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Email Address never made public. Follow Following. Caught Between the Pages Join 1, other followers. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. For one thing, I only have one, maybe two friends. And for another, I like movies where things blow up. Or at least I used to. Until things around me actually started blowing up on a more or less regular basis.
Now I like to see movies about cartoon aliens that come to live with little girls in Hawaii, or fish that are lost. That sort of thing. It took a long time, but I did it. I have what, by any standards, could be called a normal life. I live in a normal apartment, with a normal roommate. We do normal things, like shop for groceries together, and order in Chinese food, and watch the dumb TV shows she likes so much. And okay, Ruth tries to get me to go out all the time, like to concerts in the park, or whatever.
But hey, she got me my summer job. A summer job that pays hardly anything? Fortunately, with my pension from the FBI—yeah, I was on salary. But they had to pay me. Are you kidding? Like I was going to work for them for free? Ruth and I split everything, the cost of groceries, the rent—which is pretty high, even though we only have a one bedroom, which we also split. Ruth got a job at this not-for-profit group. She heard about it off the Summer Employment board at school.
She ended up going to Columbia, after being admitted to every single school she applied to. What can putting on a play during day camp do for some kid whose mom is a crackhead? Then one day Ruth forgot her wallet at home and needed me to bring it to her. So I did, even though this put a major cramp in my practicing. But it ended up being worth it.
Because I saw right away that I was wrong. Putting on a play at camp can make a huge difference to a kid, even a kid with serious problems at home not like having a dad in a U. I mean, I suppose I could have gotten a summer job doing this in an orchestra. But have you ever hung out with people in an orchestra?
This rules. Because their eyes get so big when I rip through something really fast, like Flight of the Bumblebee or some Tchaikovsky, and then I tell them I can teach them how to do it, too, if they just practice. You CAN. And then I show them. Skip says Ruth should have gotten an internship at some advertising company, and that these kids are never going to amount to anything no matter how much art we throw at them.
He gets the floor. Skip called dibs on the couch first. Mike—who ended up at Indiana University, as well, after having deferred admission to Harvard, due to being in love with a girl who later dumped him for a guy she met doing summer stock in the Michigan dunes. We are no longer allowed to mention the name Claire Lippman in our house—is in New York for a summer job that involves a think tank and computers and tracking cyber-terrorists.
Sort of like what I was doing during the war, only he gets to do it from a cubicle on the Columbia campus instead of a tent in a sandy desert. Both Skip and Mikey are yelling the questions to the Jeopardy! Skip is getting most of them wrong. Mike is getting most of them right. He works in a comic-book shop and has been doing some drawing of his own. I personally never thought Skip would make it—without someone killing him for being such an annoying parasite—but according to him, when he graduates from the Kelly School of Business, which he is now attending, he will land a job making over a hundred thousand dollars a year.
Sometimes I let him take me out anyway, because, whatever, free food. A girl could do worse. I thought I had, once, a long time ago.
So you can imagine my surprise when—just as Ruth was going, Okay, seriously, you guys, we HAVE to get a share somewhere this summer. I mean it. Skip, are you listening? I am not spending August sweltering in the Manhattan heat. Jess, Rob said, looking past me into the living room, where Skip and Mike were sprawled across the couch like a couple of beached tunas. Is this a bad time? Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search.
User Settings. Skip carousel. Carousel Previous. Carousel Next. What is Scribd? Cancel anytime. Start your free 30 days Read preview. Publisher: HarperTeen. Released: Oct 6, ISBN: Format: Book. Missing You , the fifth and final book in the Where-R-You series. About the author. Read more. Related Books. Related categories Skip carousel. But it was no bed of roses for me, believe me.
I tried to do it from home at first, and then later, from Washington. But I found them. I found them all. And then the nightmares came. Well, since I started going to Juilliard last year, I have. That part kills me every time. Sometimes Mike talks about his job to us. So I guess I was wrong about Skip, too. But it turned out I was wrong. You would think a psychic would have a little warning about these things. Two Jess, Rob said, looking past me into the living room, where Skip and Mike were sprawled across the couch like a couple of beached tunas.
Jess, is this a bad time? I really was. Douglas had no right to go around talking about them. Well, no, because he has no exes. No way. I asked, okay? Covered in prickles.
Because I was so angry, I told myself. That was the only reason. Now you know. Clearly stung, Rob blinked at me from across the table. Or Tell It to the Hand.
The rest of the time, you seem to forget it all conveniently enough. I noticed the only other couple in the place was glancing at us surreptitiously from behind their menus.
I guess our conversation HAD gotten pretty heated. I understand that you were under unbelievable pressure, and that you saw things no one your age—or any age—should have seen. Whatever it is you saw out there—it broke you. Those people—the government—used you until they had everything they wanted from you—until you had nothing else to give—and then they cut you loose, with a thank you and smile.
And you came back. Rescue yourself, then…if you can. But you were never a mind reader. I stared down at the photo sitting between us on the tabletop, not really seeing it, I was so blinded by anger. That I was angry. How dare he? I mean, seriously, where did he get off?
Messed up. I was messed up. But not letting anyone try to help me? No, I had let people help me. The people who really cared about me, anyway.
The part of me that used to be able to find people, maybe. But not ME. Because if that were true—what he was saying—then the past twelve months of coldness between us—Rob and me, I mean—were…what?
MY fault? Rob looked surprised. And his gaze fell to the picture in my hand. Rob knit his brows.
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