What kind of a game was Smits playing? And—was it really a game?
Luke remembered the urgency in the other boy’s voice. “Can you help me? Can you be Lee?” And, “There’s something wrong with the way he died.” What had Smits meant?
Luke thought he’d been escaping danger when he took Lee Grant’s identity. Why did he suddenly feel like he’d only traded one peril for another?
CHAPTER SEVEN
It turned out that Smits did have classes with Luke—every single one of them.
“See, this is what happens when the big brother goofs off, runs away from school, and gets left behind a grade,” Smits said, slipping into a desk beside Luke the next morning. “He gets stuck with his younger brother every minute of the day.”
Luke could feel all his friends watching them. Smits beamed happily back at everyone.
“I’m the smart one in the family, in case you couldn’t tell,” Smits said.
Luke glowered. “Knock it off,” he muttered under his breath.
“Someone’s listening,” Smits hissed back.
Luke half turned. At the back of the classsroom, barely two feet away, a hulking presence towered over all the boys still scurrying into the room.
Oscar.
Luke wasn’t the only one staring. The huge man was enough of a sight to attract attention just by himself. But he stood out even more today because of what he held in his massive fists: a sledgehammer.
“Hey, everyone. Meet my bodyguard,” Smits said.
“Is he always, um”—Trey gulped—“armed like that?”
“You mean the hammer?” Smits asked. He made a mocking face. “That’s my parents’ idea of a compromise. He’ll be carrying that around until Mr. Hendricks installs a few windows.” Smits looked around at blank expressions. “Didn’t any of you ever think about what would happen if there was a fire here? How trapped you’d all be? You won’t have to worry now. Hey, your parents should be chipping in on Oscar’s wages, too. He’d be saving you guys, too, knocking down walls.”
Smits pretended to swing an imaginary hammer himself.
From the front of the room Mr. Dirk, the teacher, said mildly, “Boys, we’ve always had plans in place for emergency evacuation procedures.”
Everyone turned to stare in amazement at Mr. Dirk. Luke wondered if any of his friends had ever thought to worry about a fire before. The danger outside the walls of Hendricks School had always seemed so great, he was sure no one had ever feared being trapped inside. He felt like standing up and asking everyone, “Does it make you feel any better to have more to be scared of?”
Instead, he slid lower in his seat and kept quiet as Mr. Dirk started lecturing about ancient history.
The rest of the day went about the same way. Smits made a spectacle of himself, Luke’s classmates gaped at Oscar, and Luke could only slump lower and lower in his chair in each successive class. Meals should have been a relief, because Smits didn’t show up for them. At least, not physically. But everyone in the dining hall seemed to be talking about him.
“What do you suppose he’s eating right now?” Joel asked at dinner as thin gruel dribbled from his spoon.
“Roasted wild duck—illegally, I might add—garlic potatoes, French-cut green beans, and chocolate mousse,” Trey said gloomily. “He told me.”
“Maybe he was lying,” Luke said.
“No,” Trey said. “I believe him.”
Luke did, too—about that. But he wasn’t going to admit it.
“Hey, how much do you think his bodyguard has to eat to keep all those muscles?” John asked. “Did you see him? I couldn’t do a bit of homework at study hour. All I could think about was what would happen if he swung that hammer at me. He was standing right behind me, you know.”
“You never do any homework at study hour anyhow,” Luke said. But nobody seemed to hear him.
By bedtime Luke just wanted the day to be over. But he’d barely fallen asleep before he woke to someone shaking him. It was a thick hand with muscular fingers. He’d never known before that people could have highly developed muscles in their fingers.
“Your brother needs you,” a deep voice whispered. “Come on.”
It was Oscar. Luke stifled a yelp of terror.
“Don’t wake your roommates,” Oscar warned.
Luke wondered if any of them were awake already but pretending to sleep. Seven other boys slept in his room. How many had their eyelids open, just a crack, just enough to watch Luke leave? If Oscar was luring Luke away to hurt him—to kill him, even—how many boys would be able to tell Mr. Hendricks, “Oscar came into our room at midnight to get Luke. It’s Oscar’s fault. Oscar’s dangerous”?
