“I’m sorry about that,” says Dizzy. “I kind of figured they were good kids, but you can never be too careful.”
“Speaking of being careful,” says Ryan, “we left our van nearby. What if the scouts see it and figure out where we are?”
Dizzy shakes his head. “Wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“In this neighborhood? I can pretty much guarantee the off-gridders and gangs are already dismantling it piece by piece.”
Ryan looks a little sad about that. He liked having wheels, I guess.
Now Dizzy is looking at us more closely. We must look pretty bedraggled because he says, “Do you guys want to take showers?”
At this, everyone’s faces brighten. I was able to shower at the Phoenix School, but now I just want to scrub every memory of that place off me. And I’m sure the others haven’t had a chance to shower in ages.
“Oh, please tell me this isn’t just some cruel joke,” says Louisa, with longing in her voice.
“Nope,” Dizzy says. “The water’s even hot. There’s also a small supply of soap and shampoo. And I’ve got clean towels. Well, clean enough, anyway.”
“Clean enough is more than clean enough for me,” says Alonso, running his hands through his wavy dark hair.
So Dizzy tells us the way to the locker rooms, and my friends take off at a run. I linger for a moment, wanting to ask Dizzy what else he might know about my mom, but then Louisa tugs my arm, and I follow her.
T
he girls take the home team locker room; the boys take the visitors’.
The shower is heaven. The water pressure is pretty bad, and Dizzy’s use of the word
hot
turns out to be relative. But
warm
still feels pretty darn good. I use small amounts of soap and shampoo, and relish the feeling of massaging my scalp and scrubbing my skin.
I step out into the locker room, wrapped in a towel. My friends are already dressed and I can’t help myself— I crack up.
“What?” asks Rosie in a mock-insulted tone. “You disapprove of our wardrobe choices?” She struts from one
end of the locker room to the other, like the supermodels that walked the catwalks when people still indulged in what they called “high fashion.”
“Oh, I think you all look stunning!” I tell them.
“Good,” says Louisa. “Because we’ve got a matching outfit for you.”
The outfit, of course, is really an old Chicago Cubs uniform, and since they were made for grown men to wear, they are absolutely huge on us.
“The stripes are so flattering on you!” croons Evelyn, as I button up the front of the gigantic jersey they’ve found for me. “Honestly, darling, and that big number on the back is just so chic.”
“And don’t forget the hat!” says Louisa, plopping a blue cloth cap with a red “C” logo onto my damp hair. “Accessories are so important this season.”
“And by that she means
baseball
season,” giggles Rosie.
Thankfully, the enormous pants come with belts, so we manage to get them to stay up. We also dig up some
clean pairs of socks and lace up our battered sneakers. Then I reach into the pocket of my old pants and take out the honeycomb, slipping it into my new pocket.
Once we’re dressed, we stand in front of the locker room mirror, ignoring the huge lightning bolt–shaped crack that runs through it. At first, we can’t stop giggling, but after a few minutes, we all grow serious. It’s been a while since we’ve been able to linger in front of a mirror, even a broken one.
I wonder if my friends are thinking the same thing I am.
I look so different
.
But not just different like you look when you get a new haircut, or when you’ve grown a quarter inch. No.
My eyes have changed in a way that’s hard to describe. There’s more knowledge behind them. A deeper understanding of things.
And there’s some fear in there, too. I won’t deny it.
But there’s also a distinct glimmer of hope.
“Look at us,” whispers Louisa, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “We look like …”
“Idiots?” jokes Evelyn, tugging on the baggy sleeve of her bright blue jersey.
“Well, yes,” Louisa agrees, smiling. “But also …”
“A team,” I finish for her.
“We are a team,” Evelyn says thoughtfully. “Even though we sure didn’t start out that way.”
“I know,” Rosie says in a soft voice that almost doesn’t sound like her. “Look … I’m sorry for how I may have … come off at first. At CMS.”
“Same here,” Louisa says, biting her lip and fiddling with her too-long sleeves. She’s looking right at me as she says, “It was hard to adjust.”
“We were all strangers to each other,” Evelyn points out, tying her dark braids back into a ponytail. “Except for Louisa and Maddie, of course.”
“But I was more than a stranger,” I hear myself saying. “I was a full-on outsider. I mean, I wasn’t even using my real name.” I swallow hard, not wanting to say this next part, but knowing it needs to be said. Sensing my
apprehension, Evelyn reaches over and squeezes my hand for encouragement.
“I was jealous,” I confess, looking at each of them. “I was jealous that you all came from wealthy families, with powerful, important parents.”
