Luna

by Julie Anne Peters

  Liam answered, “The tooth fairy. You can’t tell anybody you saw me because no one knows what I look like. And if you don’t get back to bed right now, I can never come back here and leave you money under your pillow. Fairy rules.”

  Cody gasped. He blinked once, then pivoted and raced back down the hall. His bedroom door slammed.

  I snorted. “Where’d you come up with that one?”

  “I read it in your fairy handbook.”

  I smacked his chest. Back in the kitchen, I resumed dishing up treats and delivering them to the kids; tucking them in; kissing them goodnight. Mirelle wanted me to read her a story. I told her not tonight. I told her she could wear her earplugs and listen to music. Which was also against the rules. Oh well. Tonight I was playing by fairy rules.

  When I returned to the living room, Liam was curled on the sofa, reading a paperback. I said, “If they get up, just ...I don’t know. Tell them you’re the boogeyman.”

  Liam made a face. “I’ll hypnotize them. Erase their memories. They’ll never know I was here.”

  “Sometimes Tyler wakes up if he gets too hot. Check on him occasionally, okay? His diapers and stuff are on his bureau in the bedroom. If you can do it without waking her up, take out Mirelle’s earplugs. The emergency numbers are on the speed dial and to use it, you just punch —”

  “I think I can figure out the phone,” Liam cut in.

  “I borrowed Aly’s cell for tonight, so if anything happens —”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  Through the window slats, car lights illuminated the living room. “There he is.”

  Liam dogeared the page in his book and stood.

  “I’m going to hurl.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.” My stomach twisted and growled. “I can’t do this. I’m sick. Really.”

  “Calm down.” Liam clenched my shoulders. “You’ll be fine.” He bent down to kiss my cheek. “Have a good time, Re.”

  The doorbell buzzed and I bolted. Or would have if Liam hadn’t secured me with a stronghold to the hardwood floor. He steered me to the foyer. My arms were paralyzed at my sides, so he had to reach around me to open the front door.

  “Hi,” he said to Chris.

  “Hey, I know you.” Chris waggled a finger at him. “Tryouts, right?”

  Liam stiffened.

  I freaked. They knew each other?

  “Right,” Liam said in his deepest voice. He shoved me across the threshold.

  “Did you make the team?” Chris asked, goosenecking over my head.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Sorry, man.”

  I turned and glared at Liam. He shrugged like, Hey, I didn’t know. “I’ll be home by eleven at the latest,” I said between clenched teeth. “The very latest.”

  Liam smiled. “Just have fun.” Leaning closer so Chris wouldn’t hear, he added, “He is a hottie.” Liam shut the door in my face.

  Chris said, “You got your brother to baby-sit? What did you have to do, bribe him?”

  “Totally. I sold my soul,” I said.

  Chris grimaced.

  “No, it’s okay. It’ll be worth it.” Why’d I say that? I was saying too much.

  A slow smile spread across his face. Checking me out under the porch light, he said, “You look awesome.”

  My brain sent the signal to act cool, but the nervous system was experiencing widespread shutdown.

  “This party’s like halfway to Montana.” Chris reached for my hand. “We better get going.”

  I took one step off the porch and plunged to my death — literally. My foot hit a patch of ice and sent me flying. Unfortunately, Chris was attached to my hand and came with me. His momentum carried him past my stooped-over butt to a shoveled pile of slush on the lawn, where he took a header.

  Chris’s rear arced in the air and he staggered to his feet. Brushing himself off, he cursed under his breath. The entire length of his front was soaked.

  “Oh my God.” My hands flew to my face. Standing there like a defective CD, I kept repeating it: “OhmyGodohmyGod-ohmyGod.” I prayed a sinkhole would open up and suck me whole.

  “Crap,” Chris muttered, shaking slush off his pants.

  My fingers were fused to my face. “I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about? I’m the spaz.” He examined his wet shirt. “We’ll have to make a pit stop so I can change. Do you mind?”

  Couldn’t he see I was mindless? I skittered behind him to his car in the driveway.

