Keeper of the Lost Cities

FIVE

THERE YOU ARE!” HER MOM SHOUTED. HER panicked thoughts battered their way into Sophie’s brain as she entered their cluttered living room and found her mom still on the phone. “Yes, she’s home now,” she said into the receiver. “Don’t worry, I will be having a very long talk with her.”

Sophie’s heart jolted.

Her mom hung up the phone and reeled around. Her wide green eyes glared daggers. “That was Mr. Sweeney calling because he couldn’t find you at the museum. What were you thinking, wandering off like that—especially now, with the fires making everyone nervous? Do you have any idea how worried I was? And Mr. Sweeney was about to call the police!”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Sophie stammered, struggling to find a convincing lie. She was a horrible liar. “I . . . got scared.”

Her mom’s anger faded to concern, and she tugged nervously at her curly brown hair. “Scared of what? Did something happen?”

“I saw this guy,” Sophie said, realizing the best lies were based on truth. “He had the article about me. He started asking all these questions and it was freaking me out so I ran away from him. And then I was scared to go back, so I walked to the trolley and took the train home.”

“Why didn’t you get a teacher or a museum guard—or call the police?”

“I guess I didn’t think of that. I just wanted to get away.” She tugged out an eyelash.

“Ugh—stop doing that,” her mom complained, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She took a deep breath. “Well, I guess the important thing is that you’re okay. But if anything like that ever happens again, I want you to run straight to an adult, do you understand?”

Sophie nodded.

“Good.” She rubbed the wrinkle between her brows that always appeared when she was stressed. “This is exactly why your father and I were upset about that article. It’s not safe to stand out in this world—you never know what some weirdo is going to try to do once they know where they can find you.”

No one understood the dangers of standing out better than Sophie. She’d been teased and tormented and bullied her whole life. “I’m fine, Mom. Okay?”

Her mom seemed to deflate as she let out a heavy sigh. “I know, I just wish . . .”

Her voice trailed off and Sophie closed her eyes, hoping she could close out the rest of the thought.

You could be normal, like your sister.

The words slipped a tiny pin into Sophie’s heart. It was the hardest part of being a Telepath—hearing what her parents really thought.

She knew her mom didn’t mean it. But that didn’t make it any less painful to hear.

Her mom wrapped her in a tight hug. “Just be careful, Sophie. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll try.”

Her dad came through the front door and her mom let her go.

“Welcome home, honey! I’ll have dinner ready in ten,” she called to him. “And, Amy!” she added, raising her voice so it would be heard upstairs. “Time to come down!”

Sophie followed her mom into the kitchen, feeling unease twist in her stomach. Worn linoleum, pastel walls, tacky knickknacks—it all seemed so ordinary after the glittering cities Fitz had shown her. Could she really belong there?

Did she really belong here?

Sophie’s dad kissed her on the cheek as he set his shabby briefcase on the kitchen table. “And how’s my Soybean?” he asked with a wink.

Sophie scowled. He’d been calling her that since she was a baby—apparently, she’d had a hard time pronouncing her name—and she’d asked him hundreds, no, thousands of times to stop. He refused to listen.

Her mom took the lid off one of the simmering pots, and the smell of garlic and cream filled the room. She handed Sophie the silverware. “It’s your turn to set the table.”

“Yeah, Soybean. Get crackin’,” her sister said as she scooted into the room and plopped into her usual chair.

At nine years old, Amy already had the annoying little sister role mastered.

Amy was Sophie’s opposite in every way, from her curly brown hair and green eyes to her lower than average grades and incredible popularity. No one understood how she and Sophie could be sisters—especially Sophie. Even their parents wondered about it in their thoughts.

The silverware slipped through Sophie’s fingers.

“What’s wrong?” her mom asked.

“Nothing.” She sank into her chair.

How could she and Amy be sisters? Amy was definitely human. Her parents were too—she’d heard enough of their thoughts to know they weren’t hiding any secret powers. And if she was an elf . . .

The room spun and she lowered her head into her hands. She tried to concentrate on breathing: Inhale—exhale—and repeat.

“You okay, Soybean?” her dad asked.

For once she didn’t care about the nickname. “I feel kind of dizzy—must be from the smoke,” she added, trying not to make them suspicious. “Can I go lay down?”

“I think you should eat something first,” her mom said, and Sophie knew she couldn’t argue. Skipping dinner was definitely not acting normal—especially on fettuccine night. It was her favorite, but the rich sauce did not help her sudden nausea. Neither did the way her family stared at her.

Sophie ignored their mental concern, trying not to tug on her eyelashes as she chewed each bite and forced herself to swallow. Finally, her dad set his fork down—the official end of dinner in the Foster house—and Sophie jumped to her feet.

“Thanks, Mom, that was great. I’m going to do some homework.” She left the kitchen and sprinted up the stairs before they could say anything to stop her.

She raced to her room and closed her door, stumbling to her bed. A loud hiss shattered the silence. “Sorry, Marty,” she whispered, her heart pounding in her ears.

Her fluffy gray cat glared at her for sitting on his tail. But she reached out her hand and he slunk toward her, settling into her lap. Marty’s gentle purring filled the silence and gave her courage to confront the realization she’d made downstairs.

Her family couldn’t be her family.

She took a deep breath and let the reality settle in.

The strange thing was, in some ways it made sense. It explained why she always felt so out of place around them—the slender blonde among her chubby brunette family.

Still, they were the only family she knew.

And if they weren’t her family . . . who was?

Panic closed off her chest and her lungs screamed for air. But another pain throbbed deeper, like something inside had ripped apart.

Her eyes burned with tears, but she blinked them back. It had to be a mistake. How could she not be related to her family? She’d been hearing their thoughts for seven years—how would she not know that? And even if it was somehow possible, not being related to them didn’t change anything, did it? Lots of kids were adopted, and they were part of their new family.

Her mom poked her head through the door. “I brought you some E.L. Fudges.” She handed Sophie a plate full of her favorite cookies and a glass of milk, then frowned. “You look pale, Sophie. Are you getting sick?” She pressed her palm against Sophie’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I’m fine. Just . . . tired.” She reached for a cookie but froze when she noticed its tiny elf face. “I need to go to bed.”

Her mom left her alone so she could change. She stumbled through her routine and crawled under the blankets, wrapping them as tight as they would go. Marty took his place on her pillow, next to her head.

“Sweet dreams, Soybean,” her dad said, kissing her on the forehead. Her parents always tucked her in—another Foster family tradition.

“Night, Dad.” She tried to smile, but she could barely breathe.

Her mom kissed Sophie’s cheek. “Do you have Ella?”

“Yep.” She showed her the blue elephant tucked under her arm. She was probably too old to still have a stuffed animal, but she couldn’t sleep without Ella. Tonight she needed her more than ever.

Her mom turned off the light, and the darkness gave Sophie the courage she needed. “Um, can I ask you guys something?”

“Sure,” her dad said. “What’s up?”

She hugged Ella tighter. “Was I adopted?”

Her mom laughed as her mind flashed to the twelve hours of very painful labor she’d endured. “No, Sophie. Why would you ask that?”

“Could I have been switched at birth?”

“No. Of course not!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—I think I would know my own daughter.” There wasn’t a doubt in her mom’s mind. “What’s this all about?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering.”

Her dad laughed. “Sorry, Soybean, we’re your parents—whether you like it or not.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

But she wasn’t so sure anymore.