2

I SPRINT TO THE FRONT DOOR AND YANK IT OPEN.
A man in tattered clothes stands hunched over in the doorway. I lean over
him to look down the sidewalk in both directions. Where’s the delivery
guy?
“Hello there,” he says without looking up. “Might I trouble you for a
moment?”
I instantly feel guilty for overlooking him. “I don’t have any money. But
there’s a Hot Pocket in the freezer you can have. Mama hasn’t gone
shopping yet.”
“That’s very kind of you but I’ve actually just left a very fine restaurant.”
“Oh,” I say. “So you’re not homeless?”
“Homeless? Heavens, no.” The guy finally lifts his head—he’s older,
with a neatly trimmed gray beard. The thing he’s been hunched over is a
computer tablet. “Why would you think that?”
My eyes drop to his patchy clothes. “Um, no reason.”
The guy follows my eyes and his face goes bright red. “I’ll have you
know that this is the height of fashion in—oh, never mind. Might your
name be Amari Peters?”
Whoa! I take a couple steps backward. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s right here on the screen,” he says, pointing to his tablet. “I’ll just
need you to sign for your delivery and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re . . . the delivery guy?” I say warily. “And you’ve got a package
for me?”
“Yep.” He flips the tablet around. “From a Q. Peters.”
I gasp. “You’re saying you’ve really brought me something from my
brother? The guy nods. “I do if this Q. Peters fella is your brother. Says here he’s
sent exactly one ‘Broaden Your Horizons’ kit.”
Broaden your horizons? Wasn’t that what Mama was just talking about?
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“I should think not.” He frowns. “I only do deliveries parttime, but I take
it seriously.”
“Well, whatever you’re supposed to be delivering, I’ll take it.” That’s
when I notice he’s not carrying any envelopes or boxes. “Where is it?”
“Only after you sign, I’m afraid.” The guy offers the tablet and I grab it,
messily signing the screen with the tip of my finger.
I look at him expectantly. “The package?”
The man taps the screen a couple more times. “Left it in Q. Peters’s old
bedroom closet.”
I just stare. “You’ve been inside my apartment?”
“With Q. Peters’s permission, of course.” He clears his throat loudly.
“Now then, I’m afraid I’ll be needing your memory of this whole encounter.
You see, we at Discreet Deliveries take pride in our customers’ anonymity.
Don’t worry, you’ll still get your package. At some point during the day
you’ll feel the sudden, unexplainable urge to clean out that closet, and there
the package will be.”
“You need my . . . what?” I take a nervous step back.
“Just the one memory.” The guy pulls out what looks like a TV remote
control. Then he squints down at the tablet again. “Oh. My mistake! Seems
your name is on the Memory Intact List. Someone’s off to the Bureau, I’ll
bet. Best thirty years of my life. Anyways, good afternoon!”
I blink and the man is gone. What in the world just happened?
And what’s in my brother’s closet?

Even after all this time, I half expect to hear Quinton yell at me for barging
into his room without his permission. I step inside and glance around at the
wrinkled rap posters hanging alongside his framed photographs of Stephen
Hawking and Martin Luther King. His bed is messy, like always, and all his
academic trophies and honor roll certificates fill up the back wall.
The investigators tore this place apart looking for clues about what
might’ve happened to him, but me and Mama made sure to put everything back exactly like it was. I think we both secretly hoped we’d find
something the police missed, something only family might recognize. But
that just didn’t happen. Neither one of us has been in here since. It hurts too
much.
It’s not until I get all the way inside that the memories hit me. All the
times Quinton and I used to play in here. Or how sometimes he’d put on a
playlist while we lay on the floor, joking and talking about how we were
going to take over the world one day. How we were going to show our loser
dad who ditched Mama that we’re worth something. How we’d always
have each other’s backs, no matter what. Sure, Quinton might be ten years
older than me, but we’ve always been tight.
Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
Okay, so . . . Quinton’s room has never ticked before. Suddenly I’ve got
goosebumps all over.
Maybe that weird delivery guy was telling the truth. The package is
supposed to be in Quinton’s closet. And sure enough, with each step closer
to the closet, the sound gets louder. Did he send me a clock?
I bite my bottom lip and pull open the closet door. It’s empty except for a
huge, ugly old chest that Quinton got from the thrift store when we were
younger. While I was digging through the doll bin for a Black Barbie, he
had his eyes on this raggedy chest with half the leather cover missing.
Claimed he needed a place to hold all his master plans.
By the sound of it, whatever Quinton sent me is inside. Thankfully, he
broke the lock years ago, so getting in is as easy as lifting the top. I dig
through countless beatup folders and old notebooks, searching for anything
that might tick.
It’s not till I get to the very bottom that I find a loudly ticking black
briefcase, a white Postit Note on top with Quinton’s handwriting.

For Amari’s Eyes Only

Quickly, I take the briefcase out of the chest and set it on the floor. What
could be inside? Fidgeting with the locks doesn’t get it open, so I try
yanking it apart. No luck. That’s when I notice another Postit on the other
side.

Will open at midnight,
after the last day of school

I swallow, my heart booming. Quinton never said anything about having
a briefcase for me. But that’s his handwriting.
Maybe he wants to explain where he is and what happened. After six
months of worrying like crazy . . . could this be how to find him?
I glance over at Quinton’s alarm clock. 4:13 p.m. Midnight is nearly eight
hours away. But what is it I’m waiting for?

11:58 p.m.
I’m in my room, sitting at the head of my bed with my knees pulled up to
my chest. The briefcase sits at the foot of my bed, looking suspicious.
I check the hallway again. Mama’s been home for a few hours, but no
light shines under her door. She must be asleep. Good. Whatever’s inside
this briefcase, Quinton made it clear that only I’m supposed see it.
11:59 p.m.
I pace back and forth. Okay, I’m totally tripping, right? What do I
honestly think is going to happen?
12:00 a.m.
CLICK! HISSSSSSSSSS . . .
I swear I jump a whole foot in the air. I creep over to my bed and take a
seat. After a calming breath, I lift the top of the briefcase. Greenandpurple
stripes stare back at me.
I reach inside, pull the smooth fabric from the briefcase and hold up what
seems like a suit jacket to the light. It might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever
seen. I reach inside and pull out the matching pants. I have no idea what’s
going on but I can’t help a smile. This is definitely Quinton’s corny sense of
humor at work.
And there’s more in the suitcase—an envelope and a pair of thick
metallic shades. Attached to the shades is a chain of Postit Notes.

1 Please lie down before putting these on

2 I’m serious about lying down first

3 Pinkie swear–level serious!

Okay, okay, I get it! I bring the shades closer. Aside from being heavy,
they seem pretty normal. Certainly not dangerous enough for three
warnings. Are they supposed to make you dizzy or something? Well, if it’s
pinkie swear–serious then fine, I’ll lie down.
I shove the briefcase to the edge of my bed and lay back before sliding
the glasses onto my face. I’m not sure what the big deal—
“Amari?” comes a voice I’d recognize anywhere.
Quinton?!