  His car closely resembled the VW Dad had thought Liam would treasure forever. It was a rebuilt junker — a mishmash of doors and fenders and hoods — only bigger. Tanklike.

  I was reminded again of the day Liam drove home his brand-spanking new Spyder convertible. Dad’s resentment had extended to me. He wouldn’t even consider buying me a car when I turned sixteen. He told Liam to share. Get real. I’d had my driver’s license a month already and Liam had let me drive around the block, once.

  Chris opened the door for me, and I was hit with a gust of fire wind. The car was idling, the heater on extreme high. Chris slid in on his side and said, “If I turn the car off, I’ll never get it started again. I’m charging the battery.”

  I nodded like, naturally. I’d dressed in layers on top, about six of them, mostly because I couldn’t decide. None of the out-fits Luna picked out were me. As in drab glam. I mean, what went with white? I figured, Wear everything that isn’t stained, smelly, or holey. At the rave I’d check out the appropriate garb and strip down. “Good heater.” I turned to Chris, panting.

  “Yeah, it’s about the only thing that works in this heap.” He ground into gear and the car lurched backward. “Something’s funky with the fan, though.” He smacked the dashboard. “I think it’s stuck.”

  Stuck on category five hurricane. Globules of sweat beaded on my forehead. Luna had spent an hour on my makeup and now my skin was melting wax. “Mind if I crack a window?” I asked.

  I didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed the handle and cranked. The window glass dropped like lead, disappearing inside the door frame.

  Chris stopped fighting with the gear stick and twisted his head slowly. “Wow,” he said. “That never happened before.”

  Melt, I ordered my whole entire body. Melt away.

  Chris popped the clutch and backfired down the street.

  As we drove, frigid air blasted me through the open window. One side of my face was frozen solid, while the other side fried eggs. Chris merged onto the highway, and since he had to compete with the whole outdoors now, shouted at me, “What kind of music do you like?”

  “Opera,” I shouted back.

  He threw back his head and howled. “You really are a scream,” he said.

  I smiled weakly.

  “Here, play whatever you want.” He reached into the back seat and retrieved a CD case.

  Make that a suitcase. It must’ve contained every CD ever recorded. Plus, it had a trick lock — a weird contraption you either had to press or pull or bite off with your teeth. I wrestled with it for like, ten minutes. When I glanced over, Chris was looking at me. Smirking.

  “If you say one word about how unmechanical girls are . . .”

  His eyes gleamed. “Try the button.”

  “The button.” Duh. I pressed it and the latch popped open. About eight hundred CDs sprang into the air.

  He should drive off a cliff and put me out of his misery, I thought. “Sorry,” I mumbled as I crouched to the floor to scoop all the CDs back into the case. I was going to mention the invention of plastic sleeves to organize his collection, but decided now was not the time to reveal my nagging mother instinct. On my way up, the crack of skull carried over the wind as my head crunched the dash.

  Chris must’ve heard my yelp because he screeched to a stop. The car fishtailed over the curb, jerking me fully upright and impaling my head against the headrest. Add whiplash to my concussion.


  “You okay?” He gaped at me.

  “This is going well, don’t you think?” I said.

  He didn’t laugh. Neither did I. I felt like crying. If I did, though, my mascara would run and stain my white jeans.

  At some point, probably while I was crawling around on the floor stacking CDs, we’d exited the highway. The curb we straddled was in a war zone: boarded-up windows along an entire block of charred row houses. I bent to retrieve a couple of CDs I’d missed, which were now crushed under my foot.

  “Sorry.” I winced an apology at Chris.

  “We’ll just sing,” he said.

  Was that a joke? Did he smirk? How could he laugh at a time like this? Unless he was laughing at me. Which he had to be. I was a joke. A study in slapstick.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Chris reached over, took the CDs from my hand, and flung them out the window. Then he clipped my jaw with a knuckled fist. A sweet gesture, like he knew how I was feeling.

  “If you take me back now, you might still get out of this alive,” I told him.

  He laughed. Really laughed. It made me laugh, and feel better. He popped the clutch and we hurtled the median.

