Wild (18 page)

“All right, he can read. So what?”

“If he lies about one thing,” Sheriff Porter said, “he's probably lying about everything else. To us, anyway.”

Paling a little, Mrs. Porter sat heavily. “You want to use Dara as bait?”

“I want her to get us some answers.”

Quiet for a moment, Mrs. Porter rubbed the back of her neck. She was torn, it was obvious. The urge to help Cade No-Last-Name; the instinct to protect her daughter. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don't like it.”

“Me either.”

Sheriff Porter closed the file. They had another daughter to think about. He had a town to police. And frankly, he didn't care for how protective Dara seemed of that kid in so short a time. He just didn't see another way to crack him. If he'd had something to confront him with, maybe. But he didn't. All he had was a daughter, determined to be Cade's ally. He looked up when his wife spoke again.

“But you're going to do it anyway,” Mrs. Porter said flatly.

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Twenty-eight

S
ofia hung up her phone and waved it at Dara. “That was your dad. He says there's a cruiser outside to take you guys home.”

Hopping up, Dara lifted the shades a little. Her mouth rounded, because there really
was
a police car out front. The lights weren't flashing, which was a relief. But the deputy inside looked like he was about to climb out and come to the door.

Vaguely embarrassed, Dara dropped the shades and turned to Sofia. “Did he say
why
?”

“Sorry,” Sofia said.

“I'll call you later,” Dara told her. “Right after I make them give my phone back.”

“That would be awesome.”

Cade had to be peeled away from the Wii. For somebody who'd never seen technology before, he was a pro at Mario Kart. He was halfway through a water level and twisting the wheel like he was born driving. He veered his body when the screen shifted, and muttered when he crashed into obstacles.

Tapping him on the shoulder, Dara waited until he tore his gaze away. “We have to blow.”

Cade frowned, but handed the controller to Sofia anyway. “What's wrong?”

There weren't enough words to explain it. Dara shook her head. Then she hugged Sofia at the door, opening it and waiting. It was weirdly sweet. Cade palmed the top of Sofia's head. He towered over her, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him.

She had an unexpected defense though. Poking at his ribs, Sofia reduced him to a twisted, squirming knot.

“I'm brother-proof,” Sofia informed him. She shoved him out the door.

“Nice,” Dara said.

Sofia answered with a wink, then watched them both head down the walk.

The neighborhood was quiet, and when Dara peered into the cruiser window, she smiled. Dad had sent Deputy Krause, one of the newer officers out of the academy. She was a walking encyclopedia of knock-knock jokes, and shared Dara's distaste for watermelon-flavored anything.

“Hey,” Dara said through the window.

“Hop in,” Deputy Krause replied.

Dara opened the back door and waited for Cade to slide in. She followed him across the slick bench seat. The car smelled like old food and other people's sweat. And faintly of dog, which was odd because it wasn't a K-9 unit. Patting the steel mesh between them, Dara leaned forward.

“What's all this about, anyway?”

“No clue, kid. I just do what the sheriff tells me to do.”

Sinking back, Dara snapped her seat belt, trying to settle in. Usually when she rode in her dad's cruiser, she got to sit in the front. There were no handcuff loops in the front. No boot prints permanently scuffed into the door, either. As soon as Cade buckled up, Dara joked, “Home, Jeeves!”

Chuckling, Deputy Krause flicked a look into the rearview mirror at them. “Sit back and shut up.”

When the car started to move, Cade leaned over. Steadying himself with a hand on Dara's shoulder, he caught her eye. Murmuring, he said, “I could drive this.”

“Uh-huh,” Dara said.

“I wouldn't hit any fences,” Cade said. His smile spread. It was like he was trying to lure her, tease her into pressing next to him. Even though she wanted to, it wasn't possible. Their seat belts kept them from getting too close.

Patting his hand, Dara returned the smile. “It's the pedestrians I'm worried about.”

He laughed, then laid his head back against the seat. Thoughtfully, he gazed at the ceiling. His lips barely moved when he spoke, sound flickering from them in tantalizing sparks. “I had fun today.”

“Me too,” Dara said.

Except for the doofus creeper in Sofia's backyard,
she added mentally. Cade didn't seem to understand what the big deal was. She kind of liked that he didn't care about things that made most people completely anxious.

“You should come to my house next time.”

The backseat was a little too warm. It made Dara melt, spilling toward Cade. She couldn't lean on his shoulder, but their heads brushed as they both slumped toward the middle. Tapping her fingers on the soft vinyl seat, Dara said, “Tomorrow.”

