Instead, Jeb wanted to pack me into a little jet, like a sardine. A sullen, feathery sardine.
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“Max,” Jeb said more softly, and I automatically went on guard. “Don’t you trust me?”
Six pairs of flock eyes turned toward him. Seven, if you counted Total.
I mentally reviewed possible responses:
1) Sardonic laughter (always good)
2) Rolled eyes and snort of disbelief
3) Sarcastic “You have got to be kidding me.”
Any of those responses would have been fine. But lately I had grown up a bit. A little heartbreak, a little fighting to the death, finding out who my real parents were — it all aged a girl.
So instead I looked at Jeb and said evenly, “No. But I trust my mother, and she apparently trusts you. So, little tin-can jet it is.”
I walked steadily toward the plane, seeing the glimpse of pain and regret in Jeb’s eyes. Would I ever be able to forgive him for all the heinous things he had done to me, to the flock? He’d had his reasons; he’d thought he was helping, thought it was for the greater good, thought it would help me in my mission.
Well, la-di-dah for him. I don’t forgive that easy.
And I never, ever forget.
5
THE JET DIDN’T HAVE normal rows of seats. It looked more like a living room inside, with couches and easy chairs and coffee tables. There were more Secret Service agents here, and to tell you the truth, they gave me the creeps — even though I knew they were the same people who sometimes protected the president. But there’s something about plain black suits, sunglasses, and little headsets that just automatically makes me twitchy.
Combine that with the inevitable heart-pounding claustrophobia that came from being enclosed in a small space, and I was basically ready to shred anyone who talked to me.
On the other hand, if anything dicey happened to the plane, I knew six flying kids who would come out okay.
I did a quick 360 of the plane’s interior. Angel and Total were curled up on a small couch, asleep. The Gasman and Fang were playing poker, using pennies as chips. Iggy was sprawled in a lounger, listening to the iPod my mom had given him.
“I’m Kevin Okun, your steward. Would you like a soda?” A very handsome man holding drinks stopped by my chair.
Don’t mind if I do, Kevin Okun. “Uh, a Diet Coke? One that hasn’t been opened yet.” Can’t be too careful.
He handed me a sealed can and a plastic cup of ice. Across from me, Nudge sat up eagerly. “Do you have Barq’s? It’s root beer. I had it in New Orleans, and it’s fabulous.”
“I’m sorry — no Barq’s,” said Kevin Okun, our steward.
“Okay,” said Nudge, disappointed. “Do you have any Jolt?”
“Well, that has a lot of caffeine,” he said.
I looked at Nudge. “Yeah, because after everything we’ve been through, we’re worried about your caffeine intake.”
She grinned, her smooth tan face lighting up.
The steward put the drink on the little table between me and Nudge.
“Thank you,” Nudge said. The steward headed back to the galley, and Nudge reached for the can.
When her hand was still a couple of inches away, the can slid toward her fingers, and she grabbed it.
Instantly we looked at each other.