—
To Mia and David, the only thing better than having the Royal Seeker was having it to themselves. The moment they finished lunch, they dashed back to the van like secret lovers. Classical music played from the radio as they propped their legs on empty seats and buried themselves in nonfiction. David read Temporis in a Nutshell, an ironic title for an 594-page tome. Mia pored through The Annotated History of America, Volume IX (1912–1940). The cover was graced with a haunting old photo of a broken doll in rubble, a shot of post-Cataclysm New York.
Mia sneaked a quick glance at David over the top of her book. She could only imagine that the teenagers of the world would roll their eyes at what these two did in the back of vans, and yet recent events had forced her to wonder. Ever since she spoke up for him on Tuesday, David’s smiles for her grew a few shades brighter and he touched her arm every time he brushed past her. She didn’t think it meant anything until Hannah slipped her a furtive whisper in the hotel garage. You might have just started something.
Over the next three days, his affections simmered down to old levels, enough to stop her stomach pains. She had no idea what was going on behind that beautiful face of his. Maddeningly, Future Mia was no help at all on the matter. She could have ended the conundrum with a single spoiler, but chose to let her younger self twist in the wind. Mia had received time-traveling intel about Hannah and Amanda and Theo and Zack, but nothing about David. For baffling reasons, her future had yet to mention him once.
An advertisement on the outdoor movie screen suddenly caught her eye. She watched through the windshield as a trio of cartoon handphones danced atop a forty-foot tagline. TRIPLE-8 IS ALL YOU NEED TO FIND ANYONE IN AMERICA, ANY TIME!
Mia’s mouth fell slack with revelation. It had been an irksome catch-22 that she didn’t know the phone number for Information. Now that she had it, she had a chance to shed some light on the other mystery man in her life.
David glanced up as she dialed her phone. “What are you doing?”
She shushed him with a finger. “Hi. Brooklyn, New York, please. Peter Pendergen.”
Mia spelled out his last name, then listened to the operator with faint surprise. “Oh. Okay. Is that near Brooklyn?”
David crinkled his brow at her. He didn’t know how any of these people could tolerate holding phones to their ears. The electronic squeals and crinkles were infuriating to him, like a whistling teakettle covered in firecrackers.
She scrawled a phone number into her journal. “Okay. I’ll try that. Thank you.”
“Success?” David asked.
“No listing in Brooklyn, but there’s a Peter Pendergen in Quarter Hill, just north of the city.”
“Could be an old number,” David speculated. “Or it could be where his handphone’s registered.”
Mia bit her thumb in dilemma. “Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t try calling?”
“I can think of several, but you have me all curious now. I say do it.”
She stepped outside, restlessly pacing beside the van as she dialed the number. Her heart skipped when someone answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
Mia was surprised to hear a high young voice, a boy caught in the wavering chords of puberty. She wasn’t sure if she’d laugh or scream if she learned that Peter was her age.
“Hi. Is this . . . this isn’t Peter Pendergen, is it?”
The boy fell into a suspicious pause. “Who is this?”
“I’m a friend.”
Another pause. The boy took a bite of something crunchy, then spoke through chews. “My dad’s not known for his maturity, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any ten-year-old friends.”
Relieved, intrigued, and a little indignant, Mia stopped pacing. “I’m fourteen.”
“Okay. Fine. You’re fourteen. And you apparently have no idea what your friends sound like.”
“Well, I never actually talked to Peter. I’m sort of his pen pal.”
The boy choked on his snack. “Excuse me?”
“What?”
“If I heard you right, and if you’re not rubbing me, then I don’t think you meant to say ‘pen pal.’”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re implying you had homosexual relations with my father in prison. I don’t even know where to begin with that.”
Mia flushed hot red. “What? No! I didn’t . . . that’s not what it means where I come from!”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mia Farisi, and I promise you that Peter really wants to talk to me! Is he there or not?”
The line fell silent again. Mia could almost feel the air in the boy’s hanging mouth.
“Holy Christ. You’re one of them. You’re a breacher.”
Mia scoffed. “I’m pretty sure I don’t like that term.”
“Are you insane calling here? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Look—”