Stranger

by Sherwood Smith

  “You look great, Mia,” Felicité called, hoping to extract them from the doorway.

  “Hi, Ross.” Indra held up his glass. “I’m Indra. Want a drink?”

  Ross stayed in the doorway like he was glued there. It reminded her of Rabbi Litvak—he lived outside of town, because he couldn’t shut off his ability to sense emotions. Every Friday evening, as he walked through the town gates, he had to brace himself. Perhaps this was Ross’s Change.

  Mia urged him, “Come on—I promise, the tacos are worth the crowd.”

  Felicité gave him her best smile. Reluctantly, led by Mia, he edged into the room.

  When Ross was a few feet away, a music stand onstage fell over with a crash. Ross jumped backward and whipped out his arm like he was blocking an attack, knocking a glass of pomegranate juice out of Meredith’s hand. Cold liquid splashed Felicité from head to toe. Ross lunged toward her to catch the glass.

  “Get away from me, you mutant!” Felicité cried.

  She snatched a napkin from the nearest table and hurriedly wiped off her face and hands. But though her hat brim had shielded most of her face, and her layers of petticoats kept her body dry, bright red juice dripped from her hat—her beautiful new hat!—and splattered the ivory gown.

  The entire room had gone silent. Everyone was staring at her and Ross. Instead of apologizing, he bolted for the door.

  Mia glared at Felicité. “He didn’t do that on purpose. And I can’t believe you used that word!” She hurried after him.

  “I am so sorry—” Felicité began.

  Meredith didn’t let her finish. “What a hateful thing to say! Some party!”

  The threat of tears burned Felicité’s eyelids. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You did mean it,” Meredith interrupted.

  “Give it a rest, Meredith,” Tommy shouted. “You call people names all the time.”

  “Not that one.” She turned on him, looking like a flea challenging a wolf. “You think I’d ever call a human being a mutant? My own mother is Changed!”

  “What do you expect?” the qeej player commented. Even the band had stopped playing to witness her humiliation! “She’s Preston’s daughter—she probably hears that kind of language every day at home.”

  “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” Felicité repeated, her brain frozen with horror. “Indra. It’s not something I believe. It slipped out.”

  “Does it slip out whenever you see my father?” Indra turned his back and stalked away, to the Rangers’ table.

  Felicité faced a room full of whispers and nudges. “I am truly sorry.”

  For a long, painful moment, no one spoke. This is what happens when you lose control. Remember it.

  Brisa spoke up, for once not smiling. “Seems to me it’s Ross you should apologize to.”

  “Yes.” Felicité heard how breathless and shaky her voice was. “I intend to do that right now. The rest of you, enjoy the party. It’s still my treat.”

  She had to tell her parents before they heard about it from someone else. While her mother never discussed her feelings about Changed people in general, neither would she refer to them with a slur. And both she and Daddy would be disappointed at Felicité’s lack of control.

  She longed to go home and get it over with, but she had to keep her word. So she forced herself to walk to Dr. Lee’s in a ruined dress that looked like she’d been murdered, just to be told that Ross and Mia weren’t there.

  Felicité knew that she would never be able to look at him again without being reminded of her humiliation. But luckily, soon the council would meet, and then he would be history.

  Until then, she had her reputation to protect among those who mattered.

  She’d apologize tomorrow. At school. In front of everyone. That will be better, anyway. They will all see how sincere I am.

  14

  Ross

  ROSS JERKED AWAKE, GASPING. HE TRIED TO SIT UP, BUT his head banged against something hard. He was trapped!

  He opened his eyes. Wooden slats loomed over him. Oh. He’d thrown himself out of bed and rolled underneath it. Dim blue light illuminated the room, and he caught a whiff of the pungent incense that Dr. Lee burned when he meditated every morning before sunrise.

  Ross got dressed, afraid to go back to sleep in case he fell back into that dream of bleeding to death on the sand while the pool of his blood hardened to crystal. He slipped out and paced around the darkened town, but it was a long time before his heart stopped pounding.