Luke told himself Oscar had no reason to want to hurt Luke, let alone kill him. Luke had no reason to fear Oscar.
But he did anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Luke forced himself to slide out of bed. Oscar kept a warning hand on Luke’s shoulder, and it was all Luke could do not to grab Trey, who slept in the bunk bed above Luke, or Joel, who slept in the bed across from him, and beg, “Come with me! Protect me!” Luke suddenly felt like he needed a bodyguard, too.
But Luke kept silent, as if what mattered most was denying his own fear. Oscar propelled him out the door, into the hallway, and up a set of back stairs. Luke couldn’t help remembering another time he’d been out of his room at night, and terrified. Then, he’d been desperate to thwart the plot of Jason, the Population Police spy who’d pretended to be another third child with a fake I.D. Now—did Oscar have a plot? Did Smits?
Luke reminded himself that, back then, he hadn’t known if he could trust anybody at Hendricks. Now he could trust his friends, if he had to. He could trust Mr. Hendricks. He could run to any of the adults in the school, and even if they were strange, they would do their best to help him.
At the top of the stairs Oscar turned Luke toward a carved wooden door. Before Oscar even opened the door, Luke could hear someone crying behind it. As the door gave way Smits sat up in bed and stared resentfully at Luke.
“I miss . . .” he began. Whatever else he intended to say was lost in a wail of sorrow.
“Home,” Oscar finished for him. “He’s homesick. Acting like a stupid little kid.”
Oscar sank into a chair at the end of the bed. He pushed Luke toward Smits. Smits’s wail turned into keening. As Luke eased down onto the bed beside Smits he suddenly understood what Smits had intended to say. Lee. Smits missed Lee, the real Lee, the real older brother he must have looked up to and admired. And loved. For the first time Luke felt sorry for the younger boy. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to know that one of his real brothers, Matthew or Mark, was dead. It was bad enough that Luke would probably never see either of them again, but at least he could still think of them back home, playing pranks and baling hay, making fun of each other. Missing Luke. He could imagine their lives going on, even without him.
But Smits—Smits had nothing left of his brother. He was gone.
And Luke had taken his name.
Luke glanced fearfully back at Oscar. How could anyone hear Smits sobbing and think he was merely a foolish, homesick kid? Luke knew what grief was like. He could hear all the pain in Smits’s wordless wails: My brother is dead. I loved him and now he’s gone, and I hurt more than I thought it was possible to hurt. . . . What if Oscar suddenly understood, too?
Smits’s grief was dangerous. Smits’s grief could kill Luke.
Luke reached out and awkwardly patted Smits’s shoulder.
“There, there,” he said. His voice sounded wooden even to his own ears. “You’re okay.”
Smits stiffened. He looked at Luke in bewilderment, as if he’d never seen him before.
“Are you really homesick?” Luke asked. “Or did you just have a bad dream?”
Behind them Oscar turned on the overhead light. The harsh glare hurt Luke’s eyes. Smits blinked rapidly.
“I guess I just had a bad dream,” he said. “I?
??I dreamed you died.”
“Well, I should hope you were crying, then,” Luke said, trying to make his words sound like a joke between brothers, not a warning between strangers. “Go back to acting,” Luke wanted to tell Smits. “Don’t let Oscar know the truth. Don’t you know what’s at risk here?” But he wasn’t sure that Smits did know. He wasn’t sure that Smits cared.
Smits sniffed.
“Can I tell you the dream?” he asked.
Luke stole another quick glance at Oscar, who was now practically reclining in his chair, his eyes half closed. His very posture seemed to say, “Hey, I’m just supposed to guard the kid’s body. Bad dreams aren’t my problem.”
“Sure,” Luke said. “Tell me your dream.”
