by J. C. Lillis
Four clomps. Five. Six. Coming closer.
A pause.
Then a creak, and the Sunseeker shudders.
They’re on the steps.
We have an Atlanta spy. Plots are thickening.
Someone sits on the step with a thud and I hear a metallic clink that could be lots of things, none of them good. I see the Hell Bells post in my head, that weird “BFC” thing. Bullets From Crazies? Beat Fags Cheerfully?
My hands scrabble for weapons. Not a mop—stupid. Frying pan—no. I’ll go bold. There’s no choice.
My heart chugs wildly. I tiptoe close to the door and put my mouth right on the crack. Ragged breathing on the other side. I tighten my throat and set my jaw, shift my feet apart like tough guys in movies who say stuff like this, in exactly this booming rat-a-tat voice: “I’VE GOT A GUN!”
“Auuugh!”
The scream scares me so much I lose my logic, fling the door wide open. Abel’s stumbling away from the Sunseeker, clutching his chest. On the pavement by the steps: his keys and a replica of Cadmus’s ray gun, still spinning where he dropped it.
He gulps in a breath. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“I didn’t know it was you!”
“Who’d you think I was?”
“I don’t know!” The door starts closing on me; I punch it back. “Where were you?”
“Out! Walking! Is that allowed?”
“Yeah, I just—”
“Oh my God. My heart.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Forget it. Forget it.” He snatches his stuff up and clomps into the Sunseeker, squeezing past me in the doorway. I haven’t felt this dumb since the Timbrewolves concert when I screwed up the solo on “My Girl.” His eyes are all red and I want to ask him about it, but he catches me searching his face and looks away fast. He yanks the fridge open and stares inside for a long minute. Then he slams the door.
“Why is your hair wet?” he sighs.
“Dumb story.”
“I’m sure. You want to go somewhere?”
“Where?”
He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a bright yellow flyer. “Some coffeehouse, they’re having a Castaway marathon.”
“Maybe.”
I take the flyer from him and scan it. I wait for Father Mike to weigh in, but there’s nothing much in my head right now, just an ache and a dull gray hum.
“So Kade dumped me.”
I look up. Abel’s wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at me.
“When?”
“Forty-five minutes ago.” He pumps some gel into his hand and starts punking his hair up. “On Twitter.”
“Oh my God.”
“Whatever. At least he DMed me.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rotten.”
Abel shrugs.
“Why’d he—”
“Zzt!” He holds up a hand. “Completely expected. Not a huge deal. No questions, no sympathetic looks. Them’s the rules. Okay?”
“I guess, but…”
“You call a cab. I’ll pay.”
“I saw the spies.”
He stops attacking his hair. “…What?”
“The Hell Bells spies. I think I saw them.”
“What’d they look like?”
“You know. Menacing.”
“Menacing how? Like—” He makes a bucktoothed monster face.
“Not exactly.”
“Were they goons?”
“I don’t know what a goon looks like.”
“You’d know one if you saw one.”
“I guess they were.”
“Big dudes?”
“Big enough.”
“They follow you?”
“For a while.”
Abel shakes his head. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Wow.” He leans against the fridge and shudders. “Creepy.”
“I’m not sure we should go out. Maybe it’s too—”
“No. No, I’m calling the cab right now.”
“But they could be anywhere.”
“I’m not living in fear, Brandon. Screw it. That’s so 1952.”
“Why 1952?”
“I don’t know. Like, Rock Hudson or whatever.” He holds up his phone. “Are you coming or not?”
I fiddle with the zipper pull on my vest.
“We should stick together,” I say. “Stay in crowds.”
He smiles a little.
“Roger that,” he Cadmuses.
“We shouldn’t sit by a window.”
“Heavens no.”
“And also—”
“—you should take this off.”