  When the sun rose, he returned to his room and did the exercises for his hand. They seemed to be working. Three days ago, he couldn’t even hold the leather ball Dr. Lee had given him, and now he could dent it.

  He wished there were exercises for nightmares.

  When he came down for breakfast, he found that there were burritos again, with fresh eggs and spicy chicken sausage. And cheese. He’d miss that when they threw him out of Las Anclas. Since the council would meet today, he decided to make the most of what he had, and ate an extra burrito.

  Dr. Lee covered a full plate with a napkin, and handed it to Ross. “Looks like Mia stayed up all night again, communing with one of her machines. Will you drop this off on your way to school?”

  Carrying the plate in his right hand, he knocked on Mia’s door, but there was no response except for a clink he figured was not directed at him. He knocked again. Then once more. Finally, he opened it. She was bent over an interesting-looking device on her worktable. The engine was still on her bed, but it had been joined by an array of tools and several gallon jugs of oil.

  “Do you ever sleep?” he asked.

  Mia jumped. “Oh, hi, Ross. Knock before you come in. Sometimes I work with explosives.”

  “I did knock.”

  “Oh.”

  “Several times.”

  “Oh. I guess you should knock louder.” She probably wouldn’t have heard him if he’d blown up the door. Mia shoved her glasses up her nose, leaving a streak of grease, and picked up a screwdriver with her left hand.

  “Are you left-handed?” Ross could have sworn she’d had it in her right hand when he’d walked in.

  “I’m ambidextrous,” she replied. “Both-handed. Dad says it’s rare.”

  “What are you working on?”

  Mia held the contraption up, beaming proudly. “It’s a flamethrower.”

  Ross eyed it. “Can you shoot that thing all the way from the sentry walk?”

  “No, the flame wouldn’t reach the ground. It’s for the singing trees. Melting’s the only safe way to destroy them. If you blow them up, shards go everywhere. Have you ever seen them kill an animal? Ugh!”

  “Yeah, I have.” Ross rubbed his scar. Since he’d already told the sheriff, he might as well tell her, too. “Actually . . . that’s what happened to my arm. I was only hit by one shard, or I’d be a tree right now. I had to cut it out. It was already growing roots by the time I got my knife out.”

  “Wow.” Mia stared at his arm, and even though his sleeve covered the scar, he resisted the impulse to pull it to his chest. “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard of surviving a hit. Of course, I’ve never heard of anyone only getting hit by one shard. How did that happen?”

  “I was mostly behind cover.” He deftly changed the subject, pointing at the flamethrower. “Are you testing it?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, easily distracted. “I’m taking it along to try out today. There’s a lot of those singing trees between us and the big ruins.”

  “Big ruins?” Ross asked, the old prospecting itch waking up.

  “Huge. Enormous. Gigantic! But they’re surrounded by those trees. They got the last prospector who came to town.” She patted the flamethrower. “I’ll test it during the schoolhouse patrol. Should be fun. Usually we go with Mr. Riley’s patrollers, but they’l
l all be at that council meeting about you.”

  Ross hated the idea of being talked about almost as much as he hated crowds. Or situations like the day before, when Felicité Wolfe had been waiting for him at school like a cougar concealed in the undergrowth.

  His blood had run hot and cold and hot again when she’d apologized in front of everyone. He’d rather have had her call him a mutant again—at least then he wouldn’t have had to stand there and take it. By the time he’d managed to stammer out, “I’m sorry I ruined your dress,” he’d felt like he was being stabbed by invisible knives.

  The school bell began to toll.

  Ross remembered the plate in his hand. “Here’s your breakfast.”

  “I’ll walk you over. I need some air.” Mia set it on top of the engine on her bed and opened her door.

  “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She ate the burrito as they walked. He could tell her mind was on her flamethrower, and she wasn’t appreciating her father’s cooking at all.

  “The problem is, the oil burns too fast.” Mia licked a drop of salsa from her finger. “I get a big burst, but it’s over in seconds.”

