Watch the Sky Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Kirsten Hubbard

  Cover photograph © 2015 by David Hughes

  Designed by Whitney Manger

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-0880-4

  Visit DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Signs

  Chapter 2: The Secret Sister

  Chapter 3: Scary Stories

  Chapter 4: There’s Something About That Man

  Chapter 5: Our Own Backyard

  Chapter 6: The Canyon Bottom

  Chapter 7: Worldbuilding

  Chapter 8: Tunnels

  Chapter 9: New Friends

  Chapter 10: Buried by Time

  Chapter 11: Made of Stars

  Chapter 12: The Day of Rest

  Chapter 13: Food with Faces

  Chapter 14: Alive

  Chapter 15: A Special Bond

  Chapter 16: Serendipity

  Chapter 17: Higher and Higher

  Chapter 18: The Barn

  Chapter 19: The Truth

  Chapter 20: Impossible

  Chapter 21: Panda

  Chapter 22: Friends

  Chapter 23: The Officials

  Chapter 24: Fire in the Sky

  Chapter 25: Extraordinary Darkness

  Chapter 26: Too Late

  Chapter 27: Crash

  Chapter 28: Skies That Spun and Stars That Fell

  Chapter 29: Heart to Heart

  Chapter 30: No Time at All

  Chapter 31: Danger

  Chapter 32: Tears Like Stars

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my (not so secret) sister

  FOR THE THIRD TIME IN OCTOBER, Mom woke Jory before dawn. “It’s arrived,” she told him.

  Jory sat up in bed, rubbing a dream from his eyes. It was gone already; all he could remember was darkness. “Is it a sign?”

  “It’s the paper.” Mom still wore her sleep-wrinkled nightdress, and her hair hung loose, unbrushed. Jory hadn’t seen her this disheveled since she’d worked overtime at the coffee shop. “Wake your sister and meet us on the patio, okay? Bring a light.”

  “But is it a sign? The paper?”

  “I don’t know.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “It might be.”

  Once the door closed, Jory kicked away his covers and stuffed his feet into his boots. The whole family wore them: combat boots with thick, ridged soles. Caleb, Jory’s stepdad called boots a man’s best friend. Jory never saw him without his. Sometimes they were dirt-caked in the morning, as if he spent all night working in the moonlit fields out back.

  Jory grabbed his flashlight, then hurried to his sister’s room. The family’s old farmhouse had low, sloped ceilings and narrow, creaky hallways. It seemed built for tunneling creatures instead of people, like the rabbit warrens he’d read about at school.

  “Kit?” Jory knocked twice, then opened her door. His sister’s bed was made, but she wasn’t in it. “Kit?” he tried again.

  She flung herself at him, all elbows and blackbird hair, nearly knocking him off his feet. Jory laughed and pushed her away. She spun twice and came to a stop, grinning, her pink cheeks in full bloom.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised she was awake. Kit was three years younger than Jory and had a way of knowing things.

  “We’ve got another family meeting,” he told her. “You’ve probably guessed.”

  She rolled her eyes. They were so large, Jory could practically hear their movement.

  “I know,” he said, messing up her dark hair. It was impossible to get a good night’s sleep, not knowing whether Mom might jostle them awake for an early-morning assembly. “But we don’t get to decide these things. Now, hurry up.” He motioned to Kit’s boots.

  Ignoring him, Kit jammed on her ballet slippers, the ones she’d been wearing the morning Jory had found her in the pumpkin field. Now they were tattered and dirty, splattered with paint. She wound herself in her flowered blanket and looked at him.

  “What?” he said.

  She stared harder, in that wordless way of hers.

  “Is it a sign, you mean?” Jory shrugged. “I don’t know. It might be.”

  Signs were everywhere.

  Everywhere and anywhere, Caleb said. That was the problem. They came at any time. And they could be almost anything.

  Red leaves in the springtime. Pages torn from a library book. All the fish in an aquarium facing the same way. A cracked egg with twin yolks.

