Traveler, L.E. DeLano [book series for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

or even met anyone interesting.

Like a hot guy who can travel through dreams and reality.

I catch my reflection in the mirror across from my bed and stick my tongue out at it. I am certifiably crazy.

I scroll through the received calls on my phone and look at his phone number. I want to dial it just so I can scream into the phone, Why are you messing with my brain?

But I guess that would definitely be crazy. Worse, he’ll probably have an answer for that.

Come on, St. Clair. No guts, no glory.

Great. I sound like Ben now.

I finally text Finn.

I press send. It’s late. He’s probably busy. Or asleep.

The phone rings less than thirty seconds later. I glance down at it in dismay. I let it ring twice more before I tap the answer button with entirely too much force.

“Why are you calling me? I texted you,” I say angrily.

“I’m aware of that,” he replies, completely unconcerned. “So what do you want? You reached out to me, remember?”

“And you were supposed to text me back,” I say, still perturbed that he’s broken a serious social rule here.

“Sorry. I prefer conversation.” He lets out an audible sigh.

“What if—what if I don’t want to do this?” I ask tentatively. “If I decide to be a normal person, maybe whoever it is that’s hunting me will leave me alone.”

“But you’re not a normal person,” he says. “It’s a moot point. And that wouldn’t stop them. They’ve killed you before, and they’ll kill you again. They’ve already tried once.”

“We don’t know that for sure. That one was my fault. I walked into the forklift.”

“You keep coming up with excuses,” he says. “But this is your life now. You are a Traveler, and we need your help to figure out how to save you. Do you really want to ignore what you are and just be a sitting duck?”

I am suddenly incredibly tired.

“I don’t want to hear any more about it, Finn.”

“You need to hear it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Or you wouldn’t have called.”

“Texted.”

“Whatever.”

I punch the end button and throw the phone down on the bedcovers.

12

The Other Side

I wake the next morning to Danny, sitting on my bed and shaking my shoulder so hard my teeth rattle.

“Ugh…,” I say. “Danny, get off.” I yank at the covers he’s sitting on, trying to roll over, but I give up. He won’t be budged.

“You have to get up,” he says. “You have to work soon.”

I glance at the clock. “Not till one,” I tell him. “It’s only eleven.”

“You have to get up,” he insists. “Mom said to make sure.”

“I’m up, I’m up.” I sit up in bed so he’ll leave, mentally cursing my mother as he shuts the door behind him.

I roll out of bed, spread the covers back up, and slide into some plain gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt before I brush my teeth. I took a shower before bed last night, and my hair is skewed from sleeping on it wet. I shove it back into a ponytail, and I’m staring at myself in the mirror.

My eyes shift away from the face in front of me, noting the hoodie hanging over the back of the chair behind me, the book on the edge of the bed, the messy coverlet.…

But I made my bed. I resist the urge to turn around and check. I know it, though. I had set the book on the end of my neatly made bed. I would bet money on it. As I look longer, the hoodie on the back of the chair seems to deepen from navy into black. My carpet gives way to hardwood, with a rug over it. My room seems to grow longer and wider, and a computer desk appears next to my bed.

I put my hand to the glass, and she does the same. A moment later, I am through.

My room is very different. She’s really into black-light posters, for some reason. And it’s messy—not only is the bed not made, but clothes are strewn everywhere and the dresser is cluttered. Books are lying on the floor, and I don’t recognize the titles.

I move out of my room, down the stairs, and into the rest of the house, which appears to be quiet, for the most part. The place is wild to look at—the walls are all different colors than they are in my house, shades of blue and green instead of sand and tan. There are strange bohemian pictures and pieces of artwork everywhere, and the curtains have been replaced with pouffy, patterned scarves, draped artlessly over elaborate curtain rods.

“Interesting,” I say. “It looks like Walt Disney threw up in here.”

There’s got to be somebody around somewhere. I realize that I know my way through the house, even though it’s not really anything like mine.

I continue on through the house until I reach the French doors, which open up onto what I know before I see it is a spacious deck, overlooking a very large, very green backyard. The kitchen is off to the left, and I’m surprised for a moment to see my brother, rummaging through the cupboards. His hair is shorter, and he’s not quite as chubby, though still solidly built.

“Danny? Hey, are you looking for something?” I ask.

He turns and looks me right in the eye. “Do you know where Mom put the Oreos? I swear, she hides them from me. I think she wants them for herself.”

I stare at him, openmouthed.

“Jess?” He waves his hand side to side. “You’re zoning out on me.”

“N-no, I don’t know what she did with them,” I manage to answer.

He lets out a sigh. “Okay. Change of plans. Guess I’ll make popcorn.”

He goes back to rummaging, and I am frozen.

I cannot imagine Danny without his autism. It’s as much a part of him as his brown hair or his love of video games. Part of me says I don’t know this other guy, but I know I do.

I know he played