. "Mr. and Mrs. Skidmore?" he asked, reaching out to shake hands. "I'm James Reardon. Come on back." The Skidmores followed Mr. Reardon down a long hallway. The offices on either side of the hallway were dark, with the doors shut, as if everyone else had already left for the day. Mom must have noticed this too because she said, "We really appreciate you staying late to meet with us after my husband and I got off from work. We really could have---" "It's no problem," Mr. Reardon said. He showed them into the only well-lit office, a large room dominated by a huge desk. He shut the door behind them. "Please, have a seat." There were only three chairs lined up in front of the desk, so Jonah had to tug a fourth one over from beside a couch at the right side of the room. [Couldn't Katherine have gotten the extra chair?]{.italic}Jonah fumed to himself.[She's the extra person!]{.italic} He didn't seem to have any control of his emotions suddenly: he was so mad at Katherine, so annoyed with Mom and Dad for sitting down so obediently in their low chairs and staring up at Mr. Reardon like little kids sent to the principal's office. What he wanted to do was just blurt out, "What do you know about me?" No, he didn't want to do that. He was too scared about how Mr. Reardon might answer. [Mad, annoyed, scared, confused...]{.italic}, Jonah listed to himself.[Want fries with that?]{.italic} In spite of himself, Jonah grinned. His brain was a mixed-up, bizarre place, but at least he could amuse himself sometimes. Mr. Reardon cleared his throat. Jonah stopped grinning. "I thought it was important to have this meeting," Mr. Reardon said in a smooth, silky voice, looking carefully at Mom, then Dad, then Jonah and Katherine, each in turn. "When you called, Mr. Skidmore, it became apparent to me that information had been released that was, ah, inappropriate." Dad leaned forward. "You mean---" Mr. Reardon held up his hand, as if only he was allowed to talk. "Please, let me finish," he said. "I wanted to meet with you to assure you that we aren't trying to hide any information that you're entitled to. But you must understand the delicacy required in matters of national security. And---" "Our son's background is a matter of national security?" Mom asked incredulously. Mr. Reardon glanced away for a second, then locked his gaze on Mom's eyes. This reminded Jonah of a spoof he'd seen once in[MAD]{.italic} magazine that was supposed to teach kids how to lie convincingly. "Peer deeply into your target's eyes" had been one of the first rules on the list. "I didn't say that," Mr. Reardon said soothingly, his eyes still fixed on Mom's face. "Of course that's ridiculous. To the best of my knowledge, his actual adoption was a very routine matter. But there were various government agencies involved...beforehand...and some of us do require a certain level of secrecy, just by the very nature of our work. So, there you have it. Really, you should never have been given my name." He sat back in his chair, smiling apologetically from across the vast reaches of his desk. "Let me get this straight," Mom said. "You're saying that the FBI had some connection to Jonah's life before he joined our family---and you're not allowed to tell us what it is? You don't think he has a right to know?" Some of the politeness had gone out of Mom's voice. "Let me get this straight" was the phrase that she always used with Jonah and Katherine when she thought they were stretching the truth a bit. ("Let me get this straight---you started practicing the trumpet at three thirty, according to the kitchen clock, and it's only three fifty now, but somehow I'm supposed to believe that you practiced for an entire half hour out there in the living room? How could that be?") Normally, Jonah hated that stern tone in Mom's voice, that steely look in her eye. But right now he felt like cheering her on. "Now, now," Mr. Reardon said, leaning forward again. "I can understand how this might be upsetting to you. That 'FBI' title frightens people sometimes. In many ways, the Immigration and Naturalization Service was more involved. But, alas, secrets are secrets...." "What are you talking about?" Dad asked. "Immigration and Naturalization...are you saying Jonah was born in another country?" Was that what[Immigration and Naturalization]{.italic} meant? "I'm an American!" Jonah blurted out, before he could stop himself. "Of course you are," Mr. Reardon said. "All your paperwork's in order. At the moment. I checked." He smiled, but it was a dangerous smile. Jonah couldn't quite understand what was going on, but maybe that was because he felt so dizzy all of a sudden. And so much of his brain was drowning in thoughts like,[All those times I said the Pledge of Allegiance at school---doesn't that count for anything? And the "National Anthem"---I]{.italic} try[to sing it at baseball games; it's not my fault my voice doesn't go that high....]