  A few minutes later we pulled up in front of a house. A four-plex. There was a truck parked ahead of us, one of those eighteen-wheeler cabs. “Shit,” Chris hissed under his breath. “Denny’s back. He wasn’t supposed to get home until tomorrow.” He explained, “My mom’s boyfriend. He’s a jerk. He thinks he owns me or something.” Chris drummed the steering wheel. “Okay, here’s the plan. You stay here. I’ll run in and grab a pair of jeans; hope him and Mom are too busy getting reacquainted to notice me. If you hear a shot, call 911.”

  My eyes bulged. He was kidding, right?

  He eased open the car door and climbed out, then sprinted up the gravel driveway and in through a side door. It was dead quiet except for a dog barking down the block. No shots rang out. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Chris tore out the door with this hulk of a guy chasing him, bellowing, “Come back here, you twerp. Who do you think you are? I’m talking to you, punk.”

  Chris yanked open his door and threw a wad of denim at me. We pulled away from the curb just as The Hulk reached us, smashing a fist down on the trunk. It made me yelp, and shrivel in fear.

  “Your ass is grass, boy,” the guy threatened, loud and clear through my open window.

  “What a dick,” Chris said as he caromed around a corner. “I hate him. A ten on the A.B.S. I don’t know why my mom ever hooked up with that creep. They’re getting married in a couple of weeks, if you can believe that.” Chris vented his anger on the accelerator and we warped back onto the highway.

  A familiar sight loomed into view. The Taco Bell downtown.

  Chris exited and swerved into the parking lot. He removed the jeans from my lap, which I was only vaguely aware were there, and said, “Be right back.” I nodded okay. My brain was stuck on The Hulk shaking his fist in my sideview mirror. “You want to come in and wait for me to change? Your lips are blue.”

  I had lips? “No. That’s okay,” I mumbled. “Blue’s my natural color.” Which was the dorkiest thing in the world to say.

  As Chris sauntered into the glassed-in entryway, this revelation came to me. I knew now what my life was about: Waiting for guys to change their clothes.

  It didn’t take him long — not the hour and a half required for Luna’s transformation. Chris sprinted out the door and hurled himself into the driver’s seat, then ground the gear into reverse.

  I relaxed, figuring, Okay, the worst is over. What else could happen? From here on in it’s clear sailing.

  On a calm lake in a moonlit dream. But all my dreams had died somewhere around the end of sixth grade.

  Chapter 18

  We barreled down the highway until it petered out at the edge of North America. Really. We drove by neighborhoods and lakes and landscapes I never knew existed. “I think I missed the turnoff,” Chris said, squinting at this corner of notebook paper with hieroglyphics scribbled all over it.

  By the time we finally arrived at the rave, the party was in full throttle. We cruised by a string of idling cars to check out the scene. Noise assaulted my ears: horns blaring, people shouting, music blasting out the door every time someone opened it. The rave wasn’t in a house exactly. More like a barn. Far enough out in the country that neighbors wouldn’t get all bent out of shape, because there were no neighbors.

  Chris located a place to park about three miles away. As he wedged the car between a pair of SUVs, I saw from my window the barn door swing open. A hundred thousand writhing bodies were crammed inside. It totally freaked me out. What was a rave, anyway? Like an orgy? Nobody was naked, that I could tell. Naked, the way I suddenly felt. Exposed and small and scared. I’d never even been to a dance at school. Never been asked. I’d sworn off dancing.

  Chris looked as lost as me, if that was possible. We just sat in the car, watching the action. He inhaled a deep breath and said, “What are we waiting for?”

  I shrugged. “An invitation?”

  “Got that.” He waved the scrap of paper in the air.

  He jumped out and circled around front to open my door. Chris took my hand to help me out. And he didn’t let go. As we started toward the barn, he laced his fingers through mine like it was a natural thing to do. If I could’ve freeze-framed that moment everything would’ve been perfect. His warm hand sending shocks of electricity up my arm; the happiness of being with someone; someone who wanted me there with him. Me — a shape, a form, a person who mattered. I knew I was giving in to the feeling, but for one night I wanted to live dangerously.

