“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said softly. Yeah. I was meeting my older brother for the first time ever, and that was the first thing I said to him: You’re not supposed to be here.
Lucas laughed bitterly.
“Yeah, well. There are lots of things I’m not supposed to be, and here is pretty much the least of our problems.” He ran is hand through his hair.
“Our problems?” I asked, raising my eyebrows, and trying to ignore how his accent sounded. “I’m pretty sure the only things we share are our genes. And I’m not even sure about that! You haven’t told me who you are yet.”
Lucas looked at me funny then.
“Don’t you know?” He asked me.
I didn’t answer. The thing was that… yeah, I did know. I knew deep down in my gut even if he didn’t tell me. This was my brother, Lucas Jones.
“You’re Lucas Jones, aren’t you? The boy who disappeared from London.”
He nodded. “Go on,”
“You’re also some how related to me, and therefore to my father, and possibly a woman named Rachel.”
He nodded again, but slower. “Don’t you know?” he asked me incredulously. His blue eyes flashed. “Rachel is our mother. I’m your brother, Stephen is our father.” He studied me. “He really didn’t tell you.” I don’t think I was supposed to hear that.
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound passive, like this wasn’t huge news. But it was. I had a brother and mother. My brother was sitting here, looking at me with those huge blue eyes, talking to me with his low-ish voice and his British accent, wearing pants that were too nice for a school day, and a shirt that looked like it might actually have real buttons on it. Yeah, it was pretty huge news.
“And you have no idea about Mum…” he said quietly.
I could feel my face draining of color. I didn’t know anything about Mom. I’d guessed about her hair and her eyes, but only guesses. I knew her name was Rachel now, and that something had made Dad leave London take me with him to America. But that was it.
I shook my head slowly. What was wrong with her? Was she a full class criminal? Did she die? What was going on? Why wouldn’t anyone tell me?
Lucas bit his lip, looking around like someone might hear him. He looked back at me and in spite of himself, smiled.
“Lucy Jones,” he said again, as if he couldn’t really believe it.
“What?!” I asked, irate and angry. “Can you please just tell me what’s going on?! They have police looking for you all over the place, Dad took off last night for London, and all you can say is my name.” I hadn’t really meant to snap, but it just seemed like a lot to take in at the time.
I had no idea what was coming next.
Lucas winced as if I’d hit him in the stomach with a bowling ball.
“Look, I’ll explain everything, just come with me,” he said, taking my book from my hands and putting it back on the shelf.
“Come with you? I have to go to school!” I said, taking my book back off the shelf. Now he’d lost my page, and that’s definitely not a way to get me on your good side. “And besides! I’ve never met you before, you don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about you. For all I know you’re some weird murderer come to murder me. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
I fingered the empty locket that I was wearing. I was always wearing it, out of habit I guess. Like I said, it didn’t have anything in it. Lucas looked at me like I’d thrown a spear down his throat and made him swallow it. He looked like he was trying not to cry.
“Your full name is Lucy Reighn Jones, because when you were born you would only sleep when Mum or Dad played the tape with the rain on it. Your favorite color is purple but the deep eggplant shade, not the girly pretty purple that every one else likes. You always wear that locket around your neck, but it’s empty so you don’t know why. You never knot your shoelaces because you’re afraid that they won’t come undone. You’re favorite movie is The Matrix, but your favorite TV show is Doctor Who on the BBC. Your favorite author is Margaret Peterson Haddix, and you favorite breakfast is eggs and bacon.”
I didn’t know what to say. I sat there and listened to his list of my favorite things, stunned. I couldn’t believe that this whole time I’d thought he didn’t know me, but somehow from across the world, he’d kept an eye on me, he knew all about me. And I knew nothing about me. It almost made me want to cry.
“And this…” he pulled something small out of his pocket. “Is how you know that it’s me.”
I looked at what was sitting in his hand, as he held it out to me. It was a small box, wrapped in purple-blue paper and tied with a write ribbon.
“Happy birthday,” he told me quietly.
“Why?!” Missy and I asked at the same time.
Dad turned to me, grabbed my elbow, and towed me to the couch. He sat me down, and let out a torrent of words that were hard to understand.
I don’t mean words like cranioectonomy or tergiversation or colloquialism, I mean words like ‘brother’ and ‘mother’ and ‘trouble’.
“This boy, Lucas. He’s your older brother, Lucy. Rachel, that woman I was talking to on the phone earlier, she’s your mother. The two of them live in London. Or they did, but Lucas is gone. You might not get this yet, but Lucas is… different. And I’ve got to go find him. I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am. I should have told you more a really long time ago, but it never seemed to matter at the time, and I’ve got to leave now, and…” he trailed off.