{.italic} "Is Jonah---" Dad took a careful breath. "Is he a naturalized American citizen or native born?" Mr. Reardon shrugged, still smiling. "Why does it matter?" "It doesn't...when it comes to the love we have for our son," Mom said. Jonah's stomach began to churn, to match his spinning head. If Mom was going to get all sappy right here in front of Mr. Reardon, Jonah wouldn't be able to take it. For a few seconds, he couldn't even listen. When he forced himself to tune back in, Mom was saying, "But it might matter to Jonah someday. If he was born in another country, he might want to go back and visit; he might want to do projects about that country's history for school...." Mom's voice cracked on the word[school]{.italic} , and Jonah decided this was nothing like those times she tried to catch him or Katherine in a lie. Her voice never cracked then. Mr. Reardon leaned closer. He laid his hands lightly on a closed laptop---the only object on his vast desk---and moved the right corner ever so slightly forward, as if that microscopic readjustment might align it perfectly with the borders of the desk. "Let me give you a hypothetical," Mr. Reardon said. "Let's say there was an international baby-smuggling ring. Lots of poor people in developing countries have babies they can't afford; lots of rich Americans want babies they can't have. People get desperate, don't they?" Jonah saw his mother flinch. Mr. Reardon went on. "It's a bad mix, desperate rich people who want something that desperate poor people have. Laws are broken; rights are trampled; money changes hands illegally---" "We've done nothing wrong," Dad said coldly. "I haven't accused you of anything," Mr. Reardon said. "Guilty conscience?" Dad gaped at Mr. Reardon and lurched forward in his chair. "Of course not," he said. "Jonah was adopted through a reputable adoption agency---we had no contact with any smuggling rings! We---we didn't pay anything! Except the regular adoption fee...but---but everyone pays that!" Jonah had never before seen Dad so angry that he actually sputtered. He was usually the calmest person in the family, mild-mannered, like a Clark Kent without any secrets. Mr. Reardon laughed, as if he thought Dad's reaction was funny. "We're just talking hypotheticals, remember?" Dad sat back, but Jonah could tell that it took great effort. Mom reached over and took Dad's hand---Jonah could tell that they were both holding on so tightly that their knuckles turned white. "So,[hypothetically]{.italic} ," Mr. Reardon continued, "this smuggling ring gets greedy. They take too many risks; they get caught. They always do, in the end. It's a big mess for all the governments involved, all the government agencies involved. Do you extradite the smugglers? Do you deport the babies? You probably should, shouldn't you?" He was staring straight at Jonah now. "[Extradite]{.italic}and[deport]{.italic} both mean 'send back,' by the way." Katherine gasped. Jonah's stomach was still churning, his head still spinning. But Katherine's gasp was the last straw. He was sick of sitting here listening to Mr. Reardon bully his family with all these "hypotheticals," all these simpers and smirks, cruel smiles and humorless laughs. He hated the way Mom and Dad were clutching each other, terrified, the way even Katherine had all the color drained from her face. If there was any way Jonah could hurry this along, a sick stomach and a whirling head weren't going to stop him. "Which country was it?" Jonah asked. "Pardon?" Mr. Reardon asked. "Which country?" Jonah repeated. "I see where you're going with all this. Some smuggling ring brought me into the United States, the government busted up the smuggling ring, you gave me to a regular adoption agency, and then Mom and Dad got me. I'm really glad you didn't send me back, if it was one of those countries where people live on five dollars a year. But it would be nice to know where I came from. Just so---just to know." Jonah was amazed at how calm his voice sounded.[Really, who cares?]{.italic} He thought. He'd always known his DNA came from strangers; did it really matter if they were strangers from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China instead of Kansas or Kentucky or Maine? Jonah glanced down and caught a glimpse of his arm: pale skin, light brown hairs, an occasional freckle. Okay, he guessed he couldn't be from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China. Which poor country had people who looked like him? It would be nice to know. "I'm sorry," Mr. Reardon said. He didn't sound sorry at all. "You're asking me for information that I'm not authorized to provide." "Then---who would be?" Mr. Reardon shrugged. "Nobody." [It doesn't matter]{.italic}, Jonah told himself.[I don't care.]{.italic} But that wasn't true. The room seemed to whirl around him---the room full of lies, Mr. Reardon's lying words, Jonah's lying thoughts. He shook his head dizzily. Mom reached out and placed her hand over his, just as she'd done with Dad. Jonah didn't shove it away. "It seems to me," Dad said slowly, "that my son's question is perfectly reasonable." Jonah was relieved to see that Dad had apparently calmed down now or at least was keeping himself under better control. "I don't quite understand the need for all this secrecy. Don't law enforcement agencies usually want to publicize big arrests? Aren't smuggling busts public information?" "Not always," Mr. Reardon said. "Many times we have strong reasons to keep something like this secret. And I can't tell you the reasons without giving away the secrets. Quite a quandary, isn't it?" Dad and Mr. Reardon seemed to be staring each other down. "I understand," Dad said, "that there are ways for American citizens to request information that they believe should be open to the public. My wife and I could make a Freedom of Information request. We could file a lawsuit if we had to. We would be willing to do that, on our son's behalf." Dad wasn't blinking---but neither was Mr. Reardon. Jonah was. He was actually scrunching up his ent

The Missing Series (Margaret Peterson Haddix) (Z-Library).epub

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