  As we neared the building it was obvious drugs were everywhere. The air reeked, and the second we stepped inside some guy tried to deal Chris. “Thanks anyway, man,” Chris yelled over the music. “Not into it. “ He added in my ear, “If I get caught, I’m off the team. If you want something, though —”

  I shook my head no. No, no, no. I wanted to experience every moment of this night with full awareness.

  The DJ cranked up the volume and the bass about splintered my bones. Chris hollered, “Let’s see what they have to drink.”

  A few people were dancing, but most just milled around, smoking, drinking, getting high. We arrived at the makeshift bar and Chris bellowed at the bartender, “What do you got?” One speaker hung from the rafters directly overhead, so I couldn’t hear the bartender’s reply. Chris relayed in my ear, “They have Coke or beer.”

  “Coke’s good.” I hoped it was the fizzy kind.

  It was. Chris handed me a red plastic cup.

  We blended into the crowd surrounding the dance floor, listening to the band and watching the dancers. It was too loud to talk without shouting. Chris sipped his Coke. I mimicked him. He stuck an index finger in his ear, like, Deafening, huh? I nodded.

  A familiar form materialized off the dance floor. Shannon Eiber. She had on this tube top that was held up by hope. Her legs had been dipped into liquid leather. She looked twenty-five, at least. Made me feel twelve.

  She spotted Chris and waggled her fingers at him. Dancing over to us, she wiggled close to him and mouthed, Wanna dance? She jutted her hip into his. My invisibility shield must’ve been set on maximum power.

  Chris said something in her ear, then slid an arm around my waist.

  Shannon actually met my eyes. Her face registered ... what? Disbelief? Shock? “Hey, Regan,” she yelled.

  “Hey,” I yelled back.

  She wheeled around and danced herself out of our scene.

  Our scene. Chris and me, standing there with his arm around me. It was the longest song in history and I prayed it’d never end.

  He leaned down and said in my ear, “You bored? You want to dance?”

  “No,” I replied. “I don’t dance.”

  His head rolled back on his neck. “Thank you, God,” he spoke to the rafters. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He said to me, “I hate to dance. I’m so bad.”


  “Me, too.” I hadn’t tried lately, not since the slumber party.

  It was hot. We finished our Cokes in record time. Chris took my empty cup, slid it under his, and set both atop a five-foothigh floor speaker, then hitched his chin and said, “Let’s go outside.”

  We wedged through the fleshy mass to the rear exit. A group of people, five or six, were huddled near the door, exchanging baggies for cash. They split when we cut through.

  Behind the barn was a pasture with a wooden rail fence extending along the perimeter. The last snowfall had made the ground mushy and our feet squished in unison. The night air was chilly. I was grateful for all my layers. Beside me, Chris shivered.

  “You cold? You want one of my sweaters?” I asked him.

  “Sure. I’ll take the one off the bottom.”

  “Shut up.” I smacked him.

  He grinned. We slogged all the way to the fence. Chris stepped onto the bottom railing, swung a leg over the top, and reached back to help me up.

  My purse weighed a ton. It was my gigantic Wal-Mart bag, which I’d chosen specifically so I could stuff in all my extra clothes after I changed. I never got that far. As we balanced on the fence, my purse felt awkward in my lap, like a stomach tumor. I looped it around the fence post next to me.

  “Cows,” Chris said.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed. “There’re cows out there.”

  I had to squint to see that far in the dark. “Oh yeah.”

  “My sister and I used to play this game,” Chris raked a hand through his hair, “where you take turns describing an object. Whatever you say about it has to start with the next letter in the object. You want to play?”

  Oh boy. Party games. “Sure,” I said.

  He shifted to face me. “You go first.”

  “What’s the object?” I asked.

  “Cows,” he answered. “You come up with a ‘c’ word that has to do with cows.”

  Cows. “Okay. Cud.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cows chew their cud.”

  “What’s a cud?” he said.

  Was he kidding? He didn’t sound it. “Regurgitated stomach contents.”