Cade walked his fingers toward hers. “I mean
my
home.”

“Hm, I don't know,” Dara said, casting a playful look in his direction. “I was really bad at camping, remember?”

“Josh was.” Cade touched his forefinger to Dara's wrist. “He didn't even know how to start a fire.”

Dara turned to him. “How would you know?”

“I saw you,” Cade said. “I saw your tent. The animals knew where you were, and so did I.”

“I knew it. You were watching us.”

“Sometimes,” Cade admitted. “Only a little. I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Living.”

“I have news for you, I saw you, too,” she said. “I have a picture. The day I saw the mushrooms, you were up in the trees.”

He nodded, fingers trailing the seat between them. “I didn't know what the ticky box was. I stayed too long.”

It was confirmation, and she was so glad to have it. The whole time, she was sure someone was there. So many times, Josh told her she was crazy. Flooded with warmth and vindication, she pressed him. “Were you at the river, too? When I was filling the canteens?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed. Then slowly, her thoughts turned. Strange sensations filtered through her. Curiosity and heat. A little bit of fear mixed with anticipation. Letting her fingers trail close to his, she asked, “But why?”

“You were new,” Cade said. He hesitated again. It was like a switch kept flipping, his voice was on, then off. “I'd never seen anyone like you. Or Josh. And it was a long time. I was alone a long time.” Cade etched his thumbnail against the soft seat. It left a faint, white trail, and he sketched it out roughly. The sun, the river, his bee hollow that was filling with life and honeycomb without him, right at that moment. “I'd never seen yellow hair.”

“That's . . .” Dara started. But then she stopped. It was crazy, or impossible, but somehow, it felt true.

“My dad said when I was little, I had red hair.” Cade nodded, looking past Dara now. “That was from his side. But I got older, and it turned dark. Like my mom's. I look like her.”

It was a perfect moment to ask something, Dara realized. To dig in, to discover more about him. Maybe to figure out if his intentions were good, or dark, and how she fit into them. But the right question escaped her. It mocked her, like a word at the tip of her tongue, or an almost-remembered errand.

Cade filled the quiet for her. “I was lonely.”

“So was I,” she murmured, and watched the streets glide by.

 

The deputy escorted Cade to Ms. Fourakis' back door. Her boyfriend, Mr. Anderson, let him in, then quickly locked the door behind them.

“Weird day, huh?” Mr. Anderson said.

Cade nodded. He felt unmoored, drifting into the kitchen with his head full of too much information. Not enough information. The wrong kind of information. Though he wasn't hungry, he opened the fridge and peered into it. There were so many bottles and tubs and containers. Too many. Food was so easy here.

“Want some bread and peanut butter?” Mr. Anderson smeared goo from a container on a white, spongy leaf and offered it to him. “Nobody bothered you, did they?”

With a sniff, Cade considered the bread, then took a tentative bite. His mother talked about bread, usually in the fall. She'd go on about how it smelled in the oven, how delicious it was with butter. Cade had never had either, so she may as well have been talking about how much fun it was to camp on the moon.

“Someone from Dara's school took pictures of us. She ran him off.”

“Seriously?” Mr. Anderson said. His laugh was laced with disbelief. “Well, you're safe at home now. We had somebody from the paper come to the door a while ago. Told him I didn't know a Cade. Or a Kelly Fourakis.”

Laughing with him, Cade devoured the bread, then happily took another slice. It was incredibly soft. The peanut butter was sweet and slick on his tongue. Even though it wasn't hot, it warmed him.

After two more slices, he decided he would miss peanut butter almost as much as hot baths when he went home. When Mr. Anderson turned around, Cade plucked the jar off the counter. He had nowhere to hide it, not really. But he tucked it under his arm all the same, and half turned away. Maybe he wouldn't notice.

Mr. Anderson tied up the bread, slipping it into the cupboard. “You're kinda quiet tonight.”

“I want something,” Cade said.

“What's that?”

Finishing his snack, Cade brushed his hands together. He captured the crumbs in his palm, and tossed those in his mouth, too. Itching to get to higher ground, Cade considered his options.

Surreptitiously sliding the peanut butter behind the sugar jar, he hopped up to sit on the counter. It was allowed. He'd seen Ms. Fourakis do it last night. Watching Mr. Anderson, Cade folded his hands together, choosing his words carefully.

“I don't know.”

Mr. Anderson laughed. “I can't help you, then, Cade. Can you describe it?”

He leaned against the fridge to watch Cade. He was so easy with his body; comfortable next to all this chrome and glass. His skin smelled like foreign spice, nothing Cade could place. It wasn't threatening at all. Pleasant, even.

