Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (19 page)

I don't know what to say. Peter's theory is absurd, but I know enough now about the Church of America to know they've never let a plan's abject absurdity stop them. I glance at Harp and see she's fixed Peter with a disbelieving smile.

“Are you seriously suggesting,” she asks, “that the Church is trying to cast a messiah?”

“It makes sense, if you think about it. They can't keep killing off their devoted faithful—that's a terrible business model. My guess is, they're trying to find the right person: someone young and willing to be bought. Then, on the day of the apocalypse, they drag him in front of the cameras—maybe alongside a miraculously resurrected Frick and Taggart—and boom: they never have to worry about pulling off a Rapture again. They create millions of new Believers on the spot, and best of all, they've got the celebrity spokesperson to end all celebrity spokespeople. They've got Jesus fucking Christ.”

“But . . .” Harp shakes her head like she's trying to dislodge the awful story from her brain. “Seriously, how stupid do they think we are?”

“I think they think we're pretty stupid,” I say, putting my head in my hands. “Or at least they think we're desperate. Believers will buy the story because they
want
to—better that than to believe we're doomed. And if Peter's theory is right, it's not like they'll convince everybody—but they'll convince enough to make a profit by.”

“The good news,” Peter points out, “is they'll probably stop killing people.”

“But they'll get away with killing people in the first place!” Harp exclaims.

“Not if we make people believe our story before the Messiah appears,” I say, thinking fast. “If we can find proof—real evidence that the Church of America faked the Rapture—then they can drag out all the fake messiahs they want and it won't do any good.” My friends look at me with hopeful expressions, like I've just noticed said evidence here in the room. I shake my head. “We need to find the missing Raptured.”

“How are we going to do that?” Harp asks. “I've been asking for information on my blog for weeks, and no one's given me anything concrete, just various cities that may or may not have anything to do with it.”

“I don't know. But if we could find even one, if they were willing to tell the world what happened—”

“They'd have to be alive for that to work,” Peter notes gently, “and I don't see how they could be at this point without us knowing about it.”

I know he's right. Peter's closer than any of us to the Three Angels, and even he has no clue where the missing Raptured could be. We spend another twenty minutes telling him everything Harp's blog followers have told us, everything that vaguely resembles a clue. But then the three of us lapse into uneasy silence. I feel exhausted and discouraged. It's strange how similar this feels to other hours I've spent with Peter—huddled in his apartment outside Pittsburgh, examining his mysterious mail; tracing our route to Point Reyes on a map in Sacramento—and how different at the same time. We're polite and uncomfortable, suddenly strangers. I feel a tired ache behind my eyes, like I've been crying, like I'm about to. It's time to leave.

Harp is nervous about escaping the Chateau by the same route we took in, the one that will bring us past Ted Blackmore's door. Peter suggests the fire escape outside his window. He pulls it open, letting in thick, heavy heat and the quiet chirping of crickets. Harp climbs out first, moving quietly down the side of the building before dropping smoothly onto the pavement. I make out her dusky shadow giving me a thumbs-up from the sidewalk. I move to follow, but then Peter touches my arm.

“You know I'm sorry, right?” His voice is tender as a bruise. “Because I'm so sorry. It's been killing me, imagining you seeing the things I'm saying. What you must think of me.”

I remember him on the Church of America News Network, that smirk on his face when he said, “Come on, guys.” For the first time, the thought of it doesn't send a shiver down my spine. Maybe it's just because he's standing here in front of me, his expression open and sad, his skin on my skin. This is the real Peter. If only because I want him to be.

“I know. I'm not going to pretend like it didn't suck, but I get why you did it.”

Peter smiles weakly. “I can't believe you heard all those things I said about you—all the things I said about everything!—and
still
you didn't want me to get blown up. That's . . . kind of a superhuman level of goodness, Viv.”

“I'm not human, though, is the thing,” I point out. “I'm a witch.”

