A/N: This one is for danceangel95 because she's turning sweet sixteen in eleven minutes. Also, because she's my only sibling that loves me enough to read this. Thanks for kayaking with me today! Love you!
Also, she has a story called Finding Ri that is pretty dang well written. It's only a couple chapters so far. Go read it if you like fantasy, orphans with amnesia, and magical shrubs.
Chapter 14: False Fits
I looked over my shoulder to see Anton as close to cowering as I’d ever seen him, pressed against the wall. My velvety dance pants, the ones my father had given me, were practically grafted to his skin. But I only saw that for a moment, because Dad’s hands quickly left my shoulders to shield my innocent eyes.
“I-I-I’m sorry S-sir,” Anton stuttered. “My pants got…d-damaged.”
“Hahaha!”
Landon was laughing so hard that he was slapping his knees. Literally. I could hear it.
“I’d think you might have noticed that they had shrunk before you came into my home,” my dad replied tersely.
“N-n-no, Sir. These aren’t the pants I was wearing when I c-c-came.”
This stuttering version of the knife wielding blackmailer was much less intimidating. Once I’d talked Anton into helping me, I hadn’t credited him with being dangerous. But downstairs in the closet, with Saran Man, and his switch blade and calm threats, I reassessed that idea.
He was good. Really good. He wore whatever mask each situation required. I doubted he was scared of my dad, but just acting like it because any regular teenage guy would be. And right now, being a regular teenage guy would be the most useful cover. Maybe I’m over estimating him, but I’d rather do that then make the mistake of doing the opposite.
“Why aren’t you wearing the pants you left your house in?” Dad demanded, his pitch rising.
Um, I think it’s safe to say Dad misunderstood Anton.
“Daddy,” I know I’m a little old to call him that, but it seems to calm him down for some reason. “Anton was dressed very appropriately when he came here, but he fell on a broken hockey stick, and it poked a hole all the way through his pants. I couldn’t get into Abe’s room to let him borrow a pair of his.”
I didn’t even have to lie to my dad. I tried to gently push the hands from my eyes, but he just clamped them tighter. I sighed. Then Abe spoke up.
“That hockey stick is in the sports closet. What were you doing in there?” Shut up Abe! “Were you in there with Jade?”
Oh my word. This was so not happening. I really don’t need my dad and brother thinking that Anton is some kind of pervert out to take away my innocence—especially because he’s technically my ally, and I might need him around a lot in the next few days. That might prove difficult if Dad puts a restraining order on him. Seriously. He’s done it before for a lesser offense.
“No!” I yelled. “Oh my gosh, no! I mean, yes I was in there, but we weren’t alone. Landon was in there too.”
I tried once again to remove Dad’s fingers from blocking my eyesight, but he didn’t budge.
“Landon? I thought better of you boy. You’d better explain yourself. Now.”
Landon’s laughing finally stopped. He seemed incapable of speaking.
He’s probably trying to come up with a story that would cover all our bases, which included Anton’s presence, his pants, the destruction zone in the closet, and possibly traces of blood and lemonade.
And Landon was completely ignorant of anything beyond that there had been a gorilla sized man bound with saran wrap, who he helped stuff into a closet. Also, that the giant had been here with the purpose of hiding cameras to spy on me.
I have no idea what he assumes about Anton.
“What is wrong with you two?” I yelled at Dad and Abe with dual motives.
First, I didn’t want something crazy to tumble out of Landon’s mouth. There’s really no telling what he might say. I’m still not quite convinced that he really wants to help me—especially after our little relationship defining conversation a minute ago.
Second, I was angry and wanted Dad and Abe to know. They seemed determined to interpret this situation in the worst way, and I don’t deserve that.
I’ve been good—if you don’t count the pranks in my yesteryears, and a few other very minor infractions—all my life, and not because they’ve kept me from having the opportunity to do otherwise. They’ve tried, but honestly, they just don’t have the power to keep the world at bay.
No, I’ve been good because I’m so not into destroying my life. I’m not about to wreck my very promising future by becoming an underage alcoholic/ drug addict and a teenage mom.
I would think that as the daughter and sister that they supposedly love so dang much that they would respect me more than this.
I don’t even swear!
“How can either of you think that I would do anything with Landon in a closet, let alone both him and another guy at the same time?” I accused them more than asked.
I shivered at the thought. I might have been on more dates, with more guys than the average person does in their entire dating career, but I’ve never done anything that would warrant this kind of treatment.
