Wild Bird
Wendelin Van Draanen
Also by Wendelin Van Draanen
How I Survived Being a Girl
Flipped
Swear to Howdy
Runaway
Confessions of a Serial Kisser
The Running Dream
The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones
The Sammy Keyes Mysteries
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy
Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy
Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes
Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen
Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway
Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash
Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher
Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls
Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack
Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City
Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise
Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye
THANK YOU
I am grateful to the parents and teens who trusted me with their pain, to the Utah desert for its incomparable beauty and humbling lessons, and to Shanan Anderson of the Southern Paiute Nation for her guidance and insights. Any mistakes are my own.
—WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Wendelin Van Draanen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! getunderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781101940440 (trade) — ISBN 9781101940457 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9781101940464
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Wendelin Van Draanen
Title Page
Thank You
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 2
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part 3
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part 4
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Part 5
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
for Elizabeth
“Wren…”
My name is floating around me. Bouncing on the clouds in my mind.
“Wren…wake up, Wren.”
Everything’s cocoony. Drifty. The clouds are so soft.
“Wren, come on. It’s time to go.”
Go? Go where? Who said that? I don’t recognize his voice. I look around my cloud, but it’s dark. Like a storm is coming.
Then thunder begins to roll. “Wren!”
I pull in, hunker down. Why is he on my cloud? “Go away,” I mumble through the rocks in my mouth. I need a drink. Maybe if I licked the cloud…
“She’s totally wasted, Mom.”
Wait. That was Anabella. What’s she doing on my cloud?
She was definitely not invited.
The narc.
I can’t see her either, though. And now the cloud is rocking. Rocking and spinning.
“Go back to bed,” my mother whispers.
My mother? No! Not her, too!
A new voice struggles into the darkness. A small, sleepy voice. “What’s going on?”
It’s Mo! My little buddy, my Mowgli, my Mo-bro! He can be on my cloud. Anytime! But…no…wait. First I have to hide some things. Quick. I need to hide some things.
“Take Morris and get back to bed!” my mother hisses.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Anabella says.
“Take your brother and go!” my father commands.
My father?
Why am I even on this cloud? It’s so crowded now. And dark. And rolling with thunder.
“Wren! Wake up!”
Who is that?
Light stabs my eyes as I peel them open. A man comes into focus. He’s large. Standing over me. Wearing dark blue. With gold-embroidered shoulder patches.
A…a cop?
I sit up a little.
Yes, a cop.
He starts swaying. But…no, it’s not him swaying. It’s me. Or my bed. I grab for my trash can and puke.
My mind runs to Nico as my guts come up. Did he get busted? Is that why there’s a cop here? Did they connect the dots?
I try to play it cool as I wipe off my mouth. “Sorry. Flu.”
That line’s always worked before. But this is a cop, not my parents. And he’s got that look.
He’s not buying.
The clock digits are a bloody red: 3:47 a.m. “What happened?” I ask my doorway parents. “Why is he here?”
“It’s for your own good,” my father says. His voice sounds icy. Hard. A freezer door slamming shut.
“Can you walk?” the cop asks.
I muster a sneer. “Of course I can walk!”
“Then get up and get dressed.” He hands me jeans and a hoodie. “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Why?” I look over, and one of my doorway parents has disappeared. “Mom!” I call. I can hear her crying her way down the hall. “Mom! What is going on!”
She doesn’t answer me. Nobody answers me. I’m shaky and cold and my head is pounding. There are handcuffs on th
e cop’s belt. I’ve heard they hurt, so I pull on the jeans and yank the hoodie on over the T-shirt I slept in. I feel haphazard. On the verge of puking again. And then I notice that my phone’s gone.
Full-on panic floods over me. I scramble around inside the covers, under my pillow.
“We’ve got your phone,” my father says.
I am so busted.
“Use the bathroom,” the cop tells me. “You’ll be in the car awhile.”
When I come out, my father hands a duffel to the cop and turns to me. His lips are tight white threads across his face. “We’ve tried everything, Wren.”
“So you’re turning me over to the cops? MOM!” I scream past him. “MOM!”
The cop grips my arm, and when I struggle to get free, he wrestles me down the hallway. I can hear my mother crying in the kitchen. “MOM!” I shriek. “WHAT IS GOING ON? HELP ME!”
My brother’s voice seeps through Anabella’s door, high-pitched and desperate. “We have to help Wren!”
“Mowgli!” I call out. “Mo-bro, help me!”
“Are you really that selfish?” my dad says, his words singeing the space between us.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask as the cop drags me through the house. We pass by the living room, pass by the piano, and now I’m crying.
“Because we’re at our wits’ end,” my father says. “We’ve run out of options.”
Then the cop’s saying, “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Clemmens,” and I’m being hauled outside.
“Daddy, please!” I cry.
The door closes in my face.
“I’LL BE BETTER! I PROMISE!”
But I’m talking to wood.
Dead, heartless wood.
The cop maneuvers me off the porch and out toward the street, where a black SUV is waiting. It has no police-force markings. Just sleek black, with tinted windows.
“You an undercover narc?” I ask.
“You worried about that?” he says. “At fourteen?”
“Just answer me!”
“Get in.” He opens the door and points me to the far-back seats.
There’s a woman behind the wheel. Blue uniform, gold patches, sunglasses.
In the middle of the night, she’s wearing sunglasses.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” she says, grinning over her shoulder at me.
I want to tell her to shut up, but I climb in back, hoping she’ll give me some answers. “Where we going?”
“Joel didn’t tell you?” she asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
So the narc has a name. Joel. “You just told me more than I’ve gotten out of anybody this whole time.”
“Ah,” she says, and eyes Joel over her glasses. “Classified?”