It takes him a second, but then he laughs that pleased, surprised laugh again, my very favorite of his laughs. My body reacts before my brain can—I cross the foot of space that separates us to kiss his laughing mouth. It is warm and wet and tastes sweetly of champagne; I run my hands across his broad shoulders. He's so surprised that at first he doesn't move, but then he grasps the back of my neck with his hand, sending sparks down my spine. I feel like I'm no longer muscle and bone, but pure liquid. It's the happiest, the most relaxed I've been in months. After a few long moments, I pull my head back, slightly dazed. Peter holds me tight against him, looking stunned and delighted. We both start laughing.

“What were you saying?” I ask, when he finally lets me go. I glance outside and see Harp on the ground, waiting anxiously. “That you're sorry or whatever?”

“Something like that, I think.” Peter shakes his head. “Hard to remember now—it seemed really important at the time.”

“Well, you're forgiven. Just keep looking at me like you're currently looking at me, and you will always be forgiven.”

Peter laughs and moves forward to steady me as I throw one leg over the window ledge. “Okay, but in general? I'm not sure that's a sound policy. You could get yourself in a lot of trouble with a policy like that.”

“Trouble!” I echo, incredulously. The night air is warm on my skin; I lower myself out of the window to let it swallow me up. I feel clever and messy and vibrating with life. “You think I can't handle a little trouble? Watch the news sometime, Peter Ivey. I'm a motherfucking enemy to salvation.”

I don't have to explain to Harp the slight spring in my step as we return to the car; she takes one look at me when I drop to the pavement beside her and makes a face. “Oh, Viv. Don't you know how to play hard to get?” But Harp can never stay too unhappy when I'm happy. Despite Peter's messiah theory and the impossible mystery of the missing Raptured, we're both a little giddy on the ride back to the Good Book. Harp scans the radio for something upbeat and secular, and we make do dancing away our frayed nerves to a poppy jingle for Church-brand toothpaste: “For a smile as white as the robes of Jesus!” I still feel the scratch of Peter's bit of stubble around my mouth; I remember our kisses with a shudder of pleasure. For the first time in a long time, I realize as we park in front of the Good Book and try to compose ourselves, I feel
young
—sneaking out with my best friend, kissing cute boys. I feel like an actual teenager.

We slip in through the bookshop and climb up the stairs, thinking longingly of the beds waiting for us. I'm so buzzed on the night's various surprises—We didn't get caught! Peter's on our side! We might have figured out the Church's plan, and we're going to try as hard as we can to stop them!—that I don't notice until a split second too late that the knob of the second-floor door is turning.

Then it is open, and Diego stands there.

Harp gasps. My mind runs through a string of weak excuses—We heard a noise? We needed some air?—but my head goes blank when Diego steps aside and I see the rest of them behind him, waiting: Winnie by the kitchen, staring stonily at the floor; Amanda beckoning us in with a manic, false smile; and, worst of all, poor Robbie, slumped on the couch, red-eyed.

“Here you are!” Amanda's voice is ice-cold. “See? Not to worry, Winnie. They were probably just taking a midnight joyride, like two average red-blooded American teens.”

“Where were you?” asks Winnie in a muffled voice, and I realize she's been crying. “When Kimberly came to bed and you weren't up there, we thought at first—”

“How long have you been doing this?” Diego sounds disgusted. “Robbie told us he gave you the keys a week ago, for a ‘secret' mission I sure as hell know nothing about. What is the matter with you two? You made me swear to protect you.” He turns his dark-eyed glare on me; I have to look away. “We're putting ourselves at risk, protecting you—this is how you repay us?”

I feel sick. I glance at Harp; she has a distant, slightly bored expression on her face. This is how she hides herself from hurt: she transforms herself into stone, makes herself impenetrable. But I feel like an open wound. I force myself to look at Robbie. Winnie's distress would be bad enough, but Robbie—he's trying to sit still, but I can tell by the jerky motion in his shoulders that he's crying.

“Robbie—” I say. He looks up at me, wary and embarrassed. We've made a fool out of him.

“Go to bed, Robbie,” Amanda says firmly, and without a word, he gets up and pushes past us to the steps.

“Don't punish him,” Harp says in a would-be careless voice, but there's a pleading hitch in it that tells me she feels terrible, too. “We talked him into it.”

