“Dear God or Goddess in heaven—”
Miss Ella grunts.
I open one eye to catch Grandma Lou raise her brows and smirk.
“Like I was saying, thank you for this meal and these people who came together to make it happen. Today we’re thankful for what we have and what we’ve had. Good things don’t last forever, but that just makes every moment sweeter. We pray for our Ches on this day as well as her safe return.” Grandma Lou squeezes my hand. “Amen.”
“In Jesus’s name, amen,” says Miss Ella.
In between our quiet chewing as we enjoy the delicious fruits of our labor and throwing a few jokes and quips back and forth, I can’t help but imagine the Friendsgiving I’d dreamed up with Dakota.
After the meal, we all sit around in the living room for a bit. Grandma Lou in her recliner, me sprawled on the floor, and Miss Ella spread out on the couch.
“Should I turn on football?” I ask.
“No,” the two of them say in unison.
Once they’re both snoring, I push myself up off the ground and start the first round of dishes. After that, in my room, I open my closet and reach for the outfit I set aside. Once I put it all on and lace up my black high-top Converses, I can see very clearly that the whole ensemble doesn’t really match the drawings of what I’d had in mind.
I dig into my underwear drawer for the notebook housing my sketches. I’m no artist, but the girl on the paper is sleeker and she’s definitely not wearing sneakers, but I did what I could with the resources and time that I had. I’d sketched an elaborate jumpsuit with a billowing cape and knee-high boots. I look from the paper to the girl in the mirror, blond hair framing my face. Faded high-waisted skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with a homemade white cape with blue trim tied around my neck. I’d stitched a bright blue felt Z to my T-shirt, just like Laverne from Laverne & Shirley, Grandma Lou’s favorite show. Except in my case the Z stands for Zephyr, the Greek god of the west wind. Bringer of light. And now 100 percent more badass. (The cape helps.) I don’t look like your average superhero. I’m not perfectly sculpted with bulging muscles and ginormous gravity-defying boobs, but that doesn’t matter. This body can fly. And I have to admit: I look pretty great in my makeshift costume.
Over the summer, when I asked Peter if he was a hero, he laughed in a way that made me feel silly for even asking. “Capes and good guys versus bad guys are comic-book bullshit, Faith.”
Maybe that’s true for Peter. Maybe he’s stronger than I am. But I need a fresh skin to go out there and face the world. I need that extra layer of protection so that I can preserve who I am deep down, so that I have something worth fighting for. Over this last week, while I hashed through every detail and connected as many dots as I could, I knew I couldn’t do this on my own and that Peter wasn’t calling me back anytime soon. I can’t count on anyone else to save me, but maybe I can count on Zephyr. At least I hope I can. For Ches’s sake. And Colleen’s too.
I sit down in front of my desk and take one last look at the web of note cards and yarn on my corkboard. I couldn’t connect all the dots. I couldn’t make sense of it all. But what I do know is that Ches and Colleen need me, and if I’m going to save them and find out what it is exactly that Margaret is up to, today is the day to strike. Dakota herself said that almost everyone would be away seeing family. Here’s hoping she didn’t lie about that too.
With Grandma Lou and Miss Ella still snoozing, I leave a note on the pumpkin pie.
Be back soon. Save me a slice of pie. xo Faith
29
My plan is simple:
- Find out what the heck is going on!
- Find Ches!
- Save Ches!
- Save Colleen!
- Save as many puppies and kitties as possible!
- Call 911!
Hopefully in that order. Okay. Maybe it’s not so simple. But either way, I’ve got one window to strike and that’s today.
Since almost all of Glenwood is either eating or passed out in food comas, I fly the whole way to the production offices. The only person who even notices me is a little girl playing on a tricycle in her backyard.
“That’s a pretty bird,” she shouts.
I’ve got nothing to lose at this point, so I do a quick figure eight for her—something I didn’t even know I could do—and soar on to my destination, letting out a shriek of delight.
At the warehouse, I circle the perimeter, looking for an entrance. The place is locked down, and there’s not a soul in sight. I decide to try something I’ve only seen on TV and take the scarf from around my neck and wrap it around my fist.
Walking up to one of the side doors with a window, I punch once and then twice, the glass shattering into the warehouse.
“Whoa,” I mutter. Is this what it feels like to be a badass? I just punched my fist through a window. My fist! A window! Smugly, I reach through the frame to open the door, as I think of every gym teacher who ever told me to turn my fat into muscle. I bet those jerks weren’t punching through windows. Hello, my name is Faith Herbert and I’m a badass fat girl.
As the door swings open, I force myself to concentrate as I plunge into darkness. Check your ego, girl. Small patches of light bleed in from tiny windows near the rafters, but not enough to make it any easier for my eyes to adjust.
The room where I last saw Colleen is dark, windows shaded, but that doesn’t stop me from levitating over the set pieces and prop tables, past the stairs and to the door. My feet touch the ground, and suddenly I’m reminded of Nigel floating in the air before he crashed to the ground. Did I do that to him? Is that even possible? I’ve barely got a handle on flying solo; surely I can’t take other things or people along with me for the ride unless I’m actually carrying them.
I try the door, but it’s stuck, so I try again and this time I throw some muscle behind it. Finally, the door gives way and I tumble into an even darker room. My fingers fumble for the light switch, but when the fluorescents flicker to life, I find the room empty. No hospital bed. No fluid drip. No monitors. No Colleen.
I could kick myself for leaving her here. Across the room is another door, but this one is keypad protected. “Well, crud.”
I tap the one, two, three, and four. A long beep lets me know I was wrong. Couldn’t hurt to try.
Racking my brain, I try every significant number related to The Grove I can think of. First episode airdate. First episode directed by Margaret Toliver. Margaret’s birthday. Dakota’s birthday. Every address I can think of from the show.
I gasp. Margaret’s favorite episode. Margaret went on record, citing Claire’s abortion episode in 2006 as her favorite episode. Even though the network made the controversial decision never to air the episode, Margaret leaked it herself online. Episode 923.
I tap nine, two, and three into the keypad and hold my breath. The keypad chimes and the door clicks as it unlocks.
The moment I open the door, noise floods out. Raucous, familiar noises. I step into a padded, seemingly soundproof room, the heavy door swinging shut behind me. Every inch, every wall from floor to ceiling is lined with kennels, and occupying every single one is a barking dog or a meowing cat.
“Oh. My. God.” I’m immediately overwhelmed. I want to help them all. I want to save them all. But I have no way of doing this without it devolving into pure chaos. And besides, the minute I call the police, they’ll all be freed. Colleen too. But I need to find Ches. And some answers too. I just need a little more time.