seven
My first thought is, I’m kidnapped?
What if that’s the reason Dad’s always been so paranoid? What if that’s what this is all about, all the disguises and the running and the hiding? Is that why we always moved around so much? So my real parents wouldn’t find me?
It’s horrible to be thinking these kind of thoughts about my own father. He’s quirky, but he’s not a kidnapper. I refuse to believe anything bad about him. I know he did illegal stuff with the license plates on our car. But that was all to protect us. Protecting his family is the only reason he’d ever do anything illegal.
And with a quick sense of relief, I realize that the me-being-kidnapped-by-Dad thing doesn’t even make sense. If Dad did kidnap me originally, I would have been really little, too little to remember it. And the picture on the screen is modern, with my modern name: Krystie Jackson.
But I’m with my parents. Amber Alerts are for kids whose parents don’t know where they are.
I look up at Dad. His face has turned white. Then he breaks into a smile and chuckles. “Wow, Rach, you’re right. That girl does look a lot like someone we know. It’s not her, though.”
“Yes it is!” Rachel insists. She turns to me, probably to look for my agreement that it’s me on the TV. I quickly ask her, “You wanted pancakes, right? Did you remember to ask for syrup?”
“Yes, but you’re on—”
CRASH. Mom has knocked over a pile of trays that were sitting on top of the trash receptacle. Everyone in the restaurant looks over toward the source of the noise, and Rachel jumps, momentarily distracted from what she was about to say. “I’m so sorry!” Mom exclaims. “Girls, come over and help me with these trays.”
I wrap my arm around Rachel’s shoulders and steer her toward the pile of trays. Just as I’m about to bend down and start to clean up, a man steps in my way. “What’s your name?” he asks me.
I back away, my heart pounding in my chest. Dad steps over between me and the man. “You have no business talking to my daughter.”
The man sidesteps Dad and takes another step toward me. His face is open, kind. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “I just want to know your name.”
I glance toward the TV. The notice about me is gone, replaced by some news story about a fire. “K-Krystal,” I stammer. “My name is Krystal.”
“Is everything all right, Krystal?”
I force myself to calm down. He won’t believe that everything’s all right if I seem like I’m hyperventilating.
Is everything all right?
“I’m not the girl on the news, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I tell him, trying to sound confident and scornful. “My little sister just has a very overactive imagination.”
The man still looks skeptical. I glance over toward the register. Our food seems to be taking an unusually long time to cook.
“Kids, why don’t you go wait in the car with Mom,” says Dad, and—maybe because I’m listening for it—I can hear the strain in his voice. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“Sir, your food will be out in just a moment,” says the girl at the register. “I’m sorry for the wait. We had to change the oil for the hash browns.”
“Krystal,” says Mom. I look over and see that she’s standing by the door with Rachel and Jeremy. “Let’s go get situated in the car so we can leave as soon as Dad gets the food.”
“Mommy, why—”
Mom puts her hand over Rachel’s mouth. It’s a subtle movement, but the cashier notices it. I see her hand drift to her back pocket, where no doubt her cell phone is stored.
I walk over to Mom, trying to seem casual, like nothing’s wrong. “Have a nice day,” I say in a cheery voice to the cashier.
The four of us get in the car. “Mommy, why did you call Krystie Krystal?” Rachel bursts out as soon as she’s able to talk. “And why was Krystie on TV? And why did Daddy say it wasn’t Krystie?”
Mom buries her head in her hands and doesn’t answer.
“Mommy, why?” Rachel persists.
“Because Dad did something bad,” Jeremy speaks up for the first time since before we went into the restaurant. “He committed a crime, and now we all have to pay for it.”
Mom turns around in her seat. “Jeremy, that’s not true. You don’t know nearly enough about this situation to be talking about it—”
“I know this is all Dad’s fault! I go to bed last night thinking it’s just a normal night, thinking I’ll wake up and everything will be just how it’s supposed to be, and then I’m woken up at, like, three in the morning, and I’m thinking it’s just Dad being crazy as usual, and then I see an Amber Alert for my sister on the news? This is serious stuff!”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” Mom sighs.
“So is Dad some big-time mob boss? Some escaped convict? Who are we, really?”
“He’s not a mob boss and he’s not a convict. And he’s—oh, shoot.” Mom fumbles with the keys for a second before cramming them into the ignition. I look out the window and see Dad running toward the car as if he’s being pursued by a cheetah. I dart my eyes around to try to see what he’s running from, and notice that a police cruiser has just pulled up next to the McDonald’s.
Dad jumps in the car and we start speeding off. “Where’s the food?” Rachel whines.
Jeremy shoots me an I-told-you-so look and nods his head back in the direction of the restaurant. I know what he’s thinking. If Dad’s not a criminal, why are we running from cops?