“Need-to-know basis,” he says, shutting the door and sitting in the middle row. “And what you need to know is she’s coming off a high and hungover bad.”
She hands him a barf bag, which gets relayed back to me. “You’re stuck in what you’re wearing for at least twelve,” she says through the mirror. “So I wouldn’t mess ’em up if I were you.”
“Twelve? Twelve what?”
“Hours, honey.” She puts the SUV in drive and pulls forward. “You’re in for a long day.”
“Twelve hours! Where are we going?”
She glances in the mirror. “To LAX.”
“To the airport?” I lunge for the door, but Joel swats me back.
“See?” he tells the driver. “She didn’t need to know that.” Then he turns on me like a big, angry bear. “Let’s get something straight,” he growls. “You’re in my legal custody. I’m allowed to restrain you by force. I’ve dealt with a lot bigger and badder than you, and I’m not in the mood for attitude, runners, or whining. If you want to be handcuffed, just try that again. If not, sit down, strap in, and shut up.”
He stares me down, and it doesn’t take long. I slink back, feeling sick, but in a totally different way.
My parents turned over legal custody?
Like, disowned me?
I look out the window. We’ve already left our neighborhood and are speeding along Culver. The street is eerie without the usual traffic. It’s misty nighttime, but there are so many lights along the road, it’s like daylight. We drive past block after block of curving sidewalks lined with hedges and trees and long-leafed plants. Perfectly trimmed, always. When we moved here, that seemed nice. There weren’t chain-link fences or alleyways scattered with trash. Everything was clean and green. And there was room. But we’ve been living here over three years, and I still get turned around when I go more than a few blocks. Every neighborhood looks the same.
We stop at a red light near Nico’s street, and I think about making a dive for it again. Joel’s sitting sideways, and I can see that his eyes are closed….The driver’s looking straight ahead waiting for the light to change….If I can get out, I can ditch them, easy. But…would Nico even help me? He’s told me more than once that if I bring trouble, I’m gone.
Suddenly Joel sticks his leg out. “Down, girl,” he snarls, eyes still closed. “Don’t make me cuff you.”
How can he know what I’m thinking? I slump back, feeling way out of my league.
We ramp up to the I-5 freeway and head north, all five lanes to ourselves. I’m paying attention, trying to memorize how to get back to the neighborhood if I can get away.
I recognize the Costco turnoff, which normally takes twenty minutes of stop-and-go traffic to get to, and before I can believe it, we’re long gone, passing signs for Disneyland.
My heart hurts, thinking about Disneyland. Thinking about my brother. He’s never been Morris Lee Clemmens IV to me. He’s always been Mo, Mo-bro, or Mowgli.
My little Jungle Book buddy.
What are they telling him about me?
Will he believe them?
And how could they do this to me? My own parents!
We fly past Disneyland, leave it behind. I hold my head. My heart aches. I can’t seem to breathe.
How could they do this to me?
I cry myself to sleep in the back of the SUV and wake up confused all over again when we get to the airport. The clock in the dash says 5:12. At first I’m not sure if that’s a.m. or p.m., or where I am.
Then it all comes back.
The world spins as I climb out behind Joel. I have to stop, catch my breath. My head feels like it’s splitting in two.
There are cars double-parked, dropping people off, but we’re third from the curb getting honked at. “Come on,” Joel says, grabbing me. He’s got my duffel in one hand and a messenger bag strapped across his chest.
“Please,” I beg him. “I’ve got to barf.”
He shuts the door and drags me along between bumpers. “Do it at the curb.”
I try, but nothing comes up. “Do you have aspirin?” I ask as he pulls me through a door marked Terminal 5.
“You said you had the flu.”
“Yeah, and my head is about to explode!”
He gives me a smirk. “Ever heard of Reye’s syndrome? No aspirin for kids with flu symptoms.”
A surge of hatred twists through me. “Let go!”
“Cooperate, and I will.”
“Let me have my duffel!”
“Cooperate, and I will.”
“I’m sick, you idiot!”
“I’m no idiot, Wren. Now, move it.”
Inside, the place is huge. Counters seem to go for miles in both directions, with mazes for lines set up in front of all of them.
We don’t go up to a counter. Instead, Joel makes a beeline to big screens announcing DEPARTURES. The cities are listed in alphabetical order, and he seems to be scanning the “S” cities—Seattle, Sioux Falls, Spokane, St. Louis…
“Please tell me where we’re going,” I beg, and I’m suddenly weirdly panicked. “Are you coming with me?” There’s a huge lump in my throat, making my voice sound weak.
Scared.
Which I am.
He looks down
from the board, and for a second there seems to be a little break in the armor. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m coming with you.”
Then we’re off again, walking way too fast to a line that goes way too slow, back and forth, back and forth, like we’re waiting to get on a Disneyland ride instead of through security. He gets us past a uniformed guy sitting at a podium by showing him some paperwork, but he probably didn’t even need to. His shoulder patches say it all—he’s in charge, I’m in trouble.
Once we’re through security, we walk down corridors that seem to go on forever. Especially since every step is a jolt of pain in my head. “Can I please get something to drink?” I finally ask. “I’m dying.”
He takes me over to a water fountain. “Drink.”
“Really? Really?” What I need is an energy drink. I nod at my duffel, clutched in his hand. “Is there money in there?”
“Not one red cent.” He points to the fountain. “Drink. And not too much. No bathroom break until we’re on the plane.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Drink. Or don’t. Your choice.”
I take a few sips.
It doesn’t help a thing.
We walk and walk and walk some more, and finally he pulls over to an area marked B-54. There’s a counter with an electronic board behind it that says
Flight 4746
SALT LAKE CITY
On Time