He unzips my SAFE-U vest with the tip of one finger, like Cadmus undid Nigh’s jacket in the Season 1 finale. Then he crosses his thick arms in front of him and pulls his tight black t-shirt up over his head. Crap, crap, crap. My whole body heats up. I’ve never seen a naked torso that wasn’t on a cross, at least not so close up. I don’t know where to look. His belly button. Belly button. Look at the belly button.
He’s holding his shirt out. “This is more you than me.”
“I don’t need to change.”
“Yeah you do.”
He grips the front of my shirt and pulls me closer, makes his voice all low and raspy like Cadmus.
“You’ll want to look sexy for Jesus,” he says, “in case it’s our last night on earth.”
Chapter Eleven
Near the mouth of the crystal spider cave, now definitively sealed by a Xaarg-generated avalanche, Cadmus and Sim huddle together for warmth. Or Cadmus huddles close to Sim, if you want to get technical about it. Sim controls his own body temperature. He turns up his own regulation switch, just behind his right ear, and then dials it back when the heat gets too much.
“Captain, I must apologize for this detour,” says Sim. “I have long suspected a malfunction in my compass application.”
“Ahhh, don’t be sorry.” Cadmus shivers. He pats Sim’s arm and gives it a squeeze. “It’s Xaarg. Either way, we were screwed.”
Some girl goes Boom-chicka-wow-wowww, and giggles erupt in the Lunar Rose Coffeehouse. That flyer didn’t mention this was a Season 4 marathon, or that 80% of their clientele are apparent Cadsim shippers. By the time the cave episode rolls around, I’ve already endured the full horror of hearing Sim’s best lines chanted out loud, like some kind of deluded shipper incantation, by a bunch of girls in costumes and homemade t-shirts that say TEAM CADSIM in blue glitter. Abel and I scrunch down on a battered velvet couch at the back of the room, hoping no one recognizes us from Screw Your Sensors. These girls would eat us for dinner.
I check the door every few minutes. No Hell Bells spies yet. Abel’s probably right—who would follow us here?
“This episode blows,” whispers Abel. He’s sipping a cinnamon latte and scarfing a second giant snickerdoodle, like he didn’t just show me his naked torso less than two hours ago. I still can’t look him in the eye. But at least we’re not fighting.
“I know,” I whisper back. “Terrible.”
“That speech Cadmus gives Sim about how his dad missed his graduation?”
“Shameless.”
“So out of character.”
“Sim’s should-I-have-stayed-human angst is a two-ton anvil, too.”
“Yeah, like, why do we need a Breakfast Club scene where they talk it into the ground?”
Onscreen, the arm touch segues into lingering eye contact and the girls go bananas: Kiss, kiss, kiss! I shake my head.
“It’s fanservice. Pure and simple.”
“It’s lazy. Snickerdoodle?”
“Just a tiny piece.”
Abel breaks a big chunk off for me and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. I move a little bit, just out of habit.
“Oh…I’m not in your space, am I?” he grins.
“Shut up.”
> “You started it,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you disappeared on me. Call it even.”
“Sorry,” he mutters around his cookie.
“Why’d you just leave like that?”
“I dunno. Shandley was such a dicksmack, I couldn’t deal. You get in your bubble, you forget what the rest of the world’s like.”
“I don’t think he’s a bigot.”
“Self-loather?”
“Maybe.”
“Ugh. They should die in a fire.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Sooner they go extinct, the better. They make us look bad.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for them, though?”
Abel flicks my ear. “Quit being nice,” he says. “You make me feel like a turd.”
“Sorry.”
He takes another bite and brushes crumbs off his shirt, red with a neon old-school joystick on the front. He leans his head back and lets out a long, showy sigh. “So he hooked up with Arch.”
“Who did?”
He makes a duh face. “Kade.”
“Oh.”