“Well, as it happens, your parents are probably the most important of them all,” Rosie points out.
I take this in for a moment, not sure I even believe it yet. And where does my dad fit into the Resistance? “But I didn’t know that then,” I finally reply. “And the thing I was most worried about was that I was … I was going to lose my best friend.”
I turn to Louisa, and I’m not at all ashamed that there are tears in my eyes. “The other girls at CMS were more like you than I was — they had the same kind of upbringing, and they were going to grow up and have the same experiences as you. I was just … scared you were going to get bored of having such an ordinary friend like me.” It feels good to get this truth out there.
Louisa doesn’t hesitate. She throws her arms around
me and hugs me as hard as she can. “I’m sorry if I was acting like that,” she says in a trembling voice. “I never meant to.” I hug her back, hard.
“And believe me, Maddie,” says Rosie once Louisa and I have pulled apart, “There is nothing ordinary about you.”
I smile at her, feeling a lump in my throat.
“We were all outsiders when you think about it,” says Evelyn.
“I realize that now,” I say. “And the reason we’ve gotten this far is because of all the things we
didn’t
have in common. Like, maybe we each have a quality that helps us through any crazy situation we might encounter.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” sighs Rosie. “Wait until you hear what went down while you were at the Phoenix School.”
Louisa, in her matter-of-fact way, proceeds to tell me everything from how she tended Drew’s wound to their dangerous trek through the Settlement Lands. Then Evelyn relays how she found out where I was by hacking into a computer, and the intensive one-day training session led by the elusive Helen.
I’m about to ask Evelyn about Alonso — just to see if she might blush — but then we all hear a voice from the locker room entrance. It’s Ryan.
And he’s shouting, “Dinner!”
We follow Ryan to what used to be one of Wrigley’s many concession stands.
“I’m starved,” says Louisa, speaking for all of us. “What’s on the menu?”
Ryan is beaming. “This is a ballpark! There are peanuts by the ton. And ballpark franks! Which, of course, are just regular soydogs. But somehow, they taste better when you eat them at a stadium.”
Soydogs sound fine to me. Better than fine.
Dizzy, our host, is manning the concession stand. I feel wildly grateful to him as he passes each of us plump, steaming soydogs piled high with artificially flavored relish and sauerkraut. We sit down on some bleachers and we all dig in. My dog is warm and delicious, and tastes somehow … like tradition.
The others seem to be enjoying theirs just as much.
Even Jonah is grinning as he alternates between bites of his soydog and munches on a handful of peanuts.
As Dizzy goes off to get us waters, I take a deep breath and face my friends. Now that we’ve had a chance to catch our breaths, it’s time for us to tackle what’s been weighing on me ever since we left Phoenix.
I withdraw the honeycomb box from my pocket.
“What is
that?”
Alonso asks, swallowing a mouthful of soydog as his eyes light up with curiosity.
I quickly explain to him and Drew about Ivan instructing me to give the box to my mother. “If only I knew where she was,” I finish.
“But Ivan didn’t say,” Evelyn begins, her expression thoughtful, “that we shouldn’t
open
the box, right?”
I look at Evelyn, feeling a flutter of excitement.
“So maybe there’s something inside,” Jonah suggests quietly, “that will give us a clue as to where Maddie’s mother is.”
His voice seems tentative. Not because he doesn’t think his suggestion is worthwhile (because it is) but
because I think he’s still feeling like an outsider. Obviously, I’m not the only one who notices.
I watch as Ryan pointedly offers Jonah a high five. “Excellent idea, dude,” he says, grinning. “Good thing you came with us.”
Jonah returns the hand smack, but remains somber. I want to give Ryan a hug for being so welcoming, but we’ve got to focus on the task at hand.
“So … I guess we should open it?” I say.
Rosie nods decisively. “We should.”
By now, everyone has finished their soydogs and peanuts and has gathered closer to watch.
My heart pounding, I give the box a gentle twist, but nothing happens. Of course. That would be too easy.
“There’s no lock on it, is there?” Ryan asks, leaning close to look in. “Or a keyhole?”
I shake my head, feeling frustrated. “I don’t think so.” For a moment I wonder if we could use Dizzy’s bat to smash the box open, but I reject that idea immediately; doing that could destroy whatever’s inside.
Slowly, I run my fingers over the rippled surface. The honeycomb pattern is a series of small, cuplike indentations, just large enough to fit the tip of my finger into.
“If there’s no lock,” I mutter, “then there’s got to be another way to open it. Like maybe … a combination.”
“Yes,” says Louisa, sitting up straight. “A code! Didn’t you say your mom was always into codes? That’s where you get it from.”