  “How do you know?” Jory had asked his stepdad once. “I mean, how do you know you’re seeing a sign? Instead of a bunch of coincidental fish?”

  “You’ll just know,” Caleb had replied.

  Caleb was fickle with explanations. Sometimes he shared them. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had no problem giving orders—mostly camouflaged as suggestions.

  It’s good practice to keep our boots beside our beds. Just in case.

  It’s best not to speak to our neighbors.

  The old barn isn’t a safe place for children.

  We should all keep an eye out for signs.

  The whys, however, were much more rare. Like what the signs were for.

  Jory hoped intuition would explain it. The same intuition that steered him toward signs in the first place. Once Caleb just knew he’d found a sign, he’d just know what the sign meant, too.

  Which sounded good. But it also made Jory anxious. Sometimes his shoulders felt heavy by the end of the day, burdened by anticipation of any sudden certainty.

  Because signs could be anything.

  A car engine late at night. A squirrel corpse rotting on the side of the road with maggots in its eyes. Lights in the sky at twilight—always watch the sky, Caleb said.

  Because signs could be anything.

  Jory led Kit into the farmhouse’s patio. That’s what they called it, even though it wasn’t a real patio—there was no way outside. The single sliding door was padlocked shut.

  Mom and Caleb sat in the Adirondack chairs, their faces aglow in the lantern light. Caleb preferred lanterns to electric lamps. Another kind of “practice”—though he never said for what. But the shivering lights produced an atmospheric effect. They made Caleb’s every word seem profound.

  “’Morning, my birds,” Mom said.

  She’d brushed and braided her hair into a tidy, honey-colored rope. Ansel, Jory’s toddler brother, slept on her lap, his face buried in the crook of her arm.

  Caleb smiled at the family. Not with his mouth—with his eyes. Caleb’s eyes did all the expressing for his face, since his dense beard covered the rest of it. He had big round shoulders and what Mom called soldier’s hands: strong, callused, capable. Jory felt safe with him around.

  Except when he spoke about signs.

  “Everybody’s here? Good, that’s good.” Caleb nodded at Jory, appraising him. Then he turned to Kit. “Where are your boots?”

  Jory squeezed Kit’s hand, feeling annoyed with himself. He should have insisted she wear them. Even though Kit had no need for them. She never went anywhere, not even to school. Mom homeschooled Kit, just like she used to homeschool Jory.

  But boots were one of Caleb’s orders. Caleb wasn’t a violent man. He rarely even raised his voice. But he’d been a soldier in a desert war Jory didn’t know much about, and Jory di
dn’t want to test his temper.

  “It’s my fault,” Jory said. “I said she could wear her slippers. I know better.”

  “So does Kit.” Caleb’s eyes frowned. “There’s not much I ask of you, my family. But everything I do ask is for a reason. Go fetch your boots, Kit. We’ll wait.”

  Kit puffed out her cheeks, silent as ever.

  Caleb had little patience for Kit’s silence. Sometimes he would ask her questions, knowing she wouldn’t answer. “It’s because she’s got nothing inside her head,” he’d say, not quite serious, not quite joking.

  Jory knew that wasn’t true—Kit had an imagination twice the size of Jory’s. Anyone who watched their games would know that. Like pressing flowers between book pages, a game they called Naturemaking. Or spreading Kit’s flowered blanket in the fields for Cloudwatching—even if his sister didn’t speak, Jory liked to guess the cumulus creatures she had in mind. Or painting wooden houses for Worldbuilding, their favorite game of all.

  “Go on,” Jory said under his breath, and Kit scurried off. She returned a couple of minutes later, clad in combats like the rest of them.

  “Good,” Caleb said. “Let’s all have a seat.”

  Jory knelt against the wall, and Kit sat cross-legged beside him. The chill from the concrete floor seeped into his knees.

  “Shall we open it?” Caleb held up the newspaper.

  The family nodded.

