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“Now there’s a scary dare,” I said. “I’d rather kiss a slug.”
“Not so brave, are you?” he said.
“Oh, I’m brave, just not that brave.”
He smiled wickedly. “All right, here’s another dare. Climb that tree.” He pointed at the tallest tree in the patch of woods.
I was afraid of heights, afraid of anything that could trigger an attack, for that matter, but I wasn’t about to let him show me up, so I climbed the tree. The problem was, once I found myself fifteen feet off the ground, I panicked and lost all my courage. I started crying and fearing my mind would go blank. In seconds, Xave was by my side, perched on a thick branch.
“Don’t worry. Don’t cry. I’ll help you get down,” he said.
He tried to tell me where to place my feet and hands, but I was too scared to follow his instructions. When he realized it wasn’t going to work, he had me wrap myself around him, a little monkey on his back, and painstakingly climbed down. A few feet off the ground, his arms gave out and we plummeted to the ground. His weight knocked the air out of me.
He hovered above, as I lay there inert. “Are you okay? Are you okay? I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
When I opened my eyes, his nose was inches from mine, worry etched on his face. He was making sure I was still breathing.
“You’re alive!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, you’re alive.”
“You silly goose,” I said, using the endearment Dad often used with me. “Of course I’m alive.” Then I kissed him on the cheek.
His eyes widened in surprise and after that we both rolled on the pine needles, laughing like idiots. I guess things have to change. We’re not kids anymore. I just wish we could still laugh about our misadventures. Instead, we’re yelling at each other.
After a few minutes walking, I hear gravel crunching behind me. I try to ignore it and pick up my pace. The crunching is followed by a shuffle.
Crunch, crunch, shuffle.
Reluctantly, I look back and see Xave, pushing the bike forward a couple of feet, then dragging his right leg. He repeats the process, looking as pathetic as one of those dogs with wheels for legs.
Damn it.
I stop and hope Xave doesn’t make me regret doing so. I wait for interminable minutes for him to catch up. Surely, he’s taking his sweet time on purpose. When he reaches me, we say nothing and just stand there looking at anything but each other.
“I’ll push the bike,” I tell him.
He nods. We walk without exchanging any more words. Enough has been said already.
Chapter 3 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)
Awkward. Awk-ward.
All the way home, Xave and I stare at the ground, mouths zipped. I should apologize, but after he dragged my family into the argument, I’m too mad.
His limping is worse.
He deserves it!
I’m not sorry for him, not when he assumes the worst about me, like everyone else. I expect more from him. I don’t care if he has no way of knowing I’m possessed, crazy or whatever it is, he should treat me better than this. He’s known me for nine years. “He feels my pain,” like he often says. Maybe he doesn’t.
Our street comes into view. A few lampposts cast weak light on the cracked sidewalk, but it’s mostly dark in spite of the clear, moonlit sky. Too many large trees line the street and few people keep their floodlights on once they turn in for the night. It helps keep the electric bill low, Mom says. I don’t argue; it helps me sneak out when I need to.
I slow down as we approach Xave’s house. The split-level looks gloomy, spotted with shadows from the nearby trees. A shudder goes down my back, making me wary. I’ve seen his house in this light before. Why is it spooking me all of a sudden?
I’m contemplating the question when a male figure steps from behind the largest tree in the front yard. His face is obscured, but the silhouette and swagger let me know it’s Xave’s brother. I stop and exchange a quick glance with Xave. There’ll be no lying our way out of this one. We never got our story straight. Besides, Clark’s not blind. He saw us from the alley. Why else would he be waiting for us?
Still wary, even though it’s just Clark, I look around. A faint buzz begins in the back of my head for the second time tonight. I frown.
Clark plants his intimidating six-three, muscular frame a few paces from us, arms crossed. I can see his face better, and it isn’t pretty. Well, it is pretty, but in a Dirty Harry kind of way. Intense eyes, tight lips, strong jaw.