I nod, trying to concentrate. My locker at my old school had one of those keypads where you punch in a series of numbers, and for the first three weeks of eighth grade, I kept forgetting the combination they assigned to me. Then my mom spoke to the principal, and they allowed me to make up my own code, so it would be easier to remember. I felt silly, because none of the other kids needed to do that. But my mom explained that some people’s minds were just better with words and letters than with numbers. When we switched the combination to a word of my choosing, I never forgot it again.
I’m staring at the box as though waiting for it to shout out the code for me, and I absently begin to count the holes that make up the honeycomb pattern.
“Twenty-six,” I say aloud. “Twenty-six little indentations.” I glance up at my friends’ anxious faces.
“The alphabet!” Rosie gasps.
“That’s it!” says Evelyn, sounding energized. “Each hole corresponds to a letter of the alphabet. Like a keyboard.”
Alonso nods. “All we need to do is figure out the code, punch it into the honeycomb, and the box will open.”
“But the code could be
anything
,” I say, running my index finger along the ruffled ridge of the honeycomb. “Any series of letters, or even a word. But which one?”
We all rack our brains for a moment.
“Try ‘Hornet,’ “ Drew suggests.
It’s worth a shot. But first we have to decide whether the honeycomb alphabet would be set up like a standard “qwerty” keyboard or just plain alphabetically.
“My money’s on the alphabet,” says Louisa.
I’m inclined to agree with her, or at least, I hope she’s right, because frankly, having to picture the letter positions on a keyboard and then hunt-and-peck my way through an invisible one would be a real pain. “Let’s go with that,” I decide.
Fingers tingling with excitement, I drag my fingernail across the pattern, ticking off the letters in a whisper.
H
is the eighth letter, and therefore the eighth “cup.” I press my fingertip into the cup, and sure enough, I feel the bottom of it release and snap back into place, making the slightest clicking sound. Blood pounding in my ears, I count to the fifteenth little indentation, which would correspond to the letter
O
; again there is the click as the bottom of the cup presses in and pushes back.
“Is it working?” Rosie asks.
“We’re definitely on the right track,” I tell her. “I just hope ‘Hornet’ is the password.”
I keep going; once I’ve made my way through the next four letters, we all hold our breath as I give the box a twist.
Nothing. The disappointment nearly knocks the wind out of me.
Ryan shrugs. “Maybe it was too obvious.”
“Or maybe it’s case sensitive?” Alonso suggests.
“Good thought,” I say, “but there are only twenty-six honeycomb cups, so there’s no shift key.”
“It’s got to be a different word, then,” Evelyn says. “Think, Maddie. Your mom’s password has to be one she’d never forget, a word that would mean something to her.”
I frown. Ryan made a good point about “Hornet” being too obvious. A code word has to have some element of secrecy to it. When I changed my locker combination to a password, I wanted to just go with “Maddie,” but Mom said that if anyone ever wanted to break in, that would be the first thing they’d try. So we came up with a word that only I would know, a word I could never forget.
I let out a little yelp of excitement. “I’ve got it!”
“What is it?” Jonah asks.
But I don’t answer. I’m already counting off the cups, making my way through the alphabet to the letter S.
Then to
P
.
Then
A
.
My fingers are moving swiftly and gracefully, because I’m certain I am right.
R click
.
R click
.
It’s the word I used for my locker combination. The word that was not just a word but a nickname. My nickname.
I press the O, and then, with a rush of confidence, the W.
Sparrow
.
And then I feel it — deep within the little box, a series of mechanical
clack
s, a tumbling of gears.
I give the honeycomb a sharp twist and it releases, falling open into two perfect hollow halves lined with shiny copper.
Everyone leans in to see so fast that Drew and Alonso clonk heads.
The object that falls out is slender and silver, as light as a feather.
“It’s a flash drive!” cries Louisa.
We hear the
thud-draaaaggg-thump-clunk
of Dizzy returning. He has waters for each of us, but he freezes when he sees the open honeycomb box — and flash drive — in my hand.
“Is that meant for your mother?” he asks me softly. He points to the box, adding, “I recognize that pattern. Symbols of the Hornet are used throughout the Resistance. It’s likely it was your mother who even encoded that box and it’s been passed along to different soldiers.”
I nod, telling Dizzy, as I’d told Drew and Alonso, about Ivan asking me to pass the contents of the box on to my mother.
“I really want to see what’s
on
the flash drive, so I can figure out where she is,” I explain determinedly.
Dizzy studies me like he did before. “You really do look like her,” he says.