“Arch. Even his stupid name tries too hard. He’s like 27 and he wears these Goth t-shirts from the mall.” Abel wipes foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand. “He met my sister once at Antonelli’s when my family was out to dinner, like right after she published the book with Mom, and he talked to her like she was a cocker spaniel. And then he was all like ‘I really admire people with Down syndrome,’ like he was in a stupid man-pageant and the world-peace answer already got used up. He asked her for a signed copy of Susannah Says. I wanted to kick him in the nuts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I really really liked him.”
“Arch?”
“Kade.”
“I know.”
“And he was all like, ‘Uh, I’m sorry, were we monogamous? I missed the memo.’ Like it’s my fault he just couldn’t wait to fuck someone horrible.”
“That sucks.”
“Susannah didn’t like him. I should’ve known. My sister can spot a cockpunch from fifty paces.”
“Screw him.”
“Screw him.”
“He was too skinny anyway.”
“You think?”
“He looked like a stork.” I grab another chunk of snickerdoodle. “And that name? Kade?”
“Tacky. I know.”
“Kade and Abel. Like you’re reading Genesis with a cold.”
He laughs like pffffff! and sprays tiny crumbs. “You been saving that one?”
“Since we left.”
“Well played. Hey, can I tell him we’re doing it?”
“Huh?”
“He was jealous of you. It would make him nuts.”
“Why was he—”
“Ugh, forget it. Forget it! Why bother? I don’t care.”
Abel knots his arms and sighs at the screen, his knee leaning lightly on mine. I try to refocus on the show. Sim and Cadmus aren’t in this scene; it’s the subplot with Dr. Lagarde and Dutchie fighting over the rescue mission. Dutchie yells, Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you’re right! All I hear is He was jealous of you.
He was jealous. Of you.
Then I get the shoulder tap.
“’Scuse me…hello? Hi-ii!”
I steel myself and turn around slowly. It’s this short girl with thick brown hair, a glee-club smile, and a tinfoil Xaarg hat. She’s got on these goofy glasses with pink plastic frames and a white tank top that spells out BELIEVER in little craft-store diamonds. She leans right over me to talk to Abel.
“You’re the guy from the Q&A!” she says.
Abel lights up. “C’est moi.”
“I think it’s really cool what you said to Tom Shandley. He was being a creep.”
“Aww, thanks!”
“Everyone was talking about it. You’re like, convention-famous.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Thanks for defending Cadsim.”
“Oh no, I wasn’t really—”
“Can I get a picture with you?”
“Uh—yeah. Of course!”
This is so dumb, but I figure I’ll let Abel have his moment. “Want me to take it?” I ask Pink Glasses.
“Who are you? Are you his boyfriend?”
“We’re just friends right now.” Right now?
“Oh, you get in too! Here, my friend’ll—ANNIE! Take our picture, okay?”
This stringy blonde comes skulking over. She’s got on Cleopatra eyeliner and a black tank top with a small silver Castaway Planet logo, and she looks vaguely embarrassed that she’s required to exist, let alone document the evening. Pink Glasses perches on the edge of the couch and leans into us while Annie snaps photos. Then she grabs the camera back and takes a few more herself, framing the shots and barking orders like a fashion photographer: “Smile for my CastieCon scrapbook!” “Look super-sexy, guys!”
Abel blows kisses and aims a silly grin at the camera. It’s good to see him do that, even if he’s playing it up. There’s something about his face when he smiles, like he’s a stained-glass window with sun beaming through. I have to smile too.
“Captain…I notice you are still awake.”
Onscreen, it’s time for the big Cadsim scene. The girls abandon picture-taking; clasp hands and dart off with a squeal. Abel nudges me.
“Pink Glasses and Annie,” he whispers. “I kind of ship it.”
All the girls find their seats and the room gets so church-quiet you can practically smell holy water. Abel shifts closer—not to touch me or anything, just to draw a clear line between us and them. Warmth glows in the sliver of space between us. We each train our eyes on half the TV screen: his boy on the left and mine on the right, murmuring to each other in the dark.
