All These Monsters Page 5

  I looked up at the buildings as I waited for the light to change. Atlanta wasn’t really that different from Dallas. Big buildings, wide streets, cars everywhere, homeless people sleeping on benches. It was sort of disappointing.

  The walk signal lit up, and we crossed. The recruits had disappeared around the corner, into the Hyatt, but the balding man was standing with a shorter man at the end of the street, pointing to us.

  Our side of the street was otherwise empty, except for a boy in a black leather jacket.

  He caught my attention right away, leaning against a white car parked on the street, because it was too hot for a jacket. A faded purple backpack rested by his feet, and he had one ankle casually crossed over the other, like he was waiting for something. His eyes skipped over Patrick and landed on me, catching me watching him. He winked.

  I heard a clattering noise behind me, and I turned to see Patrick’s phone bouncing off the sidewalk.

  “I’ve got it.” The boy reached down and scooped up the phone, extending it to Patrick with a smile.

  “Thanks,” Patrick said, taking it and examining it for cracks.

  The boy gave him a friendly slap on the arm. “No problem.” As he said the words, he easily slipped Patrick’s wallet out of his back pocket. I barely saw the flash of leather before it disappeared into the boy’s jacket.

  The thief grabbed his backpack, jumped off the sidewalk, and began walking—at a brisk pace, but not a run. He hadn’t noticed me watching him. Patrick started toward the hotel again, oblivious.

  “Hold this.” I threw my backpack at Patrick and broke into a run. I wasn’t letting this thief rob Patrick, who was maybe one of the nicest people I’d ever met. Shit like that was supposed to happen to me, not him.

  I darted between the parked cars and into the road. The thief was still walking, apparently oblivious to me following him.

  I reached for him. I grabbed a handful of his jacket.

  I was crazy. What if he punched me in the face?

  Wouldn’t be the first time.

  He jumped, clearly startled, and tried to twist out of my grasp. I kicked the back of his knee, and he let out a yelp as he fell to the ground.

  I launched at him before he could scramble to his feet. He squirmed beneath me, rolling over as he tried to throw me off. I sat on his stomach and shoved my forearm into his throat.

  He wheezed as his body went limp beneath me. Panic crossed his face. He lifted both hands in surrender.

  I pulled back, surprised at how easily he’d given up. He probably could have tossed me off, if he really tried. He was at least six inches taller and outweighed me.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he gasped as I removed my arm from his neck.

  “Uh, Clara?” Patrick’s shoes appeared next to us. “Is there a problem?”

  I dug my hand into the thief’s jacket pocket and grabbed Patrick’s wallet. I held it out to him.

  “Oh, crap,” Patrick said, patting his pockets. He took the wallet, peering from me to the boy I still had pinned to the ground.

  “Get off me,” the thief said, squirming.

  I climbed off him. He got to his feet and did a quick scan of the area, probably checking for cops. He spotted something behind me and rolled his eyes.

  “Wonderful,” he said.

  I glanced over my shoulder and found Grayson St. John, in the flesh, jogging toward us. He had a big smile on his face. That smile wasn’t just for the cameras.

  “Please tell me you’re one of my recruits,” Grayson said breathlessly as he stopped next to us. He was shorter than he appeared on camera, maybe only an inch or two taller than me, and I was five foot six.

  It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. “Oh. Yeah, actually.”

  Grayson’s smile widened. “Awesome.”

  An emotion I’d never experienced rushed through my veins. Pride? It was strange to be in a place where tackling someone was cause for praise.

  “Edan,” Grayson said to the thief. “I’m glad to see you came back. Less glad that you’re pickpocketing my recruits.”

  “In my defense, I didn’t know he was a recruit,” Edan said. “I thought they’d all gone inside.” He gestured at Patrick. “And come on. Look at him.”

  “Hey!” Patrick did a quick scan of his own body. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re carrying designer luggage, dude. Your jeans have been tailored for you.” He pointed to Patrick’s ankles. “You look like a rich kid on your way to a party in the Hamptons.”

