Children of Exile by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

Did he see the rest of the decree, the part that was torn off?
    I remembered Edwy scratching graffiti into his airplane seat. It could have just been Edwy being Edwy, provoking trouble as usual.
    But what if it’s something important? I asked myself. Something about the part of this decree that’s missing?
    Quickly, before I could change my mind, I darted toward the seat Edwy had sat in. I pulled back the cloth covering and the padding beneath, to find words carved crookedly into the metal frame.
    I made out the first part: HEY, WORLD —
    It figures Edwy would think the whole world should pay attention to him, I thought, allowing myself a wry smile.
    But my smile faded when I deciphered the rest of the message:
    THESE PEOPLE AREN’T REAL EITHER

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Had Edwy meant that our real parents weren’t real? That they weren’t really ours, any more than the Fred-parents had been? How would he know that?
    Or was he talking about somebody else entirely? The mean whiskery-faced man and his friends, maybe?
    I felt a jolt of memory, a reminder of the time when Edwy and I stopped being friends. He’d said awful things about his Fred-parents—how could I trust anything he said about our real ones? Or any adult?
    Edwy probably knew that I would get curious and eventually look at his graffiti. He was probably just messing with me, the way he always did. He probably didn’t know or understand any more than I did about Addendum 468 or Agreement 5062 or any of the weirdness around us.
    I decided I couldn’t let myself think about what Edwy may or may not have meant. But I did tuck the decree into my knapsack, alongside my book and the leftover food I still had.
    We walked past the other rows of seats and down the steps from the airplane: first the woman, then Bobo, then me. We descended into a clump of other parents and kids fleeing the plane—other kids who had hidden, probably; other parents who had maybe waited until the worst of the riot had stomped past before wading into the crowd.
    But all the commotion around us was like something happening in a dream, out of focus. I could barely get my eyes to scan properly to make sure it was safe to take the next step across the cracked tarmac.
    Sometimes when you’re scared, it’s because you’re making up things to be scared of in your own head. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I needed to focus on that principle of Fredtown. I needed to accept that Bobo and I were supposed to be here in our real hometown, with our real parents. I needed to make my brain stop thinking of the woman on the other side of Bobo as “the woman” and think of her as my mother instead.
    The Freds would want you to ask her what she wants to be called, I told myself. Mama? Mommy? Mother?
    How could I say any of those names to this woman?
    My brain rebelled. My mouth did too. I stayed silent.
    Behind me on the runway, I heard a roar—the airplane engine rumbling to life again.
    All people of this neutral third party shall depart withintwenty minutes . . . , I thought. I looked back, catching a glimpse of smirking faces in the windows as the plane sped past. Within seconds it took off. The mean whiskered man and the others like him had followed the rule.
    Good riddance, I told myself. Those men hadn’t been any help anyway. But I really wanted to scream, No, wait! Take Bobo and me with you! Take us back to Fredtown!
    Bobo’s hand crept into mine. I knew he’d done it to comfort himself, but it steadied me, too. Bobo’s hand was so plump and warm and solid, so familiar in this unfamiliar place. As much as he could drive me crazy sometimes, he really was a sweet little boy. Maybe he was trying to comfort me.
    The woman looked at Bobo’s hand in mine.
    â€œYou baby him,” she said, frowning.
    Anger like I’d never felt before surged through me. She didn’t even know Bobo; she didn’t know