“Y-you were skiing,” Smits said. He stopped and gulped. He wouldn’t look at Luke. He kept his head down, his eyes trained on his blanket. “You were skiing and you were in danger. You knew you were in danger—”
“What, were you skiing behind me?” Luke asked. “Was I scared you’d fall on me?” He was determined to keep this light, to keep Smits from descending back into that mad grief.
Smits flashed Luke a look of sheer fury. And Luke understood. Smits wasn’t describing a dream. He was describing what had really happened to Lee. He thought Luke needed to know, and this was the only way Smits could tell him.
“I wasn’t there,” Smits said quietly. Luke wanted to protest, to say Smits was giving away too much now. But dreams sometimes had that kind of logic, that the dreamer could know things that happened far away.
“Did L—I mean, did I know what the danger was?” Luke asked.
Smits tilted his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably. You were carrying something. You weren’t just skiing for fun. You were trying to get somewhere, to deliver something. And then a soldier shot you.”
“A soldier?” Luke asked. He was used to fearing the Population Police. He’d never thought about soldiers hurting ordinary people.
Of course, the real Lee Grant had never been an ordinary person. He’d been the son of one of the richest men in the country.
“Why would a soldier want to shoot me?” Luke asked.
“I don’t know,” Smits said. He was crying again, but quietly. “He wanted to stop you from going wherever you were going. From delivering whatever you were delivering.”
“And you don’t know what that was? Or where I was going?”
Silently Smits shook his head.
Behind them Oscar suddenly released a giant snore. Luke jumped. Oscar’s snores subsided into gentler rumblings. Smits giggled.
“Guess we don’t have to worry about—,” Luke started to say.
But Smits stopped giggling and clapped his hand over Luke’s mouth. Then he leaned over and whispered in Luke’s ear, “He might be faking. He’s not as stupid as you’d think. He’s always watching. . . .”
Smits backed away from Luke. The two boys stared at each other, trying to fit back into the roles they’d been playing.
“So that’s all there was to your dream?” Luke said.
Smits nodded.
“So, see, it was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. I’m right here. Nothing happened to me. No soldier shot me. I wouldn’t be skiing anyhow, this time of year.”
With every word Luke spoke, he could see more tears welling up in Smits’s eyes. Because, Luke knew, it was no comfort to Smits to have Luke there. It wasn’t reassuring to know that Luke was alive. The real Lee was still dead.
“Here,” Luke said roughly, patting Smits’s pillow. “Just go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Smits obediently slid down lower in the bed. But he didn’t close his eyes.
“What’s your favorite memory from when we were little kids?” Smits asked.
Luke hesitated. Then he said, honestly, “Having Mother tuck me into bed at night.” He knew the real Lee had probably called his mother Mom, not Mother. But that didn’t matter. This was one time when telling the truth wouldn’t hurt.
Smits smiled drowsily. “Know what I remember? I remember when we got that big red wagon, and our nanny would pull us around in it, both of us together. Hour after hour. And then we got a little older, and you’d pull me in the wagon alone. Around and around the playroom. And I’d scream, Again! Again!’ But I never pulled you. I should have pulled you, at least once . . .”
“You weren’t big enough, stupid,” Luke said. Smits wasn’t his real brother; Luke had never even seen that red wagon Smits was talking about. But Luke still had chills listening to him. “Tell you what. Next time we’re anywhere near a wagon, you’re welcome to pull me in it.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Smits murmured. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mr. Talbot showed up the next day.
Mr. Talbot was the person who had helped Luke get his fake I.D. in the first place. Back when Luke was still in hiding, the Government had forced Luke’s family to sell the woods behind their farm to build fancy houses for rich people. When the houses were finished, Mr. Talbot and his family had moved into the one closest to Luke’s. Having other people so close by had terrified Luke’s family; they were afraid that someone would discover Luke’s existence. But instead Luke had discovered another third child in hiding: Mr. Talbot’s daughter, Jen.
For several wonderful months Luke had secretly sneaked back and forth between his house and the Talbots’. Jen became his friend, and through an Internet chat room she introduced him to other third children in hiding. She also shared her dream with him, of a day when all third children could be free.