I’ve never even had a boyfriend!
It’s kind of difficult to build a relationship when I’ve never met a guy that lasted more than three dates. And, and them running for the hills has nothing to do with my Wing Chun, or Judo. I never really thought of it as a loss though. I always figured that any guy that was weak enough to be scared off by my brother isn’t man enough to handle me. Because, let’s be honest, I’m a lot to handle.
At this point I’m struggling pretty hard to get out from behind my dad’s protective hands. Having himshielding my virgin eyes, while I throw a fit is just so…undignified. And that’s what I was doing, throwing a fit I mean. I had a plan.
“You know what? I’m out of here. I’m not going to sit here being insulted by you two,”
I finally escaped my dad and I bolted down the hall, exhaling a sigh of relief. Besides alerting Dad and Abe to the fact that their insinuations were unappreciated, as an added bonus, the outburst gave me a plausible reason to get away from all four men in that room. They were unwittingly preventing me from perusing the contents of the folders that could mean life or death for me.
“You! Put some pants on. Abe get him a pair,” I heard my dad say just before I jogged down to the kitchen to retrieve the folders I’d stowed there.
I snatched them up, then sprinted back up the stairs, down the hallway, and closed my bedroom door. I’d been afraid that one of those four would waylay me before I could make it to the safety of my black and white—with hot pink accents—colored room.
I locked my door. Dad would surely come a-knocking when I don’t come back out. My little charade only bought me a little time.
Deciding quickly between the built-in desk and my puffy, white bed, I settled on my comforter. I placed the folders in two neat piles in front of me and sat cross-legged staring at them. My heart was going for the gold again.
I would either learn that my past has been a lie, and change my future, or I would learn that I am exactly who I think I am, and that I probably won’t have a future.
I already knew some of the contents of the first set of folders. Despite my state of post-attack shock, I couldn’t help but read bits of the documents I was gathering off the floor: birth certificates, social security cards, pass ports, driver’s licenses, all kinds of official documentations.
And although the hour since I’d picked those up had been pretty packed, my mind had managed to find time to mull over the implications of having those kinds of documents in her possession. I’d come up with a few theories, but the most prominent one was human trafficking.
Shocking, I know.
Shocking that I could even be thinking that my mom—my gorgeous, world-trotting, accessory-loving mom—could be into something so, so…so illegal, was mind blowing. I mean, twenty four hours ago I had no idea there was any other possibility besides her being the person I’d always credited her as.
But here I am, a day later, and I’m not even sure I want to be related to her.
I exhaled through pursed lips before opening the top folder on the left. It’s dated back to January, when I was three years old.
A pink paperclip held a sheet to the inside of the folder. It listed a name, dates of correspondence with subject lines. The first paper was a letter, sent and received by real life, actual, mail carriers. The rest were regular e-mails.
Just as I turned to that first piece of correspondence a knock came at my door, followed by a wiggling of the door knob. I’m glad I decided to lock it.
“Bug? You in there?”
I would have thought that the locked door would have clued him in already. I didn’t answer. I knew that in Dad’s eyes I was toeing the line between righteous indignation, and childishness. He doesn’t sympathize with the latter.
Turning my attention back to the papers in front of me, without answering my dad, I could almost hear the stilted English through the loopy writing on the perfectly preserved stationary paper.
January 22, ----
To: CW
From: MdS
Dear Mrs. W
Your name is give to me by a trusted friend, as a person that to me might help.
I must find safe place for mine children and I. My husband is powerful man that he know many spies that tell him where I go. I cannot leave him with children and keep from him find me. If this happen he kill me.
We can not stay here any longer. The children grow up and learn crime and violence from their father and follow his footsteps, if they live long enough. If we not leave now the lives of my children are destroy.
Help me, please, I beg you. We must be far, far from here and he can not know where I go with children ever. I fear that we will fail without you help. I give you all the money you ask. I give anything you would want.
Please respond you answer to email. 19700927@ymail.com
Muchisimas gracias.
M. de Silva
After reading the first letter I lay back on my bed to process the information I just read, to imagine a woman so desperate to escape her life that she would trust a perfect stranger with her livelihood.
First of all, who in their right mind would refer this woman to my mom as a possible savior? Second, why would that person believe that my mother would be more capable of removing M. de Silva and her kids from their situation than M. would be?
So the human trafficking hypothesis is looking more and more likely.