  Ceremoniously, he unfolded the paper and shook it open. Jory saw what looked like stale white icing drizzled all over the pages. In some places, it covered entire paragraphs. Caleb scratched with his thumbnail, and the white came off in a fine powder, but the words underneath were still impossible to read.

  “Well, that’s that. It’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked.

  “I’m certain.”

  A sign. For certain. Jory felt his heart leap and his stomach drop simultaneously. Pick one or the other, he ordered his middle. “A sign of what?”

  “Communication’s the first thing to go—” Mom began.

  “That’s right,” Caleb interrupted. “They should have taught you that in school. What are they teaching kids nowadays, if not what to watch out for?”

  He looked at Jory like he expected an answer.

  “Um…pre-algebra?” Jory replied. “Social studies?”

  “Anyway,” Caleb continued, “it’s a sign. I’m certain. I just don’t know if it’s the one we’ve been waiting for.”

  He stared at the paper daubed in white. He stared and stared, until Kit’s sleepy head came to rest on Jory’s shoulder. Jory looked out the window to keep himself awake. The old barn carved a dark, angular shape in the early morning light. His old broken bicycle leaned against it. Beyond, the fields were golden-gray.

  Finally, Caleb leaned back in his seat.

  “It’s just not enough. Not yet.”

  Mom made a small sound of disappointment. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “When it’s the right time, we’ll know. We won’t have any doubts.”

  Jory felt disappointed, too. When Caleb was excited, he was electric, charging the air and igniting the entire family’s mood. When he wasn’t, the house seemed darker and narrower.

  “We’ve just been planning for so long…” Mom said.

  “We have. But even so, we’re not ready yet. Not even close.” Caleb began to fold the paper neatly, then changed his mind and crumpled it into a ball. He stood. “We should be thankful for every last hour we have, my family. When they arrive—when it finally happens, there’ll be no time left.” He nodded at Kit and Jory, touched Ansel’s cheek, and then disappeared inside the house.

  “When who arrive?” Jory asked Mom quietly.

  “When it’s safe for us to know, Caleb will tell us. Now, get some sleep, both of you.” She paused thoughtfully, smoothing back Ansel’s hair. “While you still have the chance.”

  JORY KNEW HIS FAMILY WAS DIFFERENT FROM OTHER FAMILIES.

  In books, that sort of thing usually involved immortality or magic powers at puberty or something. None of which seemed true for Jory—although from time to time, he stared in the mirror and wondered.

  No, Jory’s family was a different kind of different. He’d always suspected it, but returning to real school last year had confirmed it.

  Most kids had friends they hung out with after school. Most kids had mothers who left the house more than every couple of weeks. Most kids had siblings who spoke. And Jory never asked, but he was pretty sure nobody had stepdads who constantly talked about signs.

  And secrets.

  Sometimes Jory felt like he lived in a maze, with walls blocking off the best directions. There were just so many secrets. Secrets from him. Secrets from Kit. Secrets from the rest of the world.

  As far as he could tell, they all boiled down to this:

  Caleb knew something.

  Something big.

  Something the family needed to prepare for.

  That’s all Caleb had ever told them. Waiting for the facts, the details, the answers, was frustrating for Jory. But Mom promised and re-promised that Caleb would explain everything in good time. When it was safe.

  Keeping the family safe was Caleb’s main concern.

  Out of all the families in the world, Caleb had chosen Jory’s family to protect. He had chosen them to make his own, to spend his time and money on. Unlike Jory’s real father, who had chosen himself. He’d left for the city when Jory was five years old. “I’ll call when I get there,” he’d said, squatting down to Jory’s height. Then he’d walked past Mom and out the door.

  For nearly a year, the family was just Jory and Mom.

  Then it was Jory, Mom, and Caleb. Ansel came later.

  Kit came first.

  The first time Jory saw Kit, she was eating a pumpkin.

  Actually, before that, she was knocking on pumpkins. Jory had no idea she was going to eat one. If he had, he might have said something sooner.

