by Jackson Ford
“1773 East 107th,” she reminds me. “Just be there six-thirty. And wear something nice.”
I point at my outfit. “This is literally the smartest thing I own.”
“You know what I mean. More dinner-datey.”
“Sure. I’ll pull out my ballgown.”
“Could we please get back on track?” Paul says. He and Africa have righted the whiteboard, and he’s already sketching a diagram of Van Nuys Airport, his Sharpie dancing. “Before every American asset in the free world gets compromised?”
TEN
Matthew
The Meitzen Museum occupies a large building in Exposition Park, southwest of Downtown. Matthew and Amber arrive just as the doors open for the day.
The entrance is a huge, airy rotunda of steel and glass, bordered by wings made of red brick. The earthquake from the night before doesn’t appear to have damaged the museum, although there’s a section of steps with a major crack in it, surrounded by plastic orange cones. Matthew sidesteps them, hardly able to contain his excitement. He feels like he’s journeyed off the edge of the map into bright blue seas, speckled with islands to plunder for hidden treasure.
“Amber, come on!” he yells over his shoulder. He’s wearing a short-sleeved green button-down with jeans and sneakers, and he made Amber comb his hair. He hates getting his hair combed, but he needs to look good today.
The inside of the museum is hushed and cool. There’s almost nobody in the entrance rotunda – a few security guards, a small group of Asian tourists. Matthew skids to a halt, head tilted, as if sniffing the air. Then he spots what he’s looking for – a stairway, heading up to the second level – and bolts for it. He’s brought up short by a security guard, a stocky man with cornrows who steps in front of him. “Hold up, son. Gotta get a ticket first.” He spots Amber, jogging up. She’s wearing jeans and a green tank top, with a faded denim jacket. Her scraggly blond hair hangs loose around her shoulders. “Over by the window, ma’am. Entrance is free, but I need to see a wristband.”
The urge to grab some soil out of one of the nearby plant pots and attack the guard with it is almost overpowering. Matthew makes himself wait, dancing from foot to foot. He can’t just make the people here do what he wants – well, he could, but he’d get in trouble. Real trouble, not just the kind where Amber tries to get mad at him. He’s got to be more careful here. He hates playing pretend – it always makes him think of the other kids at the School, who acted like babies. But he can do it if he has to.
When Amber finally brings him his wristband, he all but snatches it from her, flashing it to the security guard and bolting up the stairs.
There are exhibit signs everywhere. Secrets of the Pharaohs; Earth’s Changing Climate; Pollution Solution; Mission to Mars. Amber lingers at this last one, staring longingly through the open double doors, where there’s a glimpse of a NASA logo.
Finally, he finds what he’s looking for.
The California Earthquake Exhibit has an air of permanence, a lived-in look that speaks of a lot of foot traffic and not a lot of maintenance. It’s a big, dimly lit room filled with dilapidated exhibits. There’s a shake table, holding plastic blocks designed to be formed into miniature buildings; a giant globe showing tectonic plates; a model of the Earth’s core.
Matthew stops by the shake table, hands on his hips. Amber comes up behind, stifling a yawn. “You want to build something?” she asks.
He doesn’t look round. “It’s for little kids. I want to talk to someone who knows about—”
And then he’s gone again, heading towards a volunteer in a blue shirt, working on what looks to be a wind tunnel.
The volunteer is Amber’s age, an Asian woman with brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She looks up as Matthew skids to a halt in front of her. “Hi,” he says, his voice bright and alert. “Do you know about earthquakes?”
“Well, hello there,” the volunteer replies, straightening.
“Do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” The volunteer’s name tag reads Mia. Her skin is awash with freckles, and she has a quick smile. “I’m in charge of that exhibit you were just at – the shake table.” A flicker of worry crosses her face, and she bends down, hands on her knees. “Is this because of yesterday? I thought it was pretty scary too.”
“Yeah.” Matthew shivers – an exaggerated motion that sets his whole body wobbling. “My mom and I were OK though. We went to a motel.”