What if that’s the reason Dad’s always been so paranoid? What if that’s what this is all about, all the disguises and the running and the hiding? Is that why we always moved around so much? So my real parents wouldn’t find me?
It’s horrible to be thinking these kind of thoughts about my own father. He’s quirky, but he’s not a kidnapper. I refuse to believe anything bad about him. I know he did illegal stuff with the license plates on our car. But that was all to protect us. Protecting his family is the only reason he’d ever do anything illegal.
And with a quick sense of relief, I realize that the me-being-kidnapped-by-Dad thing doesn’t even make sense. If Dad did kidnap me originally, I would have been really little, too little to remember it. And the picture on the screen is modern, with my modern name: Krystie Jackson.
But I’m with my parents. Amber Alerts are for kids whose parents don’t know where they are.
I look up at Dad. His face has turned white. Then he breaks into a smile and chuckles. “Wow, Rach, you’re right. That girl does look a lot like someone we know. It’s not her, though.”
“Yes it is!” Rachel insists. She turns to me, probably to look for my agreement that it’s me on the TV. I quickly ask her, “You wanted pancakes, right? Did you remember to ask for syrup?”
“Yes, but you’re on—”
CRASH. Mom has knocked over a pile of trays that were sitting on top of the trash receptacle. Everyone in the restaurant looks over toward the source of the noise, and Rachel jumps, momentarily distracted from what she was about to say. “I’m so sorry!” Mom exclaims. “Girls, come over and help me with these trays.”
I wrap my arm around Rachel’s shoulders and steer her toward the pile of trays. Just as I’m about to bend down and start to clean up, a man steps in my way. “What’s your name?” he asks me.
I back away, my heart pounding in my chest. Dad steps over between me and the man. “You have no business talking to my daughter.”
The man sidesteps Dad and takes another step toward me. His face is open, kind. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “I just want to know your name.”
I glance toward the TV. The notice about me is gone, replaced by some news story about a fire. “K-Krystal,” I stammer. “My name is Krystal.”
“Is everything all right, Krystal?”
I force myself to calm down. He won’t believe that everything’s all right if I seem like I’m hyperventilating.
Is everything all right?
“I’m not the girl on the news, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I tell him, trying to sound confident and scornful. “My little sister just has a very overactive imagination.”
The man still looks skeptical. I glance over toward the register. Our food seems to be taking an unusually long time to cook.
“Kids, why don’t you go wait in the car with Mom,” says Dad, and—maybe because I’m listening for it—I can hear the strain in his voice. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“Sir, your food will be out in just a moment,” says the girl at the register. “I’m sorry for the wait. We had to change the oil for the hash browns.”
“Krystal,” says Mom. I look over and see that she’s standing by the door with Rachel and Jeremy. “Let’s go get situated in the car so we can leave as soon as Dad gets the food.”
“Mommy, why—”
Mom puts her hand over Rachel’s mouth. It’s a subtle movement, but the cashier notices it. I see her hand drift to her back pocket, where no doubt her cell phone is stored.
I walk over to Mom, trying to seem casual, like nothing’s wrong. “Have a nice day,” I say in a cheery voice to the cashier.
The four of us get in the car. “Mommy, why did you call Krystie Krystal?” Rachel bursts out as soon as she’s able to talk. “And why was Krystie on TV? And why did Daddy say it wasn’t Krystie?”
Mom buries her head in her hands and doesn’t answer.
“Mommy, why?” Rachel persists.
“Because Dad did something bad,” Jeremy speaks up for the first time since before we went into the restaurant. “He committed a crime, and now we all have to pay for it.”
Mom turns around in her seat. “Jeremy, that’s not true. You don’t know nearly enough about this situation to be talking about it—”
“I know this is all Dad’s fault! I go to bed last night thinking it’s just a normal night, thinking I’ll wake up and everything will be just how it’s supposed to be, and then I’m woken up at, like, three in the morning, and I’m thinking it’s just Dad being crazy as usual, and then I see an Amber Alert for my sister on the news? This is serious stuff!”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” Mom sighs.
“So is Dad some big-time mob boss? Some escaped convict? Who are we, really?”
“He’s not a mob boss and he’s not a convict. And he’s—oh, shoot.” Mom fumbles with the keys for a second before cramming them into the ignition. I look out the window and see Dad running toward the car as if he’s being pursued by a cheetah. I dart my eyes around to try to see what he’s running from, and notice that a police cruiser has just pulled up next to the McDonald’s.
Dad jumps in the car and we start speeding off. “Where’s the food?” Rachel whines.
Jeremy shoots me an I-told-you-so look and nods his head back in the direction of the restaurant. I know what he’s thinking. If Dad’s not a criminal, why are we running from cops?
