Meg Cabot: Missing You

MEG CABOT

MISSING YOU1-800-WHERE-R-YOU

For all the readers who asked for it

Contents

One

My name is Jessica Mastriani.

Two

“Jess,” Rob said, looking past me into the living room,…

Three

New York isn’t like Indiana.

Four

“You need me to WHAT?”

Five

“Are you kidding me?” was what Ruth demanded, after I’d…

Six

At precisely eight o’clock the next morning, I banged on…

Seven

“Better let me in,” I said.

Eight

Rob was on the phone when I tugged open the…

Nine

I returned to my parents’ house to find a party…

Ten

“Everyone, if you could take your seats, please.”

Eleven

I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I just…

Twelve

“But, seriously, Jess,” Rob said. “How’d you know?”

Thirteen

I turned around to find Mom on the front porch,…

Fourteen

When I came downstairs the next morning, it was to…

Fifteen

Both Randys were busy gaping at me when the intercom…

Sixteen

When we emerged from the DA’s office several hours later—I…

Seventeen

It was all about me. Every page in the album—and…

Eighteen

It wasn’t until I’d gotten out of Chick’s truck that…

Nineteen

“Ruth?”

Twenty

He woke up before I did.

Twenty-one

It wasn’t until the ambulance had taken Randy away—in police…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Meg Cabot

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

My name is Jessica Mastriani.

You might have heard of me. It’s fine with me if you haven’t, though. In fact, I kind of prefer it that way.

The reason you might have heard of me is that I’m the one the press kept calling “Lightning Girl,” because I got struck by lightning a few years ago and developed this so-called psychic power to find missing people in my dreams.

It was this very big deal at the time. At least in Indiana, which is where I’m from. There was even a TV show about me, based on my life. It wasn’t EXACTLY based on my life. I mean, they made a lot of stuff up. Like about me going to Quantico to train as an FBI agent. That never happened. Oh, and they killed off my dad on the show, too. In real life, he’s actually alive and well.

But I didn’t mind (though my dad wasn’t too happy about it) because they still had to pay me. For the right to use my name and my story and all of that. It ended up being quite a lot of money, even though the show is only on cable, not even one of the main networks.

My parents take the checks I get every month and invest them for me. I haven’t even had to touch the capital yet. I just spend a little bit of the interest now and then, like when I run short on cash for food or the rent or whatever. Which isn’t that often lately, because I’ve got a summer job, and all. Not the world’s greatest job or anything. But at least it’s not with the FBI, like on the TV show about me.

I did work for the FBI for a while. There was this special division, headed by this guy, Cyrus Krantz. I worked for them for almost a year.

See, it wasn’t supposed to go the way it did. My life, I mean. First there was the whole getting struck by lightning thing. That so wasn’t in the plans. Not that anyone—anyone sane, anyway—would CHOOSE to get struck by lightning and get psychic powers, because, trust me on this, it completely sucks. I mean, I guess it’s all right for the people I helped.

But it was no bed of roses for me, believe me.

Then there was the war. Like the lightning, it just came from out of nowhere. And like the lightning, it changed everything. Not just the fact that suddenly, everyone on our street back in Indiana had an American flag in their front yard, and we were all glued to CNN 24/7. For me, a lot more changed than just that. I mean, I hadn’t even finished high school yet, and still, Uncle Sam was all, “I WANT YOU.”

And the thing was, they needed me.Really needed me. Innocent people were dying. What was I going to do, say no?

Although the truth is, I tried to say no at first. Until my brother Douglas—the one I’d always thought would be the most against my going—was the one who went, “Jess. What are you doing? Youhave to go.”

So I went.

At first they said I could work from home. Which was good, because I really needed to finish twelfth grade, and all.

But there were people they needed to find, fast. What was I supposed to do? It was awar.

I know to most people, the war was, like, somewhere way over there. Your average American, I bet they didn’t even THINK about it, except, you know, when they turned on the news at night and saw people getting blown up and stuff. “This many U.S. Marines were killed today,” they’d say on the news. The next day, people heard, “We found this many terrorists hiding in a cave in the hills of Afghanistan.”

Well, it wasn’t like that for me. I didn’t get to see the war on the news. Instead, I saw it live. Because I was there. I was there because I was the one telling them which of those caves to look in for those people they needed to find so badly.

I tried to do it from home at first, and then later, from Washington.

But a lot of times, when I’d tell them where to go look, they’d go there and then they’d come back and be all, “There’s no one there.”

But I knew they were wrong. Because I was never wrong. Or I guess I should say mypower never was.

So finally I was like, “Look, just send me there, and I’ll SHOW you.”

Some of the people I found, you heard about on the news. Other people I found, they kept secret. Some of the people I found, we couldn’t get to, on account of where they were hiding, deep in the mountains. Some of the people I found, they decided just to keep tabs on, and wait it out. Some of the people I found ended up dead.

But I found them. I found them all.

And then the nightmares came. And I couldn’t sleep anymore.

Which meant I couldn’t find anyone anymore. Because I couldn’t dream.

Posttraumatic stress syndrome. Or PTSS. That’s what they called it, anyway. They tried everything they could think of to help me. Drugs. Therapy. A week by a big fancy pool in Dubai. None of it worked. I still couldn’t sleep.

So, in the end, they sent me home, thinking maybe I’d get better there, once everything was back to normal again.

The problem with that was, when I got home? Everything wasn’t back to normal again. Everything was different.

I guess that’s not fair. I guess what it was, was thatI was different. Not everyone else. I mean, you see stuff like that—kids screaming at you not to take their father, things blowing up…peopleblowing up—and you’re only seventeen years old, or whatever—hey, even if you’re forty—it makes it hard just to come back home a year later, and, like…do what? Go to the mall? Get a pedicure? WatchSpongeBob SquarePants ?

Please.

But I couldn’t go back to doing what I’d been doing, either. I mean, for the FBI. I couldn’t findmyself , let alone anyone else. Because I wasn’t “Lightning Girl” anymore.

What I was, I was discovering slowly, was something I hadn’t been for a long time:

I was normal.

As normal as a girl like me CAN be, anyway. I mean, I CHOOSE to wear my hair almost as short as some of the marines I worked with.

And I will admit to having a certain affection for hogs. The motorcycle kind. Not the roll-around-in-mud kind.