It also reminded Cade that he was far from home, and had no idea how or when he'd get back. Suddenly, in his mind, it was before—when he still lived near his bee hollow and collected rain to drink. When nothing held him in because the sky was endless and too high to touch. It was a beautiful world, and boundless. Beautiful and open.

And empty.

The crushing weight returned. It filled Cade's chest and slipped over his shoulders. Somehow, it woke the aches beneath his bandages, sharp edges of pain to distract him. Everything expanded in his head, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. He'd cried before, but he was horrified by the rise of tears now.

Concerned, Mr. Anderson leaned toward him. “Cade?”

“I'll think about it,” Cade said.

He snatched the jar of peanut butter and bolted from the kitchen. Feet thundering down the hall, he nearly crashed into his door. His door. That was insane, it wasn't
his
at all. None of this was. The room, the clothes, they all belonged to someone else. This place, this
world
.

And Dara. She belonged to someone else, too.

The bedroom was too bright, and too wrong. Swallowed by homesickness, Cade took in his surroundings. Then he took the plant from his (
not his!
) dresser. Cradling it to his chest, he carried it into the closet. It was dusty in there, but dark when he closed the door.

He dropped the peanut butter with the rest of his collection. A bottle of syrup, and a jar full of pickles. Crackers and cookies, and six unnaturally red apples.

Then he sank into the corner and covered his head with his good arm. He did not cry—no one had died. Things were strange. Dara was close, but far away at the same time. They kept asking questions he couldn't answer. His parents might have lied to him. But none of that was the same. He didn't cry. He wouldn't cry.

He just wanted to go home.

Twenty-nine

S
neaking in the back way only worked for Dara because her dad was on the front lawn giving a statement. Pressed into the front window with Lia, she cracked it open just a little and they listened to their father speak.

Surrounded by a black bloom of microphones, Sheriff Porter's voice was both clear and strong. And pretty irritated, though the reporters probably didn't know that. You had to have been grounded by him to recognize that particular strained tone.

“We appreciate the public's concern for this young man. But we also remind you that all the parties involved are minors, and deserve their privacy. Nobody's committed a crime, and things are understandably confused. But Health and Family Services is working closely with the sheriff's department and state police to identify John Doe, and to unite him with his family.”

Exhausted, Dara shook her head. Though no one outside could hear her, she whispered anyway. “His family is dead.”

“Allegedly,” Lia replied, adjusting the curtain. “Sorry about Kit. He's an idiot.”

“Oh, you know then?”

Brows lifting smoothly, Lia glanced back at her. “He says you assaulted him.”

“Please. I poked him with a lacrosse stick.” Furious, Dara crossed her arms over her chest. “And right now, I really, really want to hit you with it. You've been feeding him stuff all along! What's wrong with you?”

“I hate you sometimes.” Lia let the curtain slip from her fingers. She didn't sound the least bit hateful. In fact, she was more matter-of-fact than she'd been for weeks. Pressing her back against the window's edge, she stretched, then sighed. “I've liked Kit for I don't know how long. And then all of a sudden, he starts texting me and hanging out by my locker. I'm really, incredibly stupid.”

Slowly, Dara's brows lifted. “It wasn't your idea?”

“I was mad,” she said. “You get away with everything. And then Kit shows up, and it's like . . . yay. Now I get the boy and I get you back for being perfect.”

“I'm not perfect.”

Lia rolled her eyes. “And I'm not getting the boy. He called me a bitch, and called
you
a crazy bitch, and then he blocked me.”

Instantly protective, Dara wrapped her arms around her sister's shoulders. Now she really did wish she'd beaten him with the lacrosse stick. And kicked him a couple of times too for good measure. All this time he'd been making her miserable, and he was using her baby sister, too. “Aw, Bug, I'm sorry.”

“I'm not a bug,” Lia replied, sulking. She didn't exactly relax into Dara's hug, but she didn't fight it, either. Since she was taller than her older sister by a good two inches, she had to duck her head to tuck it under Dara's chin. “He's such an idiot.”

Stroking her hair, Dara nodded. “In a really aggressive, hard-core way. I mean, the hat?”

“And his stupid ties?”

“Ugh, the worst.”

Outside, their father was taking questions. Inside, Lia untangled herself, trying to put herself back together, and back at arm's length from Dara. She smoothed her hands over her hair. Then she swept her middle finger beneath each eye to guard against stray smudging.

