Two Schools Out - Forever

66

What Anne didn't get was that only weeks ago we'd been sleeping in subway tunnels and scrounging for food. So being "grounded" and not able to watch TV was, like, meaningless.

"We still have this whole house," Nudge pointed out in a whisper. "It's full of books and games and food."

"No dessert, though," Total said mournfully. "And I didn't do anything!"

"Yeah, no dessert," said the Gasman indignantly.

I glared at him. "And whose fault is that, wise guy? You and Iggy screwed up again. For God's sake, quit bringing explosives to school!"

"We did hear the headhunter telling Ms. Cox to bury some files," the Gasman reminded me. "If we could find them, it might give us something to use against him."

I sighed. "How about we just stay under the radar until we leave? Don't retaliate, don't do anything else. Just quietly get through the rest of our time here."

"How long will we be here? Did you decide when you want to leave?" Angel asked.

"Yeah," I said drily. "Two weeks ago."

"Can we just stay through Thanksgiving?" Nudge asked. "We've never had a Thanksgiving meal. Please?"

I nodded reluctantly. "If no one else messes up, that should be okay."

I went upstairs and headed to my room. As I passed Anne's open door, I heard the TV. The words missing children caught my attention, and I paused, listening.

"Yes, the recent disappearance of several area children has brought back difficult memories for other parents who have lost children, whether recently or years ago. We're talking now with Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths, whose only son was taken from a local hospital right after his birth."

I froze. Griffiths was Iggy's last name-we thought. I remembered that much from the legible papers we found at the Institute in New York-before they disappeared. But the Institute file had also said that Iggy's father was dead. So these people couldn't be his parents-could they? Riveted, I edged my way forward a few inches so I could watch the TV through the partially open door. I heard Anne in her bathroom, brushing her teeth.

"You'd think that after fourteen years, it would get easier," said the woman sadly. "But it doesn't. It's the same pain, all the time."

My breath caught in my throat. Fourteen years? Griffiths? The reporter's image cleared and was replaced by a couple. The man had his arm around his wife's shoulders. They both looked sad.

One other thing.

The woman looked just like Iggy.