  Patrick lifted one foot. “It’s just good sense to have your jeans tailored. They last for years.”

  “That’s true,” Grayson agreed.

  Edan looked at me with an expression I could only describe as rich people, huh? I ignored it. I didn’t want to trade any looks with this thief. We were not the same.

  “You guys go ahead and get checked in,” Grayson said, clapping Edan on the shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Edan here.”

  “I’m going to decline that offer, thank you,” Edan said, ducking out of Grayson’s grip.

  Grayson grabbed him by the back of the neck and easily kept him in place. Edan muttered something that made Grayson laugh.

  “Should we call the cops or something?” Patrick asked, still clutching his wallet.

  “I’d prefer we didn’t, if you don’t mind,” Grayson said. “He’s harmless.”

  “I am not. How dare you?” But Edan said the words with a trace of humor, a grin spreading across his face.

  I would have known that boy was trouble even if I hadn’t just seen him rob someone. He was super hot, and he knew it. He had thick brown hair that was a bit longer on top and still looked great after being tackled. When he smiled, one side of his mouth rose higher than the other. It was the smile of someone who was definitely plotting the fastest way to screw you. In more ways than one, maybe.

  “Put your wallet in your front pocket,” Grayson said to Patrick. “I’m Grayson, by the way.”

  “I know. Patrick.” He shook Grayson’s hand.

  Grayson stretched his hand out to me.

  “Clara,” I said.

  He clasped my hand briefly. “Nice to meet you. I’m glad you guys are here.”

  “I’m glad to be here,” I said. It was the understatement of the century.

  8

  In the morning, I remembered.

  I woke at six a.m., panic crawling through my veins, and I remembered why I’d never left before. Mom and Laurence.

  I lay in bed for a few minutes, my brain cycling through every worst-case scenario. Dad could have seriously injured Laurence. He could have thrown my phone at Mom’s head and hit his target this time. I’d never protected Mom and Laurence any more than they’d protected me, but there was a certain amount of safety in maintaining the status quo. We all worked our hardest to keep Dad at the lowest possible rage levels.

  Until I’d blown everything up.

  I tossed the covers off with a shiver. I’d turned the a/c down too low last night, and the room was dark and chilly. The bed across from me was untouched, even though I’d been told I’d have a roommate.

  The phone and the mini bar had been removed from the room to avoid racking up extra charges, so I’d have to find a phone somewhere else. Maybe I could ask in the lobby.

  I showered and threw on the least wrinkled clothes in my bag—jeans and a gray Wonder Woman T-shirt—and slipped out of my room. We didn’t need to be at the other hotel for the welcome session for two hours, and the lobby was far quieter than it had been last night. A group of men in suits milled around the front desk, and two women stood near the doors, holding paper coffee cups.

  I approached the front desk, and a woman with a name tag that said JAN smiled at me.

  “Do you have a phone I could use?” I asked.

  “Sure thing, hon. There are courtesy phones around that corner.” She pointed to my right, in the direction of the restaurant.

  “Thanks.” I walked around the corner to find three phones on the wall. I picked up one and dialed the only number I knew by heart—Mom’s.

  She answered on the third ring. “Bueno?”

  Mom didn’t answer the phone in Spanish unless she knew it was one of her sisters. Or if Dad was sitting beside her, and she knew there was only one person who would call her from a Georgia number.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hola, Julia. Cómo estuvo tu viaje?”

  “The trip was fine. I’m here.”

  She then said something I didn’t understand, her words too fast.

  “The only word I understood in that sentence was crazy,” I said.

  She made an annoyed sound.

  “Well, whose fault is that? You should have taught me Spanish when I was little, like my cousins.” It was Dad’s fault, since he didn’t want Mom to teach me and Laurence. He probably thought we would talk shit about him right in front of his face. (We would have.)

  “I said that you have lost your mind, and you need to come home immediately, before you get yourself killed.” Mom’s words were hushed now, probably spoken from behind the door in her bedroom.