I didn’t stay after that, I stood up, turned on my heel, and walked away. Well more like ran. Did I mention that I can be really fast when I want to be?
Chapter Two: I Fail a Class in Family History
Dad was gone by the time I went back upstairs. I don’t remember saying anything to Missy during dinner.
Missy had decided that she would stay with me until Dad got back, but when would that be? Neither of us were sure.
With so much going on, I almost forgot to wonder what had happened to Lucas. Not that I really cared. If he had been kidnapped, well, they either got him back or they didn’t.
I wasn’t really in the position to hope they ever found him. One less long lost relative to worry about. I think that was when I started thinking in really short sentences.
I didn’t have the energy or the will to muster the long ones. There was just no reason to put it into mental words. I knew what I was thinking, and that was all that really mattered.
I don’t think I ever really fell asleep that night. Thirteen years of resentment had flooded my mind in less than an hour.
I hadn’t seen my mother since I was a few weeks old. She missed her son for a few hours and she sent police in two different continents looking for him? Didn’t she care about me at all?
And then there was Dad. He let me go out alone all the time. Chicago was like my personal playground. I always had my cell with me of course, and some extra change, but would he have gotten on a plane to come and look for me had I gotten lost in London?
Of course he would. That’s what I told myself. Every cell in my body told me it was true. Except for I knew that it never would have come to that. He wouldn’t have ever let me go to London by myself in the first place.
The next morning I got up earlier than I normally do on Christmas. I lay in bed and stared at the clock, willing the five to turn into a seven. Finally I stood up and went into the bathroom.
Mechanically, I brushed my teeth, and stared at my hair for a good ten minutes, noting the purple streak looked perfectly intact.
Miserable or not, my hair was cool.
I pulled a brush slowly through it, and warmed up my straightening iron. While it charged up, I went into my closet and bulled out a dark pair of jeans and another purple shirt that would match my hair and go well with my black converse.
I wiped on some makeup, being careful not to smear. Finally I was ready. Ready to face whatever the day held for me. I didn’t know why it seemed like today would be different, apart from now I knew the names of my other two family members and my father had gone to find my missing brother, who could apparently be any where in the world.
I mean, here’s my reasoning. Lucas was fifteen. If his mother… our mother had enough money to have police in two different continents looking for her son, they must have had enough dough to do just about anything. And I hadn’t gotten any of it.
So, when I went downstairs and threw myself on the couch, I didn’t expect the chair beside me to move. Well, the chair itself didn’t move, but the person in it did. I don’t know who I was expecting, but I’d sort of forgotten that Missy had spent the night.
I guess I just had a lot on the mind.
I must have jumped several feet in the air, because Missy said ‘Gosh, Lucy, didn’t mean to scare you. Couldn’t sleep?’
I shook my head.
“Me either,” She sighed, and reached for the remote, handing it to me. I switched the tv on, and scrolled through the channels. It was too early for anything good to be on, so I settled for the news. Maybe there would be something about Lucas, I smiled to myself, but not because I thought it was funny.
After about ten minutes of watching reruns of yesterday’s news, I stood up and went back upstairs.
With nothing better to do, I checked over my homework for each subject. It had all been easy, nothing hard at all. I sighed and stuffed it all in my purple backpack. I sharpened my pencils over and over again, trying to give myself something to do.
When I had finally convinced myself that there was nothing else that I could do to get myself ready for school, I looked back at the clock. Only six.
I tramped back downstairs, lugging my heavy backpack with me. It wasn’t even almost time to leave, but I was rarely up this early, and without Dad here, it was like there was just too much space.
That’s what it was that morning, the excess of space. It pounded in my ears, flowed in my blood, and rammed into my brain. I tried not thinking about it, but it didn’t work.
My mind kept traveling slowly back to the empty space.
Finally it was six thirty, and I started on some breakfast. I made two omelets, one for me and one for Missy. We ate in silence again; there really wasn’t anything for me to say.
After breakfast I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I’m gonna go to school,” I told Missy shortly. No preamble.
“School doesn’t start for a while, though,” Missy said, trying to sound confused. I knew she wasn’t though. She must have hated the empty space as much as I did. Everything seemed tinted with gray.
“I know… I’m going to stop at the library though, I think they’re open this early,” I told her.
Actually, I knew they were open this early, but I didn’t want to seem too eager to get out. But I was eager to get out. Being alone in the house with Missy was just all wrong: it didn’t seem like home without Dad.
