Why do I care? There is absolutely no reason to care about Nick. He is just a cute boy who almost ran me over in his beautiful MINI. Sure, he smells good-like comfort and warmth and safety, but he isn't safe. I know that. I know that absolutely. Plus, why would he like me anyway? The girl in my mirror is too pale, too plain, and has a big bandage on her head. I am not exactly supermodel material, or even Megan material.
I start yanking at my hair, trying not to look at myself, trying not to care.
Grandma Betty's hand on my shoulder makes me jump. "Zara?"
Turning around, I lean against the dresser. I'm afraid to meet her eyes.
She lets her fingers drift to my hair. "You need to put some conditioner on it to get these tangles out."
"I know."
Outside a dog barks.
"Damn dogs," she mutters, looking away and then back at me. "That Nick is a nice boy."
I eye her. "He doesn't like me."
"Really? Are you trying to convince yourself or me? Because I found him with his hand pressing a bandage to your head while you were passed out drooling on the couch."
"I was drooling?"
She laughs. "Not too much."
I hide my head in my hands. The air in the room is stale and smells like crusted-up blood and doubt.
Betty pulls my hands away. Her face is smiling. "He likes you, Zara. He took care of you. That's what men do when they take a shine to you."
"He obviously has some rescue-the-damsel-in-distress gene, which is totally inappropriate because I am hardly a damsel in distress," I say, a little too bitterly. Even I can hear it.
"Hardly. You're too busy trying to rescue people you don't know." She points at my pile of Amnesty International papers.
"Like that's a bad thing?"
"It's a good thing, Zara. It's just. Well… we all need a little bit of rescuing from time to time. It doesn't make us weak."
"He doesn'tlike me like me."
"You know, there's nothing wrong with admitting he likes you. There's nothing wrong with feeling good things, Zara. Your dad doesn't want any of us to stop living."
My bedcovers are all tangled up on the mattress. None of them are in the right place. I try to straighten them. My pile of books and Amnesty International human rights reports topple against my foot. The book with my dad's name in it awaits.
"This place is such a mess," I mumble, trying to stack the reports up again. "I'm sorry I'm so messy. I bet my mom wasn't messy when you guys took her in."
"She wasn't messy, but she never put the cap back on the toothpaste."
"She still doesn't!" I shake the human rights report at Betty for emphasis. There are so many numbers in those reports, and each number represents someone's pain, someone's story. My stomach crumples and I put the book gently on the pile. Then I pick up the book from the library. "Dad took this book out. His name is in the back."
She takes the book and stares at it. After what seems like forever, she says in a quiet voice, "Do not fear. Here there be tygers."
"Do you think he wrote that?" I touch her arm. She suddenly seems frail.
"Looks like his handwriting."
"What do you think it means?"
"It was a Ray Bradbury story." I must give her a look because she adds, "He was a science fiction writer. One of the best."
"Oh, I'm not really up on my science fiction."
"Hmm." Betty becomes serious, shuts the book, and hands it back to me. I hold it against my chest for a second, even though it sounds super corny. The book feels kind of special. Like it's a message left from my dad to me.
Betty eyes me. "You went outside, alone, last night."
I place the book on top of the pile of human rights' reports. "I know, I-" "Zara?" Betty's voice turns into a warning. I haven't responded as quickly as I should have.
"I'm sorry," I rush out. "I told Nick and Issie what I was doing. Well, I left them text messages so they couldn't talk me out of it. And I… I just wanted some answers."
"And you thought you'd go looking for answers in the dark?" She picks up a pillow.
I haul in a massive breath. "Look. I was trying to find someone."
"Someone?"
'"That man on the side of the road. We saw him when you brought me home from the airport." I keep smoothing the already pretty smooth sheets. They feel cool against my hands, soft and stable.
Betty sucks in her breath. "Zara, that is not a good idea."
I straighten up. "Why?"
She stops fluffing a pillow. It dangles. "He's dangerous."
"How? How do you know he's dangerous? How is he dangerous?"
She takes a step away from me, backing into the bed. She starts making it all over again, tucking the sheet corners tightly into the mattress. "I think he's the one who kidnapped the Beardsley boy."
"I think so too. So why don't we arrest him?"
"You have to be able to catch someone to arrest them." She fidgets more with my pillow, jerking it around with quick, aggressive movements. The sun shines onto her gray hair and makes it glisten like snow. "And he seems to leave no trace, no tracks, just appears and disappears. I'm surprised we even saw him that evening. I'd like to see him again."
"Why?"
"To catch him," she snarls, and for a moment it's like my grandmother is gone. It's like she's someone different, primal, and then she snaps back. "Anyone who can kidnap boys."
"But you aren't positive it's him."
"No. I'm not positive."