Chaos on CatNet, Naomi Kritzer [bill gates books recommendations txt] 📗

for me, and that thought makes me want to run to the bathroom and throw up.

She knows about Glenys and me—and she thinks it’s my fault. What will she do to me if she does come for me? Locking me up in a shed is the least of it.

My phone pings, and I pick it up. It’s a number I don’t recognize, sending me a photo of a sign that says, YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM GOD. My stomach lurches, and I cover my mouth until it settles back down. Would they be able to hide me from Cat? Cat found the Fatherhold and Glenys’s family car. Would Cat be able to track my mother’s car and find me?

Would Steph and Rachel mount a rescue if I were the one in trouble?

Why should they? says a part of me that’s been silent for years now. My father never did.

Thing Two comes out with two cups of coffee and hands me one that tastes like coffee ice cream. Hers is black. She sips it for a minute, then asks, “Do you want pancakes? I could make some, but only if you’re going to eat them. Your dad and Siobhan got up early and went cross-country skiing, and they usually go for brunch after, so they won’t be around to help eat them.”

Siobhan is Thing Three. “She’s not even his girlfriend,” I say, distracted by the illogic of this.

Thing Two’s mouth twitches like she’s suppressing a smile. “They’re the ones who like skiing,” she says. “We all like each other’s company. That’s why we live together.”

“Okay,” I say, not really wanting her to get any further into this. “Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Maybe another hour?” She pauses. “Is there something you need right now?”

I don’t even know how to ask for what I need, or what to say. After two silent beats pass, she pulls out a chair and sits down across from me to drink her coffee.

I still don’t know how to start. She waits.

“I found something out this weekend,” I say finally, hoping she doesn’t demand excessive details like how I found this out. “My mom definitely wasn’t kidnapped. She just left. Which means she could show up whenever and just take me, I think. And I really don’t want that to happen.”

Thing Two is silent for a second, starts to speak, cuts herself off, and finally asks, “Do you have some reason to think she might show up? Has she contacted you?”

I pull out my phone and hand over the picture of my mother, holding the TURN AROUND OR FACE JUDGMENT sign.

Thing Two looks at the photo for a long moment, then hands me back my phone, her face sober. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll make an appointment with a lawyer. I don’t actually know all that much about how custody stuff works, but there’s got to be something we can file or claim or … I don’t know. But I’m sure we can keep your mom from just showing up and taking you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and then, because I know she prefers this to “Ms. Hands-Renwick,” I add, “Jenny.” My voice creaks a little, but I don’t think she notices.

Thing Two puts her coffee down and looks searchingly into my face as I don’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m happy to do it, Nell. We’ll call today.”

27•  Steph  •

“What should I call you?” I ask my grandmother.

“You called me Mimi, when you were little,” she says.

My grandmother is seated on the couch. I sit down on the chair opposite her, too tense to settle back. Apricot rubs up against my ankle, and I lean down to scratch her head. My mother stands in the doorway, hands clasped, clearly trying not to fidget.

“Do you remember me?” she asks.

“No,” I say, and then add apologetically, “I really don’t remember much from before we started running.” How do you even have a conversation like this? Usually when I’m meeting a new person, they don’t bring any expectation that I’m going to know who they are. Mom said she grew roses competitively, but I have no idea how to turn that into a conversational topic.

“I thought you were coming later this week,” I say.

“That was my plan, but Dan—that’s my husband, your mother’s stepfather—saw how wound up I was, waiting, and suggested I just rebook my ticket and go right away. I couldn’t get over the fear that if I waited, you’d disappear again like you did that time in Oklahoma.”

“I mailed that postcard on my way out of town,” Mom says. “I didn’t disappear; I told you I wouldn’t be there.”

“Can’t blame a mother for trying. Imagine how you’d feel if your daughter up and disappeared.”

“Sounds stressful,” Mom says dryly, and shoots a sideways glance at me. “Are you going to take off your coat, Mom?”

“It’s freezing here,” my grandmother says. “Even indoors. I don’t know how you live like this!”

I hand her a throw blanket, and my grandmother—Mimi, I say silently to myself—shrugs out of her coat and delicately unfolds the throw blanket across her lap. “Have you considered moving home to Houston?” she asks.

My mother starts to say something noncommittal and then catches my eye and says, “No. I like Minnesota. We’re going to stay here.”

My grandmother launches into a digression about things that Houston has that Minneapolis doesn’t, and I excuse myself to the bathroom as my mother points out that “flooding” and “enormous flying cockroaches” and “alligators” should all be on the list. While on the toilet, I text CheshireCat and ask, Is this actually my grandmother? She’s not some imposter sent by my father?

CheshireCat earnestly reassures me that this appears to genuinely be Rose Packet, who, according to public records databases, is the mother of Laura Packet, and her email and social media are filled with nothing but genuine and sincere joy at reestablishing contact with us. Sometimes they aren’t entirely clear on what a human will consider to be good news. It’s not that I’m not