Read Online Found by Margaret Peterson Haddix - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Peterson Haddix
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and a whirling head weren’t going to stop him.
“Which country was it?” Jonah asked.
“Pardon?” Mr. Reardon asked.
“Which country?” Jonah repeated. “I see where you’re going with all this. Some smuggling ring brought me into the United States, the government busted up the smuggling ring, you gave me to a regular adoption agency, and then Mom and Dad got me. I’m really glad you didn’t send me back, if it was one of those countries where people live on five dollars a year. But it would be nice to know where I came from. Just so—just to know.”
Jonah was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. Really, who cares? He thought. He’d always known his DNA came from strangers; did it really matter if they were strangers from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China instead of Kansas or Kentucky or Maine?
Jonah glanced down and caught a glimpse of his arm: pale skin, light brown hairs, an occasional freckle. Okay, he guessed he couldn’t be from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China. Which poor country had people who looked like him?
It would be nice to know.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Reardon said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re asking me for information that I’m not authorized to provide.”
“Then—who would be?”
Mr. Reardon shrugged.
“Nobody.”
It doesn’t matter , Jonah told himself. I don’t care. But that wasn’t true. The room seemed to whirl around him—the room full of lies, Mr. Reardon’s lying words, Jonah’s lying thoughts. He shook his head dizzily. Mom reached out and placed her hand over his, just as she’d done with Dad.
Jonah didn’t shove it away.
“It seems to me,” Dad said slowly, “that my son’s question is perfectly reasonable.” Jonah was relieved to see that Dad had apparently calmed down now or at least was keeping himself under better control. “I don’t quite understand the need for all this secrecy. Don’t law enforcement agencies usually want to publicize big arrests? Aren’t smuggling busts public information?”
“Not always,” Mr. Reardon said. “Many times we have strong reasons to keep something like this secret. And I can’t tell you the reasons without giving away the secrets. Quite a quandary, isn’t it?”
Dad and Mr. Reardon seemed to be staring each other down.
“I understand,” Dad said, “that there are ways for American citizens to request information that they believe should be open to the public. My wife and I could make a Freedom of Information request. We could file a lawsuit if we had to. We would be willing to do that, on our son’s behalf.”
Dad wasn’t blinking—but neither was Mr. Reardon.
Jonah was. He was actually scrunching up his entire face, trying to understand. Was Dad threatening to sue? Mom and Dad weren’t the type to go around filing lawsuits. They were turn-the-other-cheek types.
“You could do those things,” Mr. Reardon agreed, “but you might want to consider your actions very, very carefully. Sometimes there are…repercussions. I think your son’s documentation is in order, but perhaps if we were forced to revisit his case, we might discover some unfortunate discrepancies. Did you hear about the Venezuelan boy who was deported recently? He was only seventeen years old, he’d spent his whole life in the U.S. except for the first three months, he didn’t even speak Spanish, but”—another careless shrug—“he wasn’t here legally. I’m sure he’ll survive in Venezuela somehow.”
“Are you threatening us?” Mom asked in a shrill, unnatural voice Jonah was sure he’d never heard her use before. Her hand pressed down on Jonah’s. Jonah thought about all those times she’d given him her hand to squeeze when he was a little kid getting shots or that time he had to have sixteen stitches in his knee. Now she was squeezing his hand just as hard. “You couldn’t take him away from us. We wouldn’t let him go. He’s our son!”
“ Is he?” Mr. Reardon asked. “What if his real
“Which country was it?” Jonah asked.
“Pardon?” Mr. Reardon asked.
“Which country?” Jonah repeated. “I see where you’re going with all this. Some smuggling ring brought me into the United States, the government busted up the smuggling ring, you gave me to a regular adoption agency, and then Mom and Dad got me. I’m really glad you didn’t send me back, if it was one of those countries where people live on five dollars a year. But it would be nice to know where I came from. Just so—just to know.”
Jonah was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. Really, who cares? He thought. He’d always known his DNA came from strangers; did it really matter if they were strangers from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China instead of Kansas or Kentucky or Maine?
Jonah glanced down and caught a glimpse of his arm: pale skin, light brown hairs, an occasional freckle. Okay, he guessed he couldn’t be from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China. Which poor country had people who looked like him?
It would be nice to know.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Reardon said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re asking me for information that I’m not authorized to provide.”
“Then—who would be?”
Mr. Reardon shrugged.
“Nobody.”
It doesn’t matter , Jonah told himself. I don’t care. But that wasn’t true. The room seemed to whirl around him—the room full of lies, Mr. Reardon’s lying words, Jonah’s lying thoughts. He shook his head dizzily. Mom reached out and placed her hand over his, just as she’d done with Dad.
Jonah didn’t shove it away.
“It seems to me,” Dad said slowly, “that my son’s question is perfectly reasonable.” Jonah was relieved to see that Dad had apparently calmed down now or at least was keeping himself under better control. “I don’t quite understand the need for all this secrecy. Don’t law enforcement agencies usually want to publicize big arrests? Aren’t smuggling busts public information?”
“Not always,” Mr. Reardon said. “Many times we have strong reasons to keep something like this secret. And I can’t tell you the reasons without giving away the secrets. Quite a quandary, isn’t it?”
Dad and Mr. Reardon seemed to be staring each other down.
“I understand,” Dad said, “that there are ways for American citizens to request information that they believe should be open to the public. My wife and I could make a Freedom of Information request. We could file a lawsuit if we had to. We would be willing to do that, on our son’s behalf.”
Dad wasn’t blinking—but neither was Mr. Reardon.
Jonah was. He was actually scrunching up his entire face, trying to understand. Was Dad threatening to sue? Mom and Dad weren’t the type to go around filing lawsuits. They were turn-the-other-cheek types.
“You could do those things,” Mr. Reardon agreed, “but you might want to consider your actions very, very carefully. Sometimes there are…repercussions. I think your son’s documentation is in order, but perhaps if we were forced to revisit his case, we might discover some unfortunate discrepancies. Did you hear about the Venezuelan boy who was deported recently? He was only seventeen years old, he’d spent his whole life in the U.S. except for the first three months, he didn’t even speak Spanish, but”—another careless shrug—“he wasn’t here legally. I’m sure he’ll survive in Venezuela somehow.”
“Are you threatening us?” Mom asked in a shrill, unnatural voice Jonah was sure he’d never heard her use before. Her hand pressed down on Jonah’s. Jonah thought about all those times she’d given him her hand to squeeze when he was a little kid getting shots or that time he had to have sixteen stitches in his knee. Now she was squeezing his hand just as hard. “You couldn’t take him away from us. We wouldn’t let him go. He’s our son!”
“ Is he?” Mr. Reardon asked. “What if his real