Dara wasn't quite ready to let her go yet. Poking Lia's shoulder, she said, “By the way. As a photographer? I can tell you he's overcompensating for something with that rig.”

“God, nasty,” Lia said. Abandoning the window, she started upstairs.

“Love you,” Dara called after her.

Slipping into Lia's place, Dara opened the window again. Just enough to hear as reporters climbed over each other to ask the same question. Or versions of the same question. Or the same question vaguely rephrased.
What do you know about the Primitive Boy?

Her father's answers were the same, too.
Nothing, very little, not as much as we'd like.

But Dara knew more. She knew Cade had a sense of humor that crept up quietly and unexpectedly. That he liked to sit on top of furniture instead of on it. That he'd watched her in the woods because he'd never seen yellow hair before. Overwhelmed, Dara sank onto the bench.

She knew he confused her. And if she was being very, very honest with herself, she knew she wanted to know other things. Personal things. If his touch on her shoulder could make her lose her train of thought, what would it be like if he kissed her? If
she
kissed
him
?

The front door opened, and Dara snatched her fingers away from her lips. Her mother ducked inside, and her father followed close behind. He locked the door and the dead bolt. Even though he'd just turned them, he checked the locks, then glanced Dara's way.

“If Jim Albee from the
Courier
comes sniffing around you again,” Sheriff Porter said, hanging his hat on the door tree, “you call me.”

“I would if I had my phone back.”

“Here,” Mrs. Porter said, resigned. She opened her purse, producing Dara's cell and waiting for her to take it. She ignored a sharp look from her husband. Dara wasn't sure what that was about, but she was happy to take advantage of it.

Taking her phone, Dara hurried up the stairs, already texting Sofia. It was good to get away from her father, from the madness out front . . . and from her own unbearable thoughts.

 

Cured bacon was delicious. Wolfing down strip after strip, Cade fought the urge to steal the plate from the table. Instinct told him to take it all, and take it to the highest point he could find. Safe in a tree, or on a roof, where no one could wrest the delicious spoils of Sunday breakfast from him.

Instead, he hunched in his chair and sucked grease from his fingers. In the living room, Ms. Fourakis talked to Branson. They murmured, but Cade heard them anyway. People weren't as subtle as they thought they were.

“I'm not expecting much,” Branson said. “Since he can't read.”

Ms. Fourakis hummed, skeptical. “Are you sure about that?”

“It was self-reported.”

Carefully, like she was trying not to hurt Branson's feelings, Ms. Fourakis said, “I'm pretty sure I've seen him with books.”

“Huh.”

Cade snapped another piece of bacon in half and shoved it in his mouth.
Huh.
Branson was mild as a caterpillar. Soft and fuzzy, easy to divert. Picking the cracklings off the paper, Cade devoured them. They were better than the black ants that he resorted to sometimes, when the weather was too bad to hunt or fish. So much better—they didn't bite his cheeks or cling to his tongue.

Shuffling papers, Branson pressed on, though now he sounded disconcerted. Or disappointed. It was hard to tell without seeing his caterpillar face. “We'll get it sorted out. Oh, and good news. Dr. Rice can get him in soon. Check him out, get his vaccinations updated.”

The word rang in Cade's head, too loud. Too bright. Abandoning the table, he crept down the hall to peer at the adults discussing him like a project.

“Great,” Ms. Fourakis said. “That'll make it easier to talk to Principal Tran about getting him in some classes.”

Though he wasn't sure how those two things were connected, Cade slowly rose to his full height. Tapping his fingers on the wall to get their attention, he said, “I had my vaccinations.”

Two faces lit with surprise. Branson shuffled papers again, producing his glowing tablet from the mess. He tapped on it, looked down. Looked up, then squinted at Cade. His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Are you sure about that?”

Of course he was. His mother used to rant about them. How they couldn't generate some of them as quickly as the viruses could mutate, for one.

“This year's flu vaccine is our best guess,” she'd say, stirring another handful of acorn meal into a pot of stew. “A mix of last year's flu, and the statistical probability of this year's. Sixty percent effective, if that. You still have to get it, but it's no guarantee. No guarantee at all.”

Cade would scrub another handful of brain matter into the leather he was tanning and nod. His mother was brilliant. She knew everything. Why the sky was blue, and how the fall started.

She liked to show Cade the half-moon scar on her shoulder where she'd gotten her boosters as a child. He always felt the phantom of his own shots, because she would tap his thigh where the needle had gone in.
MMR
, she whispered.
DTaP
,
IPV
. It was a song—a chant.
Hib, HepB, Varicella, boo.

