my freedom.
Today, I am not going to pray.
The reporters wait for Mrs. Silverman to pull into the school parking lot, and then they rush me. Screamed questions, loud lightning flashes of cameras. Mrs. Silverman nearly gets out of the car, Coach handbag clutched as if she’s ready to use it to beat them, but a police officer persuades her to get back in the car. The officers escort me through the stifling ring of lenses, microphones, and shouts. I cover my face with my hair until we leave them behind at the school fence. Merril laces her arm through mine.
“When will they learn to give up?”
“They’ll do anything for a story.” I shrug. “It’s a hard life—scraping up rumors and stalking tragedies.”
Vultures,
James had said. “They’re like vultures.”
Merril shudders. “Vultures are gross.”
I’m in an even shadier business, Merril. I’m an even more grotesque vulture.
“Oh my God.” Merril giggles and buries her face in my arm. “Kerwin’s coming over.”
The dark-haired boy she’d pointed out yesterday is walking toward us. The small visual cues tell me who he is before he can tell me himself—too many buttons undone from the top of his shirt, showing off the beginnings of his pecs. One button is confident. More than three is stupidly overconfident. He wears silver jewelry—a cross around his neck and silver rings. Vain, and comes from a religious family. He’s from Wales. Probably Roman Catholic. He keeps his hands unclenched, arms relaxed at his sides. He’s open and eager. Doesn’t expect anyone to hurt him.
“Hey, Merril.” He smiles. His accent is crisp and lilting, and he rolls his
r
’s. Merril practically squirms.
“Kerwin! What’s up?”
“Came to say hi. Who’s the friend?”
“Erica.” I smile at him. “But you already knew that.”
“Not really.” He keeps his smile on too.
“Huh. I’ve only been all over the news.”
“My host family doesn’t watch much telly.” He blinks and looks to the left. He’s lying.
“Telly!” Merril squeaks the word and covers her mouth. “Sorry, it’s a funny word. Good funny, not bad funny.”
She laughs and I nervously laugh with her. Her crush is about as subtle as the reporters screaming my name a few yards away. Something’s off about this guy. I’ll play nice and try to get him to let his guard down so I can see what’s behind his façade.
I extend my hand to him. “Nice to meet you, Kerwin.”
He and Merril look at my hand like it’s an alien’s. Do teenagers shake hands? My heart lurches. I’d messed up—greeted him like one of Sal’s contacts instead of a teenage boy. I put it down with a sheepish smile. Quick, come up with something. Small excuse. He’s from overseas. Make something up.
“Sorry. I figured you Welsh are more proper than us Americans.”
“Proper’s too stuffy.” He chuckles. “Just call me Ker. Everyone does.”
“Ker!” Merril jumps in. “You can call me Mer if you want. Our names sort of rhyme.”
“So I guess I’ll call Erica, Er, then?” He shoots a smirk at me. “What’s up with the reporters following you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He’s not very good at acting. He already knows why—his easy posture and the tone of his voice are
too
relaxed. He’s playing dumb for some reason.
“Back when Erica was little—” Merril looks to me. “I mean, it’s your story to tell.”
“I was kidnapped.” I tilt my chin up. “I’m back now. The news is going a little batshit over it.”
“Kidnapped?” He looks me over. “You look fine to me.”
“I
am
fine,” I insist.
“Right. Of course you are.” He chuckles. Merril laughs with him.
“Is something funny?” I quirk an eyebrow.
Kerwin’s smile fades. “No. Sorry. I’m being a right asshole, aren’t I? Look, it was nice meeting you. Just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Yeah!” Merril chimes. When he’s gone, she clutches at my arm. “Did I
Today, I am not going to pray.
The reporters wait for Mrs. Silverman to pull into the school parking lot, and then they rush me. Screamed questions, loud lightning flashes of cameras. Mrs. Silverman nearly gets out of the car, Coach handbag clutched as if she’s ready to use it to beat them, but a police officer persuades her to get back in the car. The officers escort me through the stifling ring of lenses, microphones, and shouts. I cover my face with my hair until we leave them behind at the school fence. Merril laces her arm through mine.
“When will they learn to give up?”
“They’ll do anything for a story.” I shrug. “It’s a hard life—scraping up rumors and stalking tragedies.”
Vultures,
James had said. “They’re like vultures.”
Merril shudders. “Vultures are gross.”
I’m in an even shadier business, Merril. I’m an even more grotesque vulture.
“Oh my God.” Merril giggles and buries her face in my arm. “Kerwin’s coming over.”
The dark-haired boy she’d pointed out yesterday is walking toward us. The small visual cues tell me who he is before he can tell me himself—too many buttons undone from the top of his shirt, showing off the beginnings of his pecs. One button is confident. More than three is stupidly overconfident. He wears silver jewelry—a cross around his neck and silver rings. Vain, and comes from a religious family. He’s from Wales. Probably Roman Catholic. He keeps his hands unclenched, arms relaxed at his sides. He’s open and eager. Doesn’t expect anyone to hurt him.
“Hey, Merril.” He smiles. His accent is crisp and lilting, and he rolls his
r
’s. Merril practically squirms.
“Kerwin! What’s up?”
“Came to say hi. Who’s the friend?”
“Erica.” I smile at him. “But you already knew that.”
“Not really.” He keeps his smile on too.
“Huh. I’ve only been all over the news.”
“My host family doesn’t watch much telly.” He blinks and looks to the left. He’s lying.
“Telly!” Merril squeaks the word and covers her mouth. “Sorry, it’s a funny word. Good funny, not bad funny.”
She laughs and I nervously laugh with her. Her crush is about as subtle as the reporters screaming my name a few yards away. Something’s off about this guy. I’ll play nice and try to get him to let his guard down so I can see what’s behind his façade.
I extend my hand to him. “Nice to meet you, Kerwin.”
He and Merril look at my hand like it’s an alien’s. Do teenagers shake hands? My heart lurches. I’d messed up—greeted him like one of Sal’s contacts instead of a teenage boy. I put it down with a sheepish smile. Quick, come up with something. Small excuse. He’s from overseas. Make something up.
“Sorry. I figured you Welsh are more proper than us Americans.”
“Proper’s too stuffy.” He chuckles. “Just call me Ker. Everyone does.”
“Ker!” Merril jumps in. “You can call me Mer if you want. Our names sort of rhyme.”
“So I guess I’ll call Erica, Er, then?” He shoots a smirk at me. “What’s up with the reporters following you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He’s not very good at acting. He already knows why—his easy posture and the tone of his voice are
too
relaxed. He’s playing dumb for some reason.
“Back when Erica was little—” Merril looks to me. “I mean, it’s your story to tell.”
“I was kidnapped.” I tilt my chin up. “I’m back now. The news is going a little batshit over it.”
“Kidnapped?” He looks me over. “You look fine to me.”
“I
am
fine,” I insist.
“Right. Of course you are.” He chuckles. Merril laughs with him.
“Is something funny?” I quirk an eyebrow.
Kerwin’s smile fades. “No. Sorry. I’m being a right asshole, aren’t I? Look, it was nice meeting you. Just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Yeah!” Merril chimes. When he’s gone, she clutches at my arm. “Did I
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