Arcadia by James Treadwell Page B

superior look and says nothing.
    â€œI’m telling Mum. If you don’t tell me, I’m telling everyone.”
    How has he let this happen? Today’s turning out like quicksand. Every step he takes sinks him deeper.
    â€œRight now,” she says, stamping a few theatrical steps away. “I’m going! Here I go.”
    She doesn’t mean it, of course. But the mere sight of her moving away gives him a sudden brainwave.
    â€œAll right,” he says, straightening up.
    She squints suspiciously.
    â€œI’ll show you,” he says.
    He has the satisfaction of seeing her lumpy face wash over with awestruck wonder.
    â€œBut,” he says. The brainwave’s already beginning to fizzle a bit. He keeps talking, surfing it as long as he can. “You have to stay here. You can’t come with me. Or it won’t work.”
    â€œWhat won’t work?”
    â€œSeeing Them. I have to go on my own. If She’s— If They’re there”—he’s horrified that he’s spoken Her name in front of Pink—“I’ll come back and tell you.”
    She’s paralyzed with an incredulous thrill. “Really?”
    â€œYeah. But you can’t come. You have to wait.”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œDo you want to see Them or not?”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œOK, then.” He can’t believe this is actually going to work, but when he takes a step back she stays rooted to the spot. “So, stay here.”
    â€œHow long?” she says. Her voice is whispery and tight.
    â€œI’ll be back in a bit.” He was about to forget the plastic bag, the bag of food. He grabs it quickly.
    â€œWait,” she says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œToo late,” he says.
    She grabs his arm. “I don’t. I’m scared.”
    This gives him the chance to use the only line that ever works on her. “Don’t be such a baby.”
    â€œI’m not a baby!”
    â€œThen why are you scared?”
    â€œIs it safe?” she says.
    â€œâ€™Course it is. You just keep gathering stuff. I’ll come back and tell you if it’s OK. They might not be there.”
    â€œWait!”
    â€œChickening out?”
    â€œNo!” she says.
    â€œRight, then,” Rory says triumphantly, and scampers away through the trees. She squeaks at him to stop but she’s wavering, he can tell by the sound of her, so he keeps going. The bag bangs on his knees. She’s not following. Another few steps and it’ll be too late for her to change her mind. He puts in a burst of speed. He’s done it!
    Almost done it. He remembers about the clothes.
    But it’s easier to think now there’s no idiotic chatter in his ears. He’s on his own, he can work it out. He’s going to have to get to the Stash, which is in one of the houses that belonged to the Club, across on the other side of the island. That’s where they’ve gathered everything they found in all the different abandoned houses, all the clothes and towels and blankets and curtains and paper rolls. There are tons of clothes in there, that’s not a problem. The problem is that there’s almost always someone around that part of Home, working in the Drying Room or on the Beach or the old Laundry, and if anyone sees him it’ll be a disaster. He’s about to head that way anyway—he’ll just have to be careful and hope for the best—when his brainwave surges again, prompted by a glimpse of a dirty white house at the edge of the trees.
    The solution’s so obvious and simple and perfect it almost bowls him over.
    The dirty white house is The Larches. It’s the one Molly and Ol used, because of all the houses that didn’t get wrecked it’s farthest from any view of the water. And since it’s Ol’s house, all his clothes must still be there.
    It’s not like he needs them