So yes, he was sure. Clinging to the wall, he leaned into the room, just a little. He wondered what would happen if he tapped the end of Branson's nose,
boo
. He didn't. Instead, he said, “All of them. Yes.”

Branson tapped the tablet, then blinked up at him. “Can you tell us when? Who your doctor was?”

“No,” Cade replied.

“You don't know or you don't want to?”

The first one. All his questions were exhausting, and there was still bacon on the table. Letting go of the wall, Cade backed into the kitchen again. “What kind of tests? I know my times tables. I can calculate the volume of a hole I dug to catch a wild boar.”

Fighting back a smile, Ms. Fourakis glanced at Branson. “That could come in handy.”

“You have to eat them before they eat you,” Cade agreed.

Branson paled. And against his better judgment, it seemed, he followed Cade into the kitchen to start his tests.

 

Josh filled Dara's room, in a wide and awkward way.

It wasn't a war of masculine against feminine. He'd worn more than one red, lacy hat at his cousin's tea parties and had the pictures to prove it. And besides, Dara wasn't very frilly, and neither was her space. Her tastes ran to what her mother liked to call classics. Clean lines, no froth. Solid colors.
Sleek.
The same values appeared in her photographs.

No, Josh filled Dara's room awkwardly because neither of them wanted him to be there. Tipping her laptop toward him, its warm glow kept him from pressing too close. A slide show flashed on the screen. Nine thousand pictures of Debate Team and Varsity Dive and Swim illuminated their faces and cut a canyon between them.

“This is the best one, except Kristin's looking away,” Dara said. “Would it be unethical to paste her head from
here
into
this
picture?”

Josh shrugged. “Dunno. It's her head, right?”

“But editorially, it's not her head in
that
moment. It's a head of lies.”

Rubbing a hand up Dara's back, Josh tried to coax her attention away from the screen. “Babe, I don't know. Can we look at these later?” Maybe never, his voice said. Or maybe three thousand years from now.

With a frown, Dara flipped between them again. “I really have to get these two clubs done before I can do anything.”

Withdrawing, Josh couldn't hide his annoyance. Digging his toe into one heel, he peeled off his shoe because it was obvious they weren't going anywhere for a while. Letting it drop with a thump, he cut her a suffering look.

“Don't be like that. We're both still technically grounded, we're lucky we're even seeing each other today.”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Josh said. Dig, peel. His other sneaker fell heavily on the floor, and he slid to his feet. He could examine the pictures on her wall again, all three million of them. Her collages took up the space that posters should have. Instead of pop stars she had inspiration boards.

Head down, Dara swapped the two versions of Kristin again. “You're always complaining I don't give you time to work on your car. If waiting for me is such a big deal, why don't you go do that?”

Josh turned furiously. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Excuse me?”

“You do remember the last time I saw you, it was because you wanted to borrow some of my clothes for another guy.”

Snapping the lid closed on her laptop, Dara sat up. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Josh said unconvincingly. Then, more honestly, he added, “But I'm confused. It's like you went just a little off in the woods and never came back.”

“I'm right here,” she replied.

“You're all the way over there.” Demonstrating, Josh walked the distance between them, then back again. His motions were short, sharp. It was like something quaked in his core, and it was all he could do to contain it. “And here
I
am.”

Pushing the laptop aside, Dara looked up at him helplessly. “Maybe I did go a little off in the woods.”

“Look, if you want to break up—”

“I don't!” Dara said hotly. Then she hesitated. Waving her hands beside her head, she shook with the frustration Josh felt. “I mean, you get we almost died. Right? You get that?”

“But we didn't.”

“We
could
have. That's on my mind
all the time
. We almost died. And you weren't in the back of the truck. I was literally watching Cade die, like, I felt it. I felt his heart slowing down. I watched him turn grey, not pale, Josh. Waxy, it was . . .”

Josh held up a hand, talking over her. “I get it, Dare.”

“Then why don't you get that I'm not
back
yet?” Slowly rising, she knotted her hands in her hair, pulling it off her face. It tightened her features, smoothing out the lines and knits and furrows. She was a mask of herself, though the shadows still showed in her eyes.

“Maybe if you let me help,” Josh said.

“It's a terrible thing to say,” Dara replied. She closed on him, because she was going to say it anyway. He knew it would be a bomb when she flattened both her hands on his chest. Bracing him for it. “But right now, the only time I feel safe is when I'm taking care of him. It makes the rest of this, the bad dreams, and the memories, and the reporters, and all the gossip . . . it makes it go away for a while.”