“I’m so tired of running. Tired of the fight.” The girls in front recite it reverently, in perfect sync with Cadmus. “You know, I’m almost glad I’m stuck here with you. I’m free here. I don’t have to hold it together.”
“Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Captain. You are always free.”
“Not like this. I only feel this way when you’re around. Maybe we should just stay here forever, huh?”
“The notion is highly impractical, though you would be an agreeable companion.”
“It’s so quiet in here, Sim.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Like it could swallow up all your secrets.”
“Quite…”
Meaningful look. Another lingering arm touch. Fade to black.
Abel pokes me and I gulp in some air.
For crap’s sake: the holy-grail scene of the world’s most ridiculous, implausible ship, and I was holding my breath with the rest of the room.
“Wanna go somewhere else?” he says.
I close my eyes and shudder. “Definitely.”
***
Across the street from the Superion Inn, within sight of the Sunseeker’s parking spot, St. Agnes is having a summer fair in its freshly blacktopped lot. The second he spots the plaster clown head from the cab, Abel wigs out and I know I’m getting dragged over no matter what.
We buy a roll of red tickets from a standard-issue church lady—billowy flowered blouse, little gold cross, glasses dangling from a beaded chain—and roam around the crowded fair. It’s pretty much like every other church fair I’ve been to. The basketball toss has the same sad shredded net, kids shriek in a red and blue bouncy castle and chuck dented ping-pong balls at goldfish bowls, and the snack stands sell sausages and roasted corncobs and cones of hot popcorn in that radioactive yellow. Everything’s familiar. Except now I’m here with a boy.
It’s weird. No one’s giving us a second glance now, but it would be so easy to attract bad attention. All I’d have to do is slip my hand in Abel’s and walk around like that, like all the other teenage couples linking arms and holding hands and kissing in line for the dunking booth. I can
see the expressions now. Guys who look like my dad, chewing their tongues and hunching their shoulders up. Women who look like my mom, sighing a little and glancing away but thinking so loud I can hear every word.
And they would be right.
“What’s up, Tin Man?” Abel pokes me.
“Hm?”
“You all right? Your bolts too tight?”
“I’m fine.”
This shivery energy thrums between us. I tell myself it’s sugar and caffeine. Keep my arms folded in front of me.
We try a few rounds at the ring-toss stand and Abel just misses our shot to win a giant stuffed penguin with a half-unraveled scarf. To make up for it, he runs over to a stand and buys me a puff of blue cotton candy. Like we’re dating or something. I can’t look him in the eye when he hands me the white paper cone, so I glance past the rides and snack stands to where the blond stone wall of the church is, but I can’t let my eyes linger there either. It’s like looking at a house you don’t live in anymore. You wish you could go in again, but strangers live there now and you aren’t welcome, and it wouldn’t be the same anyway.
“So what were we talking about?” says Abel. “Back in the cab?”
I tug off a small neat piece of cotton candy, the color of Sim’s hair. “If they were on Earth. Their jobs.”
“Right, right.” Abel helps himself to a big bite of fluff; a fleck of it melts on his nose. “Sim would make a perfect priest.”
“Nooo. No no no. Absolutely not.”
“How come? The self-denial thing would be cake.”
“I don’t see him like that.”
“So what do you see?”
“Cadmus. As a bartender.”
“Pardon me.”
“Mmm, like some super-cheesy creeper from the seventies. He’d unbutton his shirt and make—you know. What’s like, an old drink no one drinks anymore?”
“Harvey Wallbangers.”
“You made that up.”
“I did not. You need to come to my theme parties.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to wake up in your bathtub with my eyebrow shaved off.”
“That only happened once, and Alex deserved it.”
We stop in front of the Tilt-a-Whirl. A light summer breeze unsettles our t-shirts and lifts all the hair on my arms. The cotton candy’s left this cute little blue spot on his nose. I can’t help myself. I lick the tip of my index finger and rub at it: gently, like he’ll crumble if I touch him too hard.