“Hello there, X-avier.” Clark says the name as if he’s referring to pond scum. He pauses at the “X” and says the rest with a sarcastic British accent.
Xave’s eyes shift from one crack of the sidewalk to another. He hates being called by that name, has heard enough jokes about gay mutants in tights and will pretty much beat up anybody who dares call him by the full name his comic-book-obsessed father gave him. Clark’s the only one I know who still dares call him that. If you ask me, he’s just lucky his dad didn’t name him Louise instead of Clark.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” Clark says.
“It was my fault,” I say.
Xave gives me a dirty look. I match it. So he’s gonna be ungrateful like that? Well, in that case, I hope his brother kicks his ass. Clark turns toward me, very slowly. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, stamping his biker boot down. The heavy heel taps. He takes in the full length of my body.
“So what are you saying?” he asks. “That my sissy brother has no more sense than a wet-’round-the-ears gal?”
What did he just call me? Not like he’s all mature and experienced with only four years on me and three on his brother.
“Told you to stay out of it, Marci,” Xave mumbles through the corner of his mouth.
Very slowly, I inhale, closing my eyes until my lungs are full. I let go of the bike and give it a shove toward Xave. It catches him off guard and he scrambles to keep it from falling on him, favoring his injured leg. I’m about to turn and head home when that strange buzzing in the back of my skull gets worse, recognizable. It stops me in my tracks.
This sensation has nothing to do with being spooked, like I thought at first. I’ve felt this before, except this time it’s so intense it sends strong shudders down my spine, totally freaking me out. My eyes dance around the yard, but there’s no one else here. It makes no sense. I only get this creepy feeling in crowded places, like the mall or the movies. That’s the reason why I hate crowds. But I’ve never felt it at home, at school with my friends, and certainly not with Xave’s family.
I stare at Clark. He’s watching me with sudden distrust.
“You should go home, Marci,” he says. “My little brother and I have some serious talking to do.”
It is then that I sense, more than see, a dark shape moving behind Clark. I take a step back, eyes darting, adrenaline pumping.
Xave spooks at my behavior. “What?!” he asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.
He hasn’t noticed the dark shape behind his brother. The shadow advances without making a sound, hidden by Clark’s bulky frame, who shows no sign of suspecting something lurks behind him.
I’ve finally gone crazy.
The shadows don’t only live inside my head. They’ve figured out a way to break free and stalk me in the night. My heart beats in my clenched fists as I dissolve into fear.
Something stretches out of the darkness, reaching for Clark’s shoulder. Words of warning rise in my throat, but they die down when a thin ray of moonlight falls upon the shadow, revealing a flesh and blood man. He steps next to Clark and pats him on the shoulder. I’ve never seen him before. I would remember, because he makes my head drone with a thousand bees. I want to run, but I’m glued to the sidewalk.
“Wow,” Xave says, startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger.
“Clark, is this your brother?” the man asks in a deep purr that makes me think of an idling motorcycle engine. His bald head reflects what little moonlight there is. He’s several inches shorter than Clark and Xave, maybe five-eleven. He’s also leaner, but I have the feeling he could beat up both of them if he wanted. Something in his confident and powerful stance makes me suspect that. I wish I could see his eyes. I’ve got a feeling they’d tell me a lot, but they’re hidden under the shade of his strong brow.
Clark nods, never taking his eyes off me. “Yep, that’s him.”
The man removes his hand from Clark’s shoulder and extends it toward Xave. “Nice to meet you, Xavier. My name is James McCray.”
Xave stares at his hand. James’s mouth twists into a crooked grin, as he waits for Xave to make up his mind. In the end, he shakes it, encouraged by a nod from Clark. James hasn’t looked directly at me, but I feel watched, evaluated like an open book.
“So you were … spying?” James’s speech is calm and reassuring, but I don’t trust him at all. “I take it you’d like to know what your brother’s up to?” James asks. He smiles, but his voice sounds like a dare, hinting at something dangerous.