And now I can’t help speculating about my mother’s motives for helping this woman—and judging by the crowd of folders still locked away in the hidden desk drawers, there were plenty more like her—was it for personal gain? Was she scamming these people?
Or—and I almost didn’t dare allow this small hope to form—was she really a super, secret, human extraction expert—travelling the globe using the cover of her business, but saving endangered people everywhere behind the scenes?
Given the choice, I would obviously prefer that my mother have a super hero alter-ego. But that didn’t seem likely if she was already living a double life as the wife of the mob boss. I’ve never heard of someone living a triple life.
Another knock, this one stronger than the timid one a few minutes ago, startled me from my reverie.
“Jadie,” Bad sign. He’s calling me my actual name. “It’s time to open up. You’re crossing a line.”
He was using his stern voice. I hated to push him to the edge like this, especially because he just got home. Usually the Brady-Bunch-family-reunion feeling lasted at least a day.
“You ready to believe me? ‘cause if you’re not, I’m not opening up,” I said, as I flipped the folder closed.
I bounced on my rear to the end of my bed, and made several attempts to slide the folders beneath my mattress before giving up and running to my closet to jam them into my snakeskin bag among my school books.
“I brought something for you.”
I froze with my hand now on my bedroom door knob. Souvenir time? For a moment, I wished I had a deadbolt on my door like Abe’s. I took a deep breath and decided to face the music.
After swinging the door open slowly, I leaned my weight against it, and rested my cheek on the edge, trying to hide the trepidation flowing through my nerves.
My eyes roved the immediate area and didn’t spy any large bags, and the fear of receiving an alpaca-wool sweater abated to just a trickle. I know that one day he will bring one home. It’s inevitable, especially with how often he visits Peru.
All I saw was Dad standing in the hall looking tall, distinguished and handsome. I hoped he would interpret my reluctance as lingering anger about the pants misunderstanding.
“Abe!” Dad yelled toward Abe’s closed door across the hallway, “Come here. I’ve got something for you too.”
His door inched open, and he stepped into the hall, followed by Anton and Landon. Dad surveyed Anton’s new pants, a pair of Abe’s jeans, to confirm that they conform to his dress code standards. He simply nodded before turning back to me.
I didn’t dare look at the guys. I only had enough energy to focus on appearing happily excited for whatever my dad bought me this time, instead of letting him see the bout of nausea this was causing. In moments such as these, I feel so fraudulent, telling my dad I absolutely love whatever fashion abomination he gives me.
His right hand slipped into the inside pocket of his navy, pinstriped, Versace suit coat. My heart swelled a little as I noticed that he was wearing an outfit that I’d coordinated for him. It was the silver, button-up, dress shirt with the black and silver striped tie.
I’d begun choosing his outfits for him when Mom wasn’t here to do it anymore. If it weren’t for me, he’d be pairing dark brown tweed slacks with a navy blue suit coat. I was serious when I said he was both color blind, and fashion impaired.
So I developed a numbering system and marked the tag of every article of clothing he owns so that he knows which items he is allowed to pair together.
His hand emerged holding a cream colored envelope. And that smile of his, the giddy one, started to form. I gulped. Heaven help me.
He gestured for Abe to watch while I opened it.
“These are for both of you,” he said as he watched my fingers tear at the seal.
I allowed my hopes to soar for a minute. Gift cards, either Visa gift cards, or to specific stores, or even cash, the envelope felt most like cash. What other gift could fit in there that would be desirable to both girls and boys?
Some people don’t believe in giving money, or gift cards as gifts. They claim that it’s too impersonal. To those people in the world I would like to say, giving the gift of whatever the receiver wants is the best gift you can give. It saves them the trouble of having to feign excitement over an orange and teal Hawaiian print shirt, and the time of having to wait in a line to return it.
I peeked into the envelope and pulled out eight concert tickets, not cash. Abe was leaning over my shoulder to see the name printed on them. Almost immediately he started making sounds very similar to those Dad made when he saw Ant wearing my dance pants. It started out as a choking noise, but evolved into a full blown coughing fit.
Abe finally recovered after much back smacking on my part, and much hacking on his part. I looked down at the tickets in my hand and absorbed the writing clearly printed on them.
Justin Beiber Tour
Happy face, I reminded myself when I saw my dad’s wide eyes, waiting for the verdict. And then I had a thought: I probably won’t be around long enough to have to go. I’ll either be kidnapped, or dead. Haha.
Although, I must admit, I’d rather go see the Beibster in concert than either of my other options. I can’t say the same for Abe though.