  It was nearly three years ago; Jory was nine, so Kit was around six. He was heading out to check on the winter melons when he glimpsed her, creeping through the desiccated vines in nothing but overalls and ballet slippers. From time to time, she’d crouch down and rap her knuckles on one of the half-rotten, waxy orange globes.

  After a while, she stopped, settling on one particular pumpkin. She prodded the toe of her slipper in the dirt. Then she leaned over and clawed out a stone. She knelt again, raised her arm, and bashed the stone into the pumpkin.

  I should probably say something, Jory thought. Like Excuse me! That’s not your pumpkin, or Leave that poor pumpkin alone! Except less stupid-sounding. But he was captivated.

  When the girl pulled out the stone, a smile-shaped gash remained. She grinned right back. Then, as Jory watched, she slammed the stone into the pumpkin over and over, with what seemed like enough force to snap her skinny arms. She was stronger than she looked. Finally, a chunk of pumpkin flesh broke off, the color of canned macaroni.

  She shoved her small fist inside the hole and withdrew a handful of seed and guts.

  And then she ate them.

  Before Mom married Caleb, Jory had eaten plenty of disgusting things—mostly from the “Nobody wants these!” section at the supermarket. Vienna sausages. Imitation abalone. Expired onion soup. He hadn’t really minded; it was like a game they played, sampling the world’s strangest foods. Raw pumpkin beat them all, though. The gluey tendrils, the slimy seeds…

  Before he knew it, he was jogging over to her.

  “Hey!” he called.

  She froze, one arm still stuffed inside the pumpkin. Her dark hair stuck up in every direction, like rumpled blackbird feathers. Her eyes were enormous.

  “Do you need something to eat?”

  Silently, she stared at him.

  “We have plenty of food. You don’t have to eat—that.” He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the disemboweled pumpkin. “My family’s house is right there. Come on
, I’ll take you.”

  Jory held out his hand. She stared at it. “It’s okay,” he said. He started to wonder if she was right in the head. “My family’s nice. Really.”

  After a moment, she took his hand. Hers was sticky.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kit,” she whispered.

  That was all she ever said.

  “Are you sure Kit’s my sister?” Jory asked time and again. At least he knew what name to call her.

  “Of course she is,” Mom always replied. “You’re my son, and she’s my daughter. Which makes her your sister. And you her brother.”

  “But how do you know for certain?”

  “Mothers know their children, Jory. I’d recognize your voice in a chorus. I could find you in a crowd of thousands. A mother’s love is an invisible cord, linking her children heart to heart.”

  Which was sweet, but it didn’t exactly answer his question. Any of his questions. Like where had she come from? Where had she been? Why had she taken so long to arrive?

  What’s more, Kit didn’t look like Jory. His hair was light brown, while hers was nearly black. In a certain light, her brown eyes sort of looked hazel, like Jory’s. Her olive skin was several shades darker than his, though Mom said she was just suntanned.

  “Your sister’s come a long way,” she said.

  How far, Kit never told them. She never spoke at all. She never laughed or cried. She never even whimpered. If Jory hadn’t heard Kit speak in the pumpkin field, he wouldn’t have believed she knew how.

  Mom didn’t seem to mind, though. It only made her more determined to care for Kit. “She’s been through a lot,” she said. “She needs us. Even if she can’t use words to tell us.”

  Caleb, however, crossed his arms before he opened them. Jory remembered how his stepdad had watched Kit through squinted eyes, as if she were a curiosity, an alien moonstone fallen from the sky.

  “We don’t know where she’s been,” Caleb said. “Or who might be looking for her. I don’t want to compromise the safety of this family.”

  “But what about Kit’s safety?” Mom asked. “Nobody can keep her safe like we can.”

  Mom rarely asked for anything, but she asked for Kit. And finally, Caleb conceded. “As long as she behaves,” he said. “And as long as Jory can keep her a secret, until we know more about her.”