“He's a soldier in this militia, and he should know better.” Amanda's voice snaps like a rubber band; any second now she'll be screaming.

“This isn't a militia, lady.” Harp still sounds casual. “This is a group of people you've convinced to kill themselves for your personal vendetta. Don't call them a militia just because it makes you feel better about the fact that they're going to die.”

Winnie and Diego stand very still and show no reaction to Harp's words. But Amanda takes a deep breath through her nose. When she speaks again, it's with the silky smoothness of a businesswoman.

“Vivian, would you be so kind as to tell me where you were tonight?”

“Um . . .” I feel Winnie watching me, willing me to give an answer that will satisfy. “Just driving around? Like you said. We've been—you know, we've been cooped up a lot, in the apartment, and we were just feeling kind of . . . stir-crazy?”

There's a brief moment where I think I've convinced her. She nods, as if taking this in, then laughs gently. But when she speaks, Amanda says, “You are frankly the worst fucking liar I have ever met in my life.” She glances down at her nails, like she's too bored with me to even look at me. “You're no longer welcome here. You are no longer under our protection. I'll give you an hour to get out.”

Winnie stiffens almost imperceptibly. Diego gives Amanda a sharp look.

“Amanda,” he says, “the Church of America is looking for these girls. If they find them, they'll be killed. We can't just turn them out on the street.”

“Well, maybe they
should
be killed, Diego! Because really, what good are they doing us? We had an arrangement—they could stay so long as they built up support for violent measures against the Church. But all I see on that blog are long screeds about this idiot's romantic woes”—Amanda sneers at me—“and dull posts about where Believers were vacationing before the Rapture. I mean, what is that shit?”

“That's me trying to find proof that the Rapture was faked,” Harp snaps. “Something we'll need in order to actually get rid of the Church of America. I know you're not so deluded that you think this attack will actually work, so why aren't you putting any of your resources toward finding the missing three thousand?”

“How
dare
you question my methods,” Amanda snarls, wheeling closer to us. “You have no actual idea of what it takes to create change in the world—you're fucking
teenagers.
”

“Amanda—”

“I don't want to hear it, Winnie! So long as the Church is looking for them, these girls are poison. This isn't an orphanage. This isn't a home for wayward kids. We don't have time to raise a couple of needlessly reckless fugitives. Especially now. Because, frankly, you know—she's not entirely wrong.” Amanda nods to Harp. “Not everyone's going to make it out alive with this mission, and the ones that do will be on the run. I don't intend to adopt these two once the Baby-Sitters Club”—she gestures dismissively to Winnie—“breaks up for good. I'm busy trying to recruit to make up for the numbers we'll lose in the attack.”

I clench my jaw. Amanda is right. We're not helping her cause. If anything, her army's protection of us has only hurt them. She's well within her rights to kick us out, to stop providing beds and food we've in no way earned. Even though I am weak with fear that Diego, still standing solemnly near the door, is about to comply, I understand that Amanda is right. But still I feel a surge of anger toward her, the heartless way she's spoken of her soldiers' lives.
The numbers we'll lose.
As if they don't have names or faces or personalities. As if one of them isn't my sister.

Winnie moves toward us now from across the room; she steps in front of me. Diego falls back, and I realize she's the one who's going to do it. I've pushed too hard at the bond between us; I've let her down. Winnie doesn't want to be my family anymore. It makes sense that, as the one who brought us into Amanda's militia, Winnie will be the one who ushers us out of it. But still it's hard to look into her eyes as she fixes Harp, then me, with a hard stare. Her eyes look so much like my own.

Winnie turns then, standing in front of us, shielding us from Amanda.

“These are
children,
” she says. “These are
girls.
As bright and brave as they are, they'd be in danger out there. They'd be in danger even if the Church wasn't looking for them, and you know it. You know what Believers think about girls. You know what they're capable of. You told us when you recruited us that this would be an effort to put things right. How is this the right thing to do? Maybe it's because you're alone, Amanda”—her tone becomes softer, sympathetic, and I notice a muscle twitch in Amanda's cheek; she looks furious—“but you don't understand. We're more than just bodies. Vivian and Harp are going nowhere.”