Mia mouths a quick hi at Amber, gives her a little wave.
“I wanted to know about how plates work,” Matthew says. “And fault lines.”
Mia frowns. “How old are you?”
“Four. I’m smart for my age.”
Mia looks up at Amber, who shrugs. “He’s gifted. He was reading by the time he was two.” The words are long-practiced – Matthew’s heard her use them many times before.
“Is that right?” Mia says. “Well, I love people who ask questions. Fire away.”
“So how much do you know about earthquakes?” Matthew says.
“Quite a lot. I’m doing my grad school work here – there’s a whole research lab attached to this exhibit.”
“I know. I wanted to go there, but you have to be a scientist to get in. Can you get me in?”
She laughs. “I don’t know about that…”
“But you’re a scientist, right?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she says, as if he’d questioned her ability. “But not like a professor – not yet, anyway. I’m just a research assistant. Although you’re pretty smart, so I think you might get there before I do.”
Matthew makes himself giggle.
“Why can’t we predict earthquakes?” he says.
Mia leans back against the wall of the wind tunnel. “Good question. One of my professors told me that every earthquake is a surprise to a seismologist. That’s a person who—”
“Studies seismic waves,” Matthew says. Why does everybody think he’s stupid? Just because he’s four. He keeps the smile plastered on his face; he can actually feel the individual muscles pulling his lips back, the ones that widen his eyes.
Mia flashes Amber an impressed look. “Correct. We know quite a bit about fault lines, but it’s still tough to figure out what they’re going to do.” She lifts her hands in front of her face. “So imagine you have a pencil, and you start bending it. You know that at some point it will break, but you don’t exactly know when. It depends on the stuff inside. You don’t know where the strong and weak points are.”
“You can’t find out?”
“Well, the Earth is a lot bigger than a pencil, and there’s a lot of stuff down there. The San Andreas fault – that was what caused the little rumble yesterday – goes for miles and miles.”
“So there’s no way to predict them? At all?”
Mia tilts a flattened hand back and forth. “Sometimes. It’s not what we’d call an exact science.”
It’s all he can do not to scream. Not an exact science? She just said she was a scientist, so why is she pretending she isn’t?
Fine. He’ll play along – there are plenty of ways to get grown-ups to do what you want, even without hurting them. Matthew frowns, looking around him, as if scanning for another volunteer.
“But,” Mia says, crouching down so she’s at his level, “we do know quite a lot about fault lines, especially San Andreas.”
Matthew’s eyes light up. “Yeah! So why wasn’t the earthquake yesterday bigger? Why was it a 7.1 and not an 8.3?”
For a second, he thinks she sees flash of suspicion in Mia’s eyes. Just a hint of it, a slight narrowing. “Been reading a lot, huh?”
“I found this podcast.” Matthew looks down at his feet, pretending to be embarrassed. He hates to admit it, but he’s pretty good at playing pretend.
“Well. That’s… wow. Anyway, it was only a 7.1 because of where it happened. The plates only shifted a little bit.”
“So if they moved somewhere else, the quake would be
bigger?”
“Matthew, honey,” Amber says. “Do you want to get juice or something? Maybe we should leave the nice lady alone…”
“No, that’s OK.” Mia flashes her a bemused smile. “I don’t mind at all. I don’t usually get to talk to people this clever.” She winks at Matthew. “In fact, you know what? How would you like to come and see some of the research we’re working on? Both of you?”
“In the lab?”
“We’d need to stay here, but I do have some stuff I could show you. I don’t know though, you might find it pretty boring; it’s just graphs and charts.”
He could kill her. Tear off her stupid head. In like five seconds. He’d make sure she knew what was happening, too. He clenches his fists, lets them go, forces himself to stay calm.
“That’s OK,” he says. “I don’t mind.”
Amber is still there, standing behind them. She knows what he did yesterday. Matthew looks her up and down, drinking in the familiar flash of fear in her eyes. She’s stupid too, so she probably won’t understand what Mia tells him about quakes. But what if she does? What if she figures out what he wants to do next?