  “I just called to see if you’re OK,” I said.

  “If I’m OK—mija, I am very much not OK. Have you been watching the news? They say this Grayson man is a fanatic who’s going to get you all killed.”

  “I met him yesterday, he didn’t seem like a fanatic, whatever that means.” Maybe a little too willing to brush off robbery attempts, but otherwise normal. “How is Laurence?”

  “Your brother is gone. He packed his bags and left maybe an hour after you.”

  I didn’t realize how much tension I was holding in my body until I let it out. “Really? He’s OK?”

 
“He’s fine.”

  “Can you give me his number? I don’t have it memorized, and I left my phone there.”

  She let out a sigh but rattled it off for me. I found a pen but no paper, so I wrote it on the inside of my wrist.

  “I know you don’t believe this, but your father is worried sick about you. He would have jumped in his car and stopped you at the bus station if Laurence hadn’t held him back.”

  I felt another surge of affection for Laurence.

  “Maybe you won’t make the cut.” Mom sounded hopeful now. “Are there a lot of people there?”

  “Yes. Mom, I should go. I just wanted to check on you.” I didn’t want to think about what I’d do if I didn’t make it. Apparently they’d hired the buses for a round trip, so we had a free ride back if we didn’t make it. The thought was terrifying.

  “You’re dropping out of high school, then?” Mom asked, undeterred.

  “Seems so.” I blew out a breath. “Don’t be afraid to leave if it gets bad, OK? I know it’s scary, but sometimes it’s worse to stay.”

  She was silent.

  “OK. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call again. Just . . . assume I’m fine if you haven’t heard from me.” That assumption could easily be wrong, but it seemed like the kindest thing to say. “Bye, Mom.”

  She was still silent, and I waited a few seconds before hanging up the phone. I took a couple shaky breaths before picking it up again and dialing Laurence.

  It went to voicemail, which was no surprise. Laurence rarely answered his phone for people he knew, much less a strange number.

  “Hey,” I said after the beep. “It’s me. I just wanted to let you know that I made it to Atlanta. And I wanted to say, um, thanks. For . . . you know, tackling Dad.” I laughed softly. “I don’t have a phone, but I’ll try to email you if I make it. And I’m going to put you as my emergency contact, which means you get my ashes if I die. You can do whatever you want with them. Just don’t take them back to Texas.” A group of people behind me burst out laughing, and I cupped my hand around the phone. “Anyway, that’s it. Thanks again.” I hung up the phone, letting my hand linger on it for a second.

  There wasn’t anything more I could do for Mom. She’d had the opportunity to leave Dad—so many times—and she never took it. She wasn’t stuck, especially now that both her kids were gone. She had family in Mexico and a few friends in Dallas who would be willing to help. We’d both made our choices, and I wasn’t responsible for hers.

  I knew this, but still, the panic lingered. I could bury it deep down, but it was always there, a tiny reminder that part of me was always dreading the day that Dad killed her.

  But I’d lived with a tiny bit of panic my whole life. It wasn’t so bad.

  We’d been instructed to pick up our welcome packets before the session this morning, so I followed the signs that said RECRUITS. Two long tables were set up on either side of the large room, one with the sign LAST NAMES A–M and the other for the rest of the alphabet. I walked to the latter table. A harried woman sat surrounded by boxes, tipping her head back as she drained a huge cup of coffee.

  “Name,” she said, slapping the cup down.

  “Clara Pratt.”

  “P . . . P . . .” She stood, shifting boxes with her foot as she searched for the right letter. “Oh, P! There it is.” She grabbed the box and plunked it on the table. “Sorry. We’re not organized yet.” She dug around and whipped out a blue folder with my name on it. “The schedule is in there, along with all the info you need about the program if you’re selected.”

  I opened it and glanced at the schedule, hoping to find something about a meal. But it wasn’t much of a schedule at all:

  Day One

  9am–10am—Welcome Session

  11am–6pm—Tryouts

  Day Two

  10am–3pm—Tryouts *no lunch break

  Day Three

  8am—Team Announcements—BE READY TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY

  “Are there any meals?” I asked without looking up from my folder.