When I got to the library I walked straight back to the science fiction section. I spent a lot of time here; I really liked to read.
I went to the Had section, looking for my favorite author, Margaret Peterson Haddix. She wrote all sorts of science fiction books about different things: Time travel, clones, futuristic societies. I liked it. It was different.
I grabbed a book of hers that I hadn’t read yet, Running Out of Time. It seemed like a cool book, and the title seemed fitting somehow.
Time was running out to find Lucas, wasn’t it? Is that why Dad had left so suddenly? I pushed that thought out of my mind and began the book.
I didn’t notice when he came up behind me.
“Lucy Jones.” He said it slowly, like he were testing the words on his tongue.
I put my book down and turned around, searching for the owner of the voice that had called my name. When I found it, my jaw dropped to the floor.
Lucas looked even more like me in person than he had in the paper. He was a little taller, and of course you could tell he was a boy, but his hair took on the same yellow-blonde, like a sun rising in the morning. His eyes were the same shade of electric blue: the blue that shocked you every time you looked into them.
I was sure shocked now.
By writing out this story, I have ensured that my life is in great danger. But whatever. You didn’t pick up this book to hear me whining about death. You picked up this book because that little voice inside your head is telling you that you have to know.
Nothing is safe anymore. Don’t believe anything that anyone tells you: Nothing is safe. There’s no way around it.
Unless you can stop it. There are certain people, people like Lucas, who might have a chance if they band together. The only way I can be of any help is to find the rest of you and get you to him, keep you alive. That’s why I’m writing out this story. Because you have to know the truth.
Chapter One: I Dye my Hair to Match my Outfit
I sat back in my chair and thought about what the lady had said.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I had laughed and nodded. I wondered if she had kids. Didn’t she know how cool it would be to have purple hair?
A few more hours and I would be a teenager. That’s definitely old enough to have colored hair. I mean, it’s not like it won’t come out. It will… eventually. And if anything, all I have to do is come back in and bleach it back to boring old blonde. And it wasn’t like I was dying my whole head purple, just one strand by my ear.
I closed my eyes and let the lady shampoo and dry my hair. No one had ever done this to me before. I know you must be thinking ‘gosh, who cleaned your hair for the first five years of your life?’. And the answer is, I’m not really sure. I can’t remember that far back.
See the thing is, I never had a mom. Well, I did, every one does, but I never really had a mom mom. You know, one that helps you ride a bike, tucks you in at night, cleans your hair. I just didn’t.
Dad never really told me much about her, just that she lives in London with my brother. I don’t know anything about him, except that he doesn’t go to school. Well he does, but not like I do. He’s home schooled. Lucky him, right?
I don’t really mind not having a mom. I mean, I don’t even know her name. I don’t know what color her hair is, but I’m guessing it’s blonde, because that’s what color my hair is, and Dad’s hair is dark brown. I don’t know my brother’s name either, and I just don’t care.
Most kids would probably throw a fit about something like that, but I just accepted it as it was, and moved on. I don’t know anything about my first few months of life, I just take it for granted that I live in Chicago with my father, and that my mother and older brother live in London. That’s that, no questions asked.
That was my first mistake.
But anyway, there I was, sitting in the chair, letting my hair turn colors. I’d already told Dad about my plan. He’d just shrugged and handed me my birthday money. Dad wasn’t one to care about things like hair. I’m sure if I’d wanted to dye my whole head bright cotton candy blue he’d have had no problem with it. A little streak of purple was no problem.
I’d even dressed up for the occasion. I was wearing a dark purple shirt that was the exact color of the hair dye. My dark jeans went right along with the color scheme. I fingered the silver locket that hung around my neck and crossed my converse-clad ankles.
The hair-dresser’s hands in my hair felt so good it almost put me to sleep. No. I told myself sternly. You have to stay awake so that you can walk home and make dinner.
That kept me awake. I was planning on making something really good for dinner. Dad’s girlfriend Missy was coming. I liked Missy, she was way cooler than the last one.
Missy had hair that was a dark red, and it fell in waves down to her upper back. I don’t think it was ever really serious between Missy and Dad, they had more of a best-friend-ship than a real relationship. Missy didn’t have any real family any more, and I think she was really just lonely.
She really appreciated good food. Missy was almost as excited as I was to eat the French soup tonight.
So I forced my eyes to stop drooping, and I picked up the newspaper. Don’t get me wrong, I would have much rather read The Teen Weekly, but that was sitting out of arm’s reach on the next table over.
So there was, reading the paper, when I caught a name that I recognized. At first I thought it was my name and picture in the news. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was not the case.