  “Use a bigger canister.”

  “Then it weighs more than you do.”

  “Oh. Right. Put it on wheels?”

  “That’s a thought,” said Mia. “Though it’ll limit maneuverability. Jennie’s been researching other fuel, but—I have to get back to work!”

  She took off, to Ross’s confusion. Then he spotted Felicité walking up, arm in arm with her friends Becky and Sujata, followed by a bunch of other girls. Felicité’s scarlet hat and dress reminded him of his nightmare of blood and crystal. He edged away, trying not to look at her.

  “Ross,” Felicité called. “I hope you’re well today?”

  How was he supposed to answer that? “I hope you are, too,” he mumbled, and fled into the relative safety of the schoolhouse. Behind him, somebody giggled.

  Jennie gave him a genuine smile. “Hi, Ross. I’ve got some exercises in verb conjugation for you this morning. They’re written out on your slate.”

  He exhaled in relief, and got to work as the rest of the students wandered in and sat down.

  An odd, rhythmic clicking caught his attention. It seemed to be coming from Felicité’s desk. She peered inside, then leaped up with a scream. A roach the size of a man’s hand slowly dragged its bloated body out from under a pile of chalk. Crumbs of white chalk stuck to its grinding mandibles, and its eye stalks switched back and forth. Armor plates clicked together as it moved.

  Then its eyestalks stiffened. Its wings spread, and with a hiss it leaped into the air—straight for Felicité’s head.

  She threw up her hands, crying out, “My hair!”

  Henry Callahan lunged out with a slate in both hands. He slapped the roach out of the air, then slammed the slate down, crushing it to the floor.

  Instead of a squish, there was a loud crack. Henry lifted the slate. The roach lay still. Then one eye stalk popped up, followed by the other. The roach zipped away and vanished under a storage box.

  Felicité frantically brushed herself off as if she were covered in roaches.

  Henry flicked little Hattie Salazar’s braid. “Is that another one?”

  A pack of little kids started screaming, and another pack began racing around, slamming slates into imaginary roaches.

  Rico Salazar shoved Henry. “You scared my sister!”

  He shoved back, knocking Rico into Yolanda’s desk. She lifted her hand, and a gust of wind blew slates off desks and into Henry. Next thing Ross knew, half the school was in a shoving, yelling match. He moved out of the way, wondering if he should ignore it or try to break it up.

  A crossbow flew from its mount on the wall and smacked into Jennie’s palm. The students settled down, though Felicité stayed in the aisle.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said to Jennie. “You know I can’t stand it when things get in my hair.”

  “We all know that. I assume that’s why someone thought it would be hilarious to put a roach in your desk.” There was complete silence as she walked around the room. “Henry?”

  “I have no idea how it got there. It was just one roach.”

  “There is never ‘just one roach,’” said Jennie.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t put it there.”

  “I heard what you said to Hattie. I saw you tickle her too.”

  “I was kidding. It wasn’t my fault everyone went crazy.”

  “Fine.” Jennie smiled a hard, thin smile. “Then instead of morning drill, we’re doing Lockdown drill.”

  “Oh, hell,” Henry said to Yolanda. “See what you did?”

  “Me?” Yolanda glared. “Who’s the jackass that put the roach in Felicité’s desk?”

  Groans and complaints drowned out the bickering as the students began passing out armor, weapons, and ammunition.

  Jennie beckoned to Ross. “Everyone has their place, and they know their orders. Until you get some, you can take a break.”

  As Laura led the little kids outside, Sujata pulled Henry aside. “That is not how to get a girl’s attention. Let me give you a tip . . .”

  Ross asked Jennie, “What happens now? Everybody goes to the walls?”

  “Yes. I’ll come around on inspection after they’ve been wearing full armor in the sun for a while. Then we come back, work until the bell, and then we’ll go out on patrol. If you’d like to go with us, come back at the watch change.”