Xave puffs up like a bullfrog. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
Clark called him a sissy. I guess he thinks this proves he’s not. It doesn’t. The panic that flashes in his eyes gives him away. I don’t blame him. Something’s going on here. Maybe Clark got himself in a real mess this time. I don’t think I want any part in it. Xave shouldn’t either.
As if James could read my thoughts, his eyes settle on me. “What about you, Marci Guerrero?”
He knows my name?! Why would freakin’ Clark tell him my name?!
“No, thank you,” I blurt out. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” I take two steps back, look straight at my friend. “Xave, you should stay out of it, too.”
“Who says he’s got a choice?” Clark puts in. “Not after wrecking my bike like that. No, he’s got a debt to pay. Besides, he has a right to know what’s going on in our neighborhood, our country. Hell, our fucking world!”
What is Clark talking about? And why is James looking at me like I’m to blame for world hunger? There’s no way Xave doesn’t see through this weirdness. Besides, I’m not a joiner and this sounds too cult-ish for my taste.
“Xave.” I pull on his sleeve. He pulls his arm back.
I jerk my head to one side. “Come talk to me for a minute.”
“Get lost, Marci,” he says.
“Don’t be stupid. This—”
“I said get lost.” His eyes bore into me with anger. He can’t stand to be challenged, much less in front of the “guys” and by a girl, no less. God, he so needs to grow up.
I resist the urge to scream and let him go get brainwashed if that’s what he wants. Instead, I give it another try. “Please, Xave.” I give him big, pleading eyes. His expression softens, but he quickly tries to hide the shift.
He motions with his head for me to follow and walks out of earshot. “Why don’t you just go home?”
“Look,” I start, but my head drones so loudly I’m having trouble thinking straight.
“What is it you want to say?” he asks.
I focus on his hazel eyes. “Look Xave, I don’t think you should go with them.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“What do you care what I do?” he asks, thick brows pinched in that way that always gives him two creases above his nose.
“I … I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I say.
“Right, that’s why you wrecked Clark’s bike and got the cops on our tail.”
“Please.” I take his hand. “Don’t go.”
He looks deep into my eyes. “Why?” His tone suggests that if I find the right words, he’ll stay.
I struggle to figure out what he wants to hear. “Because … I think Clark is up to no good, and you’re, um, my friend. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Xave drops my hand. Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. Our almost-kiss of three weeks ago flashes through my memory. I pulled away from him that day, surprised and confused. The sudden closeness between us had been an accident. We’d both turned at the same time and ended up nose to nose without meaning to. But accident or not, there’d been something there, hadn’t there? And I,not Xave, pulled away. Since then he’s been getting mad at me for no reason at all. He’s always been too tough, too proud to say what really bothers him. In spite of that I was fluent in Xave, up to a few weeks ago, but after the non-kiss, the Tower of Babel has nothing on us.
“Go home, Marci. Go hide in your dungeon. I’ll see you later.” He walks to James and Clark. I stand there feeling vulnerable and lost. Maybe our friendship won’t survive our teens, after all. Red wagons and skateboards may be the only type of rides that’ll ever bring good memories back. Frustration floods me.
Fine! He can go get brainwashed for all I care. I spin on my heels and speed-walk home. The droning in my head dies down as I put distance between me and them. I cast glances over my shoulder every few steps.
The first time I look back, all three are staring at me. For an instant, James’s eyes reflect the light, putting the image of a wild cheetah inside my head. Ice crawls slowly up my neck, then I realize I’m just imagining things. The second time I look back, James has an arm around Xave and seems to be talking him up. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, but what can I do about it? Xave’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.
I trudge up my front steps and look back one last time. Xave is walking up the road toward two parked bikes. They look like big Harleys. He climbs on the back with Clark as James straddles the second bike. The engines roar to life in unison. The poor, wrecked Yamaha is left behind by the sidewalk, all battered and broken.
It seems Xave has finally graduated to the big boy club, like he’s always wanted. By tomorrow, our friendship may be a thing of the past.
