Free Under Their Skin by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

head, inched slightly closer to the house, and peeked in the nearest window.

SIXTEEN
    â€œLet me see too,” Nick hissed, coming up behind Eryn.
    She turned her head just enough to frown at him, but scooted slightly to the left.
    Eryn’s shovel was in his way, so he took it from her and tucked it—and his own—under the tree branches, mostly out of sight. Then he pressed his forehead against the cold bottom pane of the window, his face just high enough to bring his eyes level with the lowest part of the glass. He could see a living room—or maybe it was a family room—with floral couches and ruffled curtains. He felt sorry for Jackson, and maybe for Ava, too; apparently their mom liked stupid fussy, frilly stuff.
    Then Nick realized Ava and Jackson were sitting on one of the couches.
    Why did it take me so long to notice them? Nick wondered.
    How had they blended in so completely with the flowery pattern?
    They were sitting so still. Nick had never known anyone his own age who could sit completely motionless like that.
    Both of them held laptops against their knees, and maybe their eyes flicked back and forth, reading the screens. But they were both turned sideways, so Nick couldn’t tell for sure.
    â€œIt’s definitely them, right?” Nick whispered to Eryn.
    She nodded without glancing his way.
    Nick wasn’t sure why he’d had to ask. Both Ava and Jackson looked exactly like the pictures back at Mom and Michael’s house. Nick didn’t have any way to measure it, of course, but he would have said their hair was exactly the same length; the scar in Jackson’s eyebrow was just as distinct.
    Why did that seem odd?
    Nick heard footsteps inside the house and ducked his head down. Then curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked over the window ledge again.
    A woman was standing in a doorway behind Ava and Jackson. She had the same reddish hair as Ava, but hers was even longer, falling in waves halfway to her waist. She was wearing a thick green sweater over a pair of jeans that looked strangely tattered and worn for someone who owned such frilly, prissy couches.
    Evidently she’d just called out to Ava and Jackson, because they finally moved—finally proved themselves capable of movement—by turning to face her.
    â€œKeep watching,” Nick whispered to Eryn. “I’ll listen.”
    He turned his head to press an ear rather than his eyebrows against the glass.
    â€œâ€”work on your research for those essays,” the woman was saying, her voice distant and swimmy through the glass. “I want to see true, high-quality sixth-grade work.”
    So they’re in sixth grade like Eryn and me? Nick thought. They really are the same age as us?
    The woman was still talking.
    â€œI’m going to chop vegetables for the soup. Doesn’t this cold weather make you want soup?”
    Nick didn’t hear Ava or Jackson answer, but they’d probably just grunted or shrugged. That’s what Nick did when Mom asked stupid questions like that.
    He heard footsteps again, like the woman was walking away.
    He went back to looking in the window. Ava and Jackson didn’t move. Ava and Jackson didn’t move. Ava and Jackson didn’t move.
    â€œOh, this is thrilling,” Nick complained to Eryn.
    â€œWait,” Eryn whispered back. “I’m thinking.”
    â€œThink about the fact that we don’t have forever,” Nick said. “Think about the fact that if we aren’t back home before Mom and Michael get there, they’ll kill us. We’ll be grounded until we’re thirty.”
    â€œWe won’t ever turn thirty if they kill us,” Eryn said.
    â€œExactly. So we’d be grounded forever.”
    But Eryn probably didn’t hear his witty comeback, because just then a blast of music came from the back of the house—probably from the kitchen where the woman had gone to chop vegetables. It was