She can’t stop him. No one can. But that doesn’t mean he has to tell her what he’s doing. He might need her to drive him around and buy food and stuff, but it’s better if she doesn’t know his plans. In the dark – his mind readily supplies the phrase. He likes that one, remembers it from a book about the Mafia he once read. Yeah. Better if she’s in the dark.
“Actually,” he says to Amber, “can I have a soda please?”
“Oh. Um. OK. I think I saw the cafeteria at the—”
“No, I mean, can you bring me back a soda? Mountain Dew Red. Please,” he adds, for the benefit of Mia.
Amber bites her lower lip, which annoys him. A lot, actually. Why does she always think she can make him do stuff? She always tries, and it never works. He can’t use the dirt on her here, but later, maybe he could—
Her shoulders sag. “OK, honey. Mountain Dew. Sure.”
“Hey.” Mia’s forehead creases, which makes her look a little older than she is. “We’re not really supposed to supervise kids by themselves. I don’t know—”
“She’ll only be gone a few minutes,” Matthew says. “And there are security guards everywhere. See?” He points to the far end of the exhibition hall, where an elderly guard is slumped on a chair.
“Yeah, but still… I’d get in a lot of trouble if—”
“We’re in the middle of a museum. If you wanted to kidnap me or whatever, there are cameras everywhere, right? And I bet you’ve had, like, first aid training, so if I have a seizure or something, you know what do already.”
Mia blinks in the face of Matthew’s logic.
“I mean, it’s kind of up to your mom…” she says.
Amber looks like she’s about to protest. Matthew glares at her, making her eyes meet his.
Amber’s expression becomes a very careful blank. “I don’t mind. The cafeteria’s just down the hall. I promise he won’t be a bother…”
“I should probably get my supervisor to OK it…”
“Your supervisor?” Matthew’s eyes go wide. “Like from the lab? Can I ask him stuff too?”
Mia gives him a cautious smile. “That’s right. I just want to make sure he’s OK with—”
“See?” Matthew says, as if that settles it. “I’ll be with two grown-ups. Please?”
“It’s really no problem,” Amber murmurs.
Mia nods. “Well, if you’re sure – oh.”
Matthew has taken her hand, his little fingers intertwined in hers. Mia gives Amber an apologetic look, but Matthew is already pulling her away, peppering her with questions.
ELEVEN
Teagan
Alien spaceships have landed in Watts.
They’re on the opposite side of the road from Annie’s mom’s house, at the end of 107th Street, the cul-de-sac forming a diagonal with Santa Ana Boulevard. Right where the roads meet, in the middle of a tree-lined park, there are several spiralling, cone-shaped towers, each one taller than the last. The tallest one must rise a hundred feet, skeletal scaffolding clad in grey concrete.
There’s evidence of yesterday’s quake everywhere. The road surface is cracked and bruised, and a building next door to the spaceship-like towers has collapsed in on itself, its roof leaning drunkenly. But the towers themselves stand tall and proud, looming over the street in the still air. It’s stopped drizzling, for now, but the clouds are low and grey in the dusk. They make the towers look like alien monoliths. The air around us is still, as if wind is scared to blow too hard in this part of town. Like it might wake them up.
“Gonna take more than an earthquake to bring those down,” Annie says. She’s just climbing out Paul’s truck behind me. Reggie is in the back seat, looking at something on her phone. We followed Annie here from the office – data is still spotty, which means no GPS. As Annie put it, she didn’t want us late for dinner because we forgot how to use paper maps. I decided not to tell her that I’ve never actually owned a paper map.
“Wait, you can see them too?” I point to the structures. “I’m not hallucinating?”
“Hilarious. They’re the Watts Towers, man.”
“Think I saw that group at Coachella once.”