And then Jen was killed during a rally seeking that freedom.
Mr. Talbot had rescued Luke, given him Lee Grant’s identity, and brought him to Hendricks School. Luke had seen him only twice since then—both times when there was danger.
And now he was back again. Just seeing him made Luke worry.
But the way Mr. Talbot acted, Luke could have believed that Mr. Talbot didn’t have a care in the world. He breezed into Luke’s science class and boomed out, “I’m sorry to interrupt—so sorry. I certainly believe that science is important, of course. But would anyone in here want to skip class to have lunch with me?”
In another classroom, at another school, Luke could imagine such an invitation causing kids to wave their arms in the air, screaming out, “Ooh! Ooh! I will! Pick me!”
But in Luke’s class the boys froze. They stared warily at Mr. Talbot. Luke noticed that Smits was the only one who didn’t look terrified. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head thoughtfully. But even he didn’t answer Mr. Talbot’s question.
Mr. Talbot laughed heartily.
“Don’t all jump at once,” he joked. He turned to the teacher and said, “I see you have them all so entranced with science that they don’t want to leave. I compliment you on the brilliance of your teaching.”
The teacher, Mr. Nimms, looked every bit as frightened as his students.
“Well, I’m taking up too much of your time,” Mr. Talbot said. “Mr. Hendricks really only has room for two boys at his table, and I promised the Grants I’d check up on their sons while I was here. Come on, Lee. Come on, Smits. Let’s go have some gourmet food.”
Luke heard somebody mumble resentfully, “Smits has that every day.” Luke had to hide a grin as he, Smits, and Oscar stood up to leave.
“Oh, wait a minute,” Mr. Talbot said. “You don’t need to come.” He was speaking to Oscar. “Mr. Hendricks has an excellent security system in his house, I assure you. Both of the Grant boys will be safe with me. You can take an hour off. I’m sure you’d be happy to have a break.”
“My orders are to go wherever the boy goes,” Oscar growled. “Always.”
Luke had seen Mr. Talbot outsmart Population Police officers—not just once, but twice. He was sure Mr. Talbot would manage to twist Oscar’s words around, twist his plans around, so that Oscar suddenly found himself a
greeing, “Oh yes, yes, right. I will stay here. You go with the boys. I trust you.”
But Mr. Talbot only shrugged.
“Your loss,” he said. “I’ll be sure to let your employers know how dedicated you are.”
Luke was acutely aware of the presence of Oscar and Smits behind him as he walked beside Mr. Talbot out of the classroom, down the hall, then out the door toward Mr. Hendricks’s house. Without them he could have been asking Mr. Talbot question after question: Do you know why Smits is here? What are the Grants thinking? Is Smits dangerous? Can I trust him? And how did the real Lee die? Mr. Talbot always had all the answers.
But today Mr. Talbot didn’t seem to care about the questions in Luke’s mind. He turned around and began talking to Smits.
“Have you adjusted to your new school yet?” Mr. Talbot asked. “Are you letting your parents know that everything’s okay?”
“Why would they care?” Smits asked.
“Well, you are their son,” Mr. Talbot said, still jovial.
“They liked Lee better,” Smits said.
Oh, no. Had he really said “liked”—past tense? Luke’s heart pounded as he panicked over what Oscar might have heard. He glanced over his shoulder. Oscar was trudging silently beside Smits, giving no sign that he’d heard anything at all.
“Oh, surely not,” Mr. Talbot said quickly. “Surely they love you equally.” Luke was grateful for the emphasis Mr. Talbot put on the present tense. “It must just seem like they prefer Lee right now, because Lee has done such a great job of turning his life around since he came to Hendricks. No more skipped classes, no more flunked courses—he’s really applying himself. As I’m sure you’ll apply yourself here, too.”
“Whatever,” Smits said.
They arrived at Mr. Hendricks’s house, and Mr. Hendricks let them in.
“We’re having a fine vegetable pot pie,” Mr. Hendricks said. “With some of the peas and carrots and beans grown right here at the school, thanks to Lee.”