“My dad…”
“You’re alive.”
I don’t know how long I cried. I don’t know when I slept. All I know is that Zach’s arms were still around me when I woke on the mats, lying in the center of the floor.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, smoothing my hair.
I’d been sleeping. I realized that I’d been sleeping and I hadn’t dreamed.
“Zach,” I said as I lay there. “Where did you go? When you were looking for me?”
I shifted in his arms, looked into his eyes.
“Crazy.” His voice was a whisper against my skin. “I went crazy.”
Chapter Thirty-two
THINGS THAT SIMPLY MUST BE DONE WHEN YOU MISS THREE DAYS OF SCHOOL, SURVIVE A TERRORIST ATTACK, VISIT THE PLACE YOU WERE TORTURED, AND SOLVE THE MYSTERY THAT HAD PRETTY MUCH DOMINATED YOUR ENTIRE LIFE
(A list by Cameron Morgan)
Laundry. Sure, it’s not the most exciting part of post-op life, but it’s a part of it nonetheless.
Homework. It is either a great advantage OR disadvantage to have Elizabeth Sutton in charge of collecting class notes and assignments while you’re gone. Really, it’s a toss-up.
Paperwork. Because even unauthorized missions have A LOT of people who have to be kept in the loop. Eventually.
Answer the well-meaning but slightly nosy questions of well-meaning but slightly nosy classmates (delegated to Rebecca Baxter).
Figure out how to make it look like you haven’t spent the past few days crying (or trying not to cry) (delegated to Macey McHenry).
Do your best to get on with your life.
For reasons that had nothing to do with my mother’s cooking ability (or lack thereof), I totally wasn’t looking forward to Sunday night.
Sure, we have a lot of traditions at the Gallagher Academy, and Sunday night dinners alone with my mom in her office were usually one of my favorites. I didn’t wear my uniform. She didn’t talk about the school. We weren’t headmistress and student on those nights. We were mother and daughter. And that was why I stood in the Hall of History for a long time, almost afraid to knock.
The door was open just a crack, and I could see my mom inside, sitting on the leather sofa, her legs curled up beneath her as she fingered the gold ring on her left hand. She turned it over and over, then pulled it from her finger, held it up to the light as if looking for some kind of crack or flaw.
My father had been dead for years, but my mother had only been a widow for a week, and suddenly I felt guilty for standing there, spying. I wanted to slip away, but when I moved, the floor squeaked and my mom yelled, “Cammie?”
“Yeah,” I said, easing the door open. “Sorry to bother you. I just…”
I stepped inside.
“It’s Sunday,” Mom said. Her expression changed as she realized what day it was—what that day meant. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I forgot all about—”
“That’s okay. I’ve got a lot of homework to make up anyway. I’ll just go.”
“No. Sit. Stay. I can call the kitchen and order some…” She trailed off.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Okay. Then we’ll just talk.” She sat up straighter and patted the seat beside her. “So, kiddo, how are you?”
“Fine,” I said, and I tried to mean it. I really, really did. “How is Mr. Solomon?”
“Better,” Mom said. “The news…it set him back a little.”