“It’s actually pretty fascinating.” Paul pops out the passenger side. “The person who built them was an Italian immigrant, and he—”
“Come on,” Annie says. “If we’re late, I’m the one she’ll be giving an earful to.” She glances at me. “’Sides, why you acting so surprised? I’ve told you about them before. And I sent you that photo of them yesterday.”
“No, seriously. How did I not know these were here?”
The towers are surrounded by a high concrete wall, which itself is surrounded by a big metal fence. The towers and the wall are undamaged, but the fence has been knocked over by the earthquake. I step inside to take a closer look. There are strange objects embedded in the concrete: shells, chips of glass, bits of broken pot. They cover the towers, as well as the wall itself.
There’s something else that feels odd about the towers, and it takes me a second to spot it: no graffiti.
This is Watts, where every surface is covered in tags. But there’s not a single one anywhere on the inner wall. Even when the fence was intact, I can’t imagine that would’ve stopped anyone who wanted to tag the wall, and it must be a pretty enticing target. Does paint not stick to the concrete? Maybe they’ve coated it with—
“Sho.” Africa’s exclamation makes me jump. He’s standing in the middle of the street, ham-hock hands on his hips, gazing in undisguised awe at the towers.
I didn’t hear him pull up. His green Nissan sits at the curb, the door still open. It’s even more beat-up than the Batmobile, with a major case of rust on the rocker panels. It’s also the messiest car I’ve ever ridden in – and the Batmobile could win prizes for being untidy.
“Really?” Paul gazes at us in astonishment. “Neither of you have seen these before?”
“What you expect?” Annie clambers up into the truck’s cargo well, hefting Reggie’s chair. “Most people live in LA all their lives, they don’t know about the towers.”
“That’s absurd. Why wouldn’t they?”
She gives him a slightly pitying look. “Because they never come to Watts. Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”
She and Paul help Reggie into her chair. Our fearless leader smiles thanks, but says nothing. She is deep in thought, tapping at something on her phone, which is secured to one hand with a special ring. I still haven’t asked her about chef’s school. Maybe I should—
The world goes wavy.
You know tinnitus? That ringing in your ears because you spent too long sitting in the car blasting NWA at top volume? You know how sometimes specific frequencies will set it off – someone closing a door or laughing in a particular tone or the voice of a character on TV? It’ll be in the background of your he
aring, and then suddenly it’ll be really loud and annoying, blocking out all other sounds.
This is exactly like that, only it’s in my mind.
I lose my PK entirely, get it back, lose it again. The sensation is bizarre: like someone has filled my head with water, and is now shaking me back and forth, sloshing it around. It’s not painful. It’s just… weird.
“Teagan?” Annie says. She sounds very far away.
I do that stupid thing where you squeeze your eyes shut, then open them wide. It doesn’t help. Whoever put the water in my head is shaking really hard now, back and forth, back and—
Gone.
Just like that, everything is normal.
“You OK?” Africa asks.
I spin in a slow circle, blinking hard, trying to see what the fuck just caused… whatever that was. But there’s nothing. The towers. The trees around them, the uppermost branches swaying back and forth. The rucked-up tarmac. A couple of kids walking down the sidewalk.
Something’s different.
But I can’t figure it out. My PK is exactly the same as it’s always been. I’ve got a firm grip on everything in a fifty-foot radius. My head is clear. So what—?
“Yo.” Annie snaps her fingers in front of me. “Space cadet. You good?”
“Um. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
The five of us make our way across the street. A bunch of little kids have started a basketball game, throwing the ball up at an ancient hoop someone has erected in their driveway. There are a surprising number of people around, milling on the sidewalk in groups. We get a few curious looks, but nobody approaches us. A couple of people yell Annie’s name, and she responds with a distracted wave. A car drives past, bass thumping loudly. On a wall nearby, someone has painted a huge mural – twenty feet wide, at least. It’s a memorial to Nipsey Hussle, a rapper who died a while back – he made some incredible shit. Whoever did the mural really took their time – Nipsey’s giant face is almost photorealistic. I half expect him to wink at me.