  Ross went back to Dr. Lee’s for his wagon and started collecting oil. As he walked, he thought about Jennie—she was about his age, but she was in charge of sixty or seventy people. He’d never been in charge of anyone but his burro, Rusty. And he hadn’t even been able to save Rusty from being stolen by Voske’s soldiers.

  He turned down the main road and started to glance past the signpost, when the sign itself caught his eye. LA TIJERA. He could read it!

  He’d always navigated by landmarks and constellations, adding drawings to his maps. As he worked his way past the longhouses on the west side, some painted bright colors, others old and patched, he sounded out the street signs. An entirely new part of the world had revealed itself to him, as if he had Changed and could suddenly see like a hawk or track scents like a dog. It was amazing.

  At the north forge, a huge man stepped out in a waft of heated air that smelled like metal, blocking his path. He was one of the people who had shoved their way into Jack’s back room, demanding to know if Ross was Changed. The sheriff had called him Mr. Horst.

  “I want a word with you, boy.” Mr. Horst snapped his fingers at Ross, beckoning him to come closer.

  Ross stayed where he was, eyeing the man warily. He had no plans to get anywhere near those strong blacksmith’s arms.

  When he didn’t move, the man took a menacing step toward him. “Are you Changed?”

  Ross edged backward.

  Mr. Horst gave him a contemptuous look. “Too scared to admit it?”

  Even if he said he was a Norm, he couldn’t prove that he didn’t have a power, and the man had clearly already made up his mind.

  Then he whipped out his right hand, but Ross was out of striking distance. He didn’t flinch.

  Mr. Horst scowled and dropped his hand. “Are you counting on all two of your Changed friends on the council to talk the others into keeping you here?” He snorted. “We’ve had enough trouble with you people. The last thing this town needs is another damn mutant!”

  He shouldered his way back into the building and slammed the door.

  It was hardly the first time Ross had been called names or threatened, and he usually let it roll off his back. But between the nightmares, the aching arm and hand that he still couldn’t use, and being called a mutant twice in two days, the joy in his newfound ability to read
had vanished.

  He unloaded the oil in Mia’s yard, then walked quietly into the cottage. He discovered Mia asleep on the floor, curled up in a ball with her head pillowed on folded oilcloth. She reminded him of a kitten, or maybe a raccoon pup—something small and cute. Her hair fell loose across her round cheeks, and her eyelashes were like dark half-moons.

  It was obvious that Mr. Horst was right about one thing. Even if the sheriff voted with Dr. Lee to let him stay a little longer, the two of them would be overruled by the five Norms on the council. I don’t want to leave, he thought as he watched Mia sleeping. Ceilings and all.

  But he hadn’t left yet. He hunted around and found a blanket for Mia, but when he scooped up the gears piled on it, the sound woke her. She stretched and blinked. Her face was different without her glasses, her eyes even wider when she strained to see. She patted around on the floor. Ross picked up the glasses and put them in her hand.

  She smiled at him as she settled them on her nose. “Patrol time?”

  Ross explained about the Lockdown drill as Mia strapped her flamethrower across her back. He took the extra oil canisters and walked her to the school, where they found tired, sweaty students in leather armor.

  “I wish I could go along, but I’m due at town hall. Enjoy the patrol,” Felicité said sweetly, rising from her seat.

  Jennie said, “Ross, there’s extra gear in the bin.”

  He picked out a pair of well-honed and balanced throwing knives. It was good to have weapons again, even if they were only borrowed. The heavy, cumbersome armor was made from the hide of armored cattle. He turned away so no one would see him wrestling with the stiff straps and buckles.

  At the door, Jennie separated two younger girls from the crowd. One looked like her, but had dense, close-cut black curls. The other had lighter skin and a mop of red-brown hair.

  “No, Z,” Jennie said. “Your thirteenth birthday isn’t till next month.”

  “That’s not fair!” yelped the redheaded girl. “One month! You’re letting your sister go, and she’s only two months older than me, and I can shoot as well as her!”