Everything makes sense now. Juneau’s sullenness, her self-protectiveness, her weird reaction to anything modern . . . anything created in the last thirty years. It’s got to be hard for her, knowing that the people she always respected have lied to her for her whole life. And now she’s risking her own safety to find them.
I think about what I would do if my father were in trouble: how far I would go to rescue him. I can’t really imagine it. But with a pang the size of Texas, I know in an instant that if she let me, I would do anything to save my mom. And that certainty helps me understand Juneau’s fierceness in her will to reach her goal. She’s tough. Determined. But she’s just one girl up against at least two powerful factions, including my dad and his multibillion-dollar corporation.
Although I try to stop it, my mind insists on wandering back to the night I kissed her in the tent. I feel my pulse pick up as I remember the softness of her mouth, the surprise and then acknowledgment in her eyes, the weight of her body on mine. I’ve probably kissed a dozen girls. But none of them were like that kiss.
Juneau is different. She makes me want to be a better person. My heart falls when I remember the look on her face when I told her the reasons I was kicked out of school. I want to be someone she respects. Admires. But in order for that to happen, I’m going to have to change. To become stronger. As strong as her.
It’s 9:00 p.m. when I reach the WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS sign. The only stop I made was for gas and supplies. I used Dad’s Shell card to stock up on a square meal of Cokes, Rolos, pretzels, and chips, which was all they had at the service station. And when I tried to collect-call Dad, he didn’t pick up the phone. I push aside the heavy feeling in my gut. There’s nothing I can do from this far away at night.
I drive down Miracle Mile past all the flashing lights and continue on until I’m out of town. My eyes are closing by themselves when I decide I can’t go farther. I pull the car well off the road and am so exhausted that I lie down in the front seat, draping my coat over myself, and within seconds I am dreaming.
Juneau is walking toward me through a snowy winter landscape, an ice-capped mountain behind her. She is wearing furs, and thick black hair hangs halfway down her back. A small box is nestled in the palms of her hands, and out of the open top, light pours out. Golden light, as if daylight were transformed into liquid. It spills in pools around her feet as she walks, but does not touch her. My heart skips around like a mad cricket in my chest. Juneau is no longer angry, defensive, bitter. She is beautiful and serene. She smiles as she nears me and stretches her hands forward as if offering me the box.
The liquid sunlight spills onto my feet and burns me as it slowly travels upward—up my legs—and climbs, inching toward my torso. The burning becomes severe, and I cry out, but I’m paralyzed and can’t move. Now the gold has spread across my chest and has seized me by the neck. I sputter, but I can’t inhale: it is strangling me.
Juneau’s expression has shifted from serenity to compassion. “Miles,” she says, though her lips don’t move. “You are one with the Yara.”
I am on fire. A golden statue alight, flames licking around me, melting the snow into puddles at my feet, heating Juneau’s face and reddening her nose and cheeks. She leans in closer until her lips are touching mine. And as she kisses me I disperse into a million tiny flames, sparks flying up into the cold winter air and diffusing once they hit the starry night sky.
I open my eyes and glance at the dashboard clock. Three a.m. I lie there stunned by dream hangover and fatigue until I finally sit up and buckle myself in. I start the car and continue toward Los Angeles, spending the remaining four hours thinking about Juneau.
57
JUNEAU
LANDING IS TEN TIMES SCARIER THAN TAKEOFF. The ground grows closer and closer and we are going so fast, I am sure as soon as we touch ground the impact will rip off the bottom of the plane. Instead, with a sort of pulling tension, we land smoothly and taxi around large loops of runway as we slow. Finally we stop near a long black car that looks like it could easily fit twenty people inside.
Baldy slaps the handcuffs back on me, and I am shuffled quickly from the recycled air of the plane through the stifling hot oven of the runway and into the pine-scented frigid air inside the car. Although I spent most of the plane trip coming up with escape plans, my curiosity has gotten the best of me. Somehow, Miles’s dad knows something about my clan that I don’t. Or at least he thinks he does. And I’m determined to find out what he knows.