Police are baffled with the case of a missing fifteen year old boy named Lucas Jones.
See why I thought it was me? Lucas Jones, Lucy Jones. Not much of a difference. And the picture was even more surprising. It was like I was looking at what I would have been like if I had been a boy. Lucas Jones had my blue eyes and my blonde hair.
I read through the rest of the article. The boy had been gone for three days. He’d been in his room, in a two story house. There was no way he could have gotten out of the window without falling twenty feet, and his bedroom door was locked.
When the hair dresser tapped me on the shoulder and told me she was done, I had all but forgotten about my purple hair. I looked in the mirror and smiled and myself. I thanked the woman and handed her a small tip.
I paid for the job and walked away, slipping the article in my back pocket. I winced to myself, wondering how I would bring up the subject to my father.
“Hey Dad, I know we don’t really talk about what happened between you and my mom, but is this my brother that just went missing three days ago?”
Not so much.
I twisted a lock of my very blonde hair around my finger and thought. Instead of walking right home I stopped at a public bench and finished reading the article. Then I read it again.
A boy in London. Lucas Jones. Fifteen years old. I didn’t know my brother’s name, let alone his age. But he lived in London, and he had family here in Chicago. And he looked like me. He really really looked like me.
I folded the article carefully and walked the rest of the way home as slowly as possible. All of a sudden dinner with Dad and Missy sounded really slow.
What would we talk about? What could we say now? I wouldn’t be able to think about anything until Dad had told me that Lucas wasn’t my brother.
I mean, that little inner voice was telling me, come on, this is crazy. Do coincidences like this actually happen? But the bigger voice in my brain was telling me to get real. I mean, London? Why would there be an American article about a boy in London?
Because his only family was here in Chicago. I told myself. That’s why. Then I told myself to shut up.
When I got home I ran upstairs without even telling my father that I was home. I plugged in my cell phone and put the rest of my birthday money in my Doctor Who TARDIS money bank.
I looked at myself in the mirror, marveling at the purple stripe that showed just below my ear, falling lushly on my chest. I smiled. At least if I had to confront my dad, I could look totally awesome doing it.
I sighed. Time to make dinner.
I went down the stairs slowly; taking my time. What had seemed like it was going to be so much fun suddenly seemed like a punishment.
“Hey, Dad,” I said as I trudged into the kitchen.
“Hey Reighny-Lu,” he said, using my old nickname. He had given it to me at age three, when I had asked him how to spell my middle name. He’d promptly made up a song:
R-e-i-g-h and an n
That is the way we spell
Lucy Reighn
Reighny-Lu had come soon after. I smiled at the memory despite myself as I pulled down the potatoes and leeks.
Dad looked up from his computer at me.
“Let me see your hair!” He said, obviously trying to sound excited. He knew this was something that I was excited about, so he’d been trying hard to be supportive.
I set down the potatoes and the peeler and twirled around for him, letting the centrifugal force pull my hair away from my back… and my article away from my pocket.
“You dropped…this…” Dad said, picking up the article and looking at it for the first time.
His face drained color.
“Where did you get this?” He asked me abruptly.
“The salon,” I said shortly. “Who is he?” I asked, cutting right to the chase.
Dad didn’t answer. Instead he walked quickly into the other room. I followed him. By the time he reached the living room he was almost running. He grabbed the home phone and punched in what looked like a foreign number.
I stood behind him, wondering who he was calling. Wondering if it would be, just possibly, the woman who had avoided me for the past thirteen years.
“Rachel. Where’s Lucas?” Dad turned as he talked, dashing up the stairs. That man can be fast when he wants to be. He was in his room with the door closed before I could make out any of the other words he said.
Rachel? Was that my mom’s name? Why had he talked to her like that? Like she was so young?
Maybe because she is so young. I told myself. He could have been talking to anyone. That might have been anyone on the phone.
That’s the only thing that kept me sane for the next few hours. I made the soup. Actually, I made the soup and a salad and dessert. I cooked enough food to feed my whole school. For a week.
Missy didn’t ask any questions. As soon as she walked in the door she knew something was wrong. Normally Dad would be in the kitchen with me, cooking and laughing and singing and dancing. Not today.
Today I told her he was making a call. He was in his room. He’d been on the phone for the past hour. Make yourself at home.
Nothing else was said. Missy sat on the couch watching her favorite tv show, and I stayed in the kitchen, making everything I knew how to make.
Finally, Dad came downstairs.
He had a suitcase.
“I’ve got to go to London,” he said finally. That was it. Just, ‘I’m going to London.’