Chapter 4 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)
Inside the house, everything is dark. Shapes dance on the living room wall visible from the foyer, where I stand watching them shift. Blue, white, gray … the changing frames from the TV screen reflected on the white paint.
I stand there, hypnotized by them, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and Mom’s rhythmic breathing. I sigh, weighted down by all the sadness that hangs like a haze inside this house, a haze that obscures everything, even ourselves. Out there, I hide from the world and put on a tough exterior. In here, I hide from Mom and wish for so much more than I’m given.
The only place where I don’t have to hide is my bedroom. My sanctuary, where I can listen to heavy metal, read poetry, hack computers and cry my eyes out all in the same hour, without anyone thinking I’m a basket case. I want to run in there, lock the door and, for a short time, just be who I really am, but Mom’s been waiting for me. I should at least let her know I’m home.
After a moment, I walk into the living room and watch her sleep on the sofa in front of the muted television. She looks sad, even in her sleep. Her hands are sandwiched between her face and a cushion. Her sandy blond hair spills over the sofa’s dark fabric, and her pale skin serves as witness to how little time she spends outside. Her job at a small fashion magazine keeps her tied to a desk. She’s still wearing her fashionable clothes and, for some reason, that brings a knot to my throat. She used to model and desperately clings to that prettier, younger version of herself. She takes a deep breath and her face turns my way a little, as if some part of her knows I’m watching. Her long lashes flutter, then her eyes open.
She looks unsurprised by my presence. She sits up, arches her back and rubs her eyes. Aided by the coffee table, she stands and walks toward me.
“You’re home,” she says. Her tone suggests she wishes I wasn’t. Her blue eyes are cold and expressionless, but I can still see the disappointment in them. Why does she wait for me? So I can see in her gaze how much I let her down? She leans in and gives the mandatory kiss. I close my eyes as her lips touch my cheek and wish for so much more than this formality. Mom turns toward the hall, pats my shoulder and heads off to bed.
So much pain, so little to say to each other. She used to yell at me when I was late. It still didn’t mean she cared, though. She was only worried the neighbors would gossip. These days she doesn’t even care about that.
In my bedroom, I click the light on. The bed is unmade, inviting. It’s past 1 A.M. I should crash and get some sleep, so I can make it to school on time. But I want to check my probes, see if they found any unprotected servers when they scoured the web looking for vulnerable targets.
I kick an old motherboard out of the way as I make my way to the computer, shedding my jacket. I sit and rejoice in front of my rig. Three wide-screen HD monitors, the best gaming keyboard money can buy, a laser sensor mouse—all hooked to a blazing-fast, custom-made CPU. I smile, tap the keyboard and enter my password. The monitor in the middle displays a black screen with a few IP addresses written in white. I started the probe this morning, and it’s already found some vulnerable servers. I smile to myself. The algorithm is working. Of course. I’ll let it run a full twenty-four hours, and tomorrow I’ll peruse through those systems.
On the left hand side monitor, I start my heavy metal playlist. On the right, I log into the H-Loop and take a quick look around to see who’s online tonight. As I wait for it to load, I slip out of my leather pants and look them over. Several holes run from my thigh to my knee. Great, looks like I’m going to need a new pair. I’m reminded of Xave, so I throw the pants on the floor and push thoughts of my friend out of my head. I can’t worry about him. I won’t.
After I change into a pair of pajama shorts, I examine my leg. There are a few spots where it looks as if someone attacked me with a sheet of coarse sandpaper. In four different spots the skin’s split open, and there’s dark, dry blood caked on the wounds. Not too bad. Nothing some soap and ointment can’t take care of.
SMASH and Hazard-Us are logged into the H-Loop. Those two never seem to have anything better to do, which is sad because, for some reason, I imagine them as middle-aged men without real jobs. I bet they never take a bath.
SMASH> Late night, Warrior?
I crack my fingers and begin to type.