  “Yeah, you’ll get a lunch break. You can bring something or buy food at the hotel.”

  My heart sank. I snapped the folder closed.

  “They told you meals would be on your own for tryouts, didn’t they?” the woman asked, alarmed. “It should have been in the first email you got.”

  That sounded familiar, now that she mentioned it. I’d skipped over it while reading about bringing snacks for the bus. I hadn’t considered how many days that would be without food.

  “Oh, yeah, they told me,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I was just wondering, since it’s not on the schedule.” I didn’t want her pity, and I could go a few days without food. Humans could survive, like, two or three weeks without food. I could do a couple days.

  She didn’t appear totally convinced, so I turned on my heel and quickly walked out of the room.

  * * *

  I hid in my room until eight thirty. It took about ten minutes to read through the information in the folder (which could be summed up as YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE, AND WHEN YOU DO, IT’S NOT OUR FAULT), and I spent the rest of the time flipping through the television channels, doing my best to pretend that my stomach wasn’t growling. I would have savored that peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich Patrick gave me on the bus if I’d known it was going to be my last meal.

  Patrick was waiting for me outside, like we’d planned. A short boy with dark wavy hair and glasses stood next to him. He held a blue folder, label facing out. It said Noah Cohen.

  Behind them, a digital billboard changed from an ad for a sports drink to a picture of a man in a suit standing in front of the American flag. Words were printed next to his face:

  The Monster Defense Group

  Professional

  Safe

  American

  “Clara!” Patrick waved when he spotted me. “This is Noah, my roommate.”

  Noah extended his hand to me. He had an unremarkable face, the kind that didn’t provoke much of a reaction either way. Thin and a bit pale, he was the sort of boy I’d expect to be at home playing Call of Duty, not joining a scrab hunting squad.

  “Patrick was nice enough to let me go over with you guys since I’m awkward and alone,” Noah said. His smile was big and friendly, and I thought that he was probably never alone for long. I could see why he and Patrick hit it off.

  “Plus, I told him that you’d protect us on the way over,” Patrick said.

  “I heard you tackle thieves in a single bound,” said Noah.

  “Only the really inept ones.”

  “Yeah, he wasn’t the greatest thief, was he?” Patrick said as we started walking.

  “He was great at the actual stealing part, it’s his getaway that could use some work,” I said.

  Noah filled me in on his life as we walked to the other hotel, gesturing wildly when he got excited (eighteen years old, from Asheville, North Carolina, his parents thought it was great that he was joining). He cut off suddenly in the middle of telling us he’d deferred NYU for a year to do this.

  “Whoa,” he said suddenly.

  I followed his gaze. The front of the hotel was swarming with reporters and people holding signs. Protestors? Supporters? It was hard to tell.

  Security guards were keeping the crowds away from the doors and had created a path for us to walk through.

  “Excuse me! Where are you guys from?” a reporter called. Patrick replied, but I kept walking, my eyes catching on the signs.

  TRAITORS, one said.

  “DO NOT WITHHOLD GOOD FROM THOSE TO WHOM IT IS DUE, WHEN IT IS IN YOUR POWER TO ACT”—PROVERBS 3:27, another said.

  THE MONSTERS ARE HERE, said another. I wasn’t sure if that one was supportive or not.

  The biggest group of protestors stood a bit apart from the others, singing a song and swaying to the rhythm. Most of them held signs, the same ones I’d seen on the news several times: THE VISITORS ARE NOT OUR ENEMIES. STOP SCRAB MURDER. PEACE WILL SAVE US.

  They were members of the Worshippers of the New Gods, a cult that thought the scrabs were aliens sent by god to cleanse the earth. They worshipped the scrabs and argued against any type of violence against them.

  A man with a KEEP CALM AND KILL SCRABS sign walked up to the Worshippers, yelling something at them. I turned away and ducked into the hotel.