“You.” She points at me. “Put your desk back and stay silent the rest of the class.”
She mutters all the way back to her desk.
“Later.” Danny struts across the room and slams the door behind him.
Sarah flips her hair across my desk. Kyle tucks his feet in and jiggles my chair. Crap. I need that review if I’m going to pass the test.
After an eternity, class ends and I walk up to The Fish’s desk, holding my books like a shield.
“What?” She looks disgusted to have me so close.
“May I have a new copy of the review sheet, please?”
She purses her lips and exhales through her nose before reaching into her desk.
“May I please have one for Danny, too?”
“He won’t pass the class.”
“You never know.”
She hands me a second packet.
“Thank you.” I head for the door.
“Miss Solomon.”
I force myself to turn and look at her.
“Though English is not your strongest suit, I’m told you have great potential as a student. I suggest you take better care in choosing your friends.”
Instead of telling her off, I thank her and leave.
At the opposite end of the walkway between the English and history classrooms, I see Missy talking to Principal Murray. Whatever she’s telling him, she’s pretty animated about it. Her braids bob and her hands punctuate the air. He seems to mostly watch the students passing by, though, stopping one for running, another for littering. I wish I were close enough to hear what they were talking about. Danny materializes at my side. “You survived.”
“Barely. Look. New review packets.”
“I’m not going back in that room.”
“But—”
“Nope. No way I’m going to be pushed around by that woman again.”
“You’ll fail.”
“Don’t care.” He saunters down the sidewalk. “In fact, why don’t we just leave this place?”
I hurry to catch up to him. “What do you mean? We can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“We’ll get caught.”
“And then what?”
“My dad will kill me.”
He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at the sky. “You’d be surprised how people don’t actually notice when you’re gone.” We’ve almost reached the end of the sidewalk. “The secret is not making a big deal about it.”
The second bell rings. We keep walking.
“Just tell yourself no one can see you and they won’t.” He steps off the curb into the parking lot and I follow, trying to convince myself I’m invisible.
We walk through the gate and—like that—we’re ditching school.
I’m ditching school, something I would never do.
But another me might.
“This way.” He turns right and takes the road leading south. “I want to show you something.”
I kind of feel guilty, but not too much. The sun is shining and there’s a pretty girl beside me. We walk out of the school and I’m amazed again at how easy everything is here.
“No, really,” she says. “What do I do when I get caught?”
“You tell them you were sick in the bathroom.”
“They won’t believe that.”
I walk backward to face her. “Sure they will. You’re a good student. They’ll trust anything you say. And Danny, well…” I turn back around. “No one cares if he’s gone or not, right?”
I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
“We’ll go back in a bit, okay? Promise.”
She bites her lip, but nods and shifts the bag on her shoulder.
“Want me to carry that?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
We walk side by side. The only sounds are the garbage trucks picking up cans, and dogs barking behind fences. Halfway down the block, I stop.
“The best I can tell, this is where I was skating that morning,” I say, pointing to where we’re standing. “There are some restaurants and shops over here, and a winding road that wraps around that way. And over there.” I turn around. “That whole area there is the mall. Or was.”
I can tell she’s trying to envision it. If only I could somehow transfer the images from my brain to hers. Make her see my world.
“The fence I climbed would be somewhere over this way.” I walk farther down the sidewalk, imagining the people lined up to see the parade. The strip mall of shops. The smoking woman and ShopMart at the end. Eevee follows, listening as I tell her more about that morning. I look around at the houses with their gravel-and-cactus yards, the mailbox flags raised, letters ready for pickup. A woman shuffles her garbage can toward the curb.
We cross the street and walk onto the greens of the Bel Air Country Club. A couple of golfers watch us, two ratty kids interrupting their game. One tees off, and I yell, “Eight!”
She laughs. “Isn’t it ‘fore’?”
“But there are two of us.” She gives me a look. “Oh, all right.” I yell again. “Four!”
A golfer waves us on and we walk through to the other side of the course.
“Tell me about Germ,” she says. “What’s he like?”
Ducks swim in the water trap, quacking at each other. Every now and then one quacks really loud. Sounds like he’s laughing. I close my eyes and see Germ skating away, the gym bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. Maybe he made it out. Maybe the blast only threw him like it threw me. Maybe it didn’t reach him at all.
I swallow down my doubt, and think instead about all the insane antics we’ve gotten away with over the years. Building things just to burn them down. Pushing the boundaries as far as they could go. Not because we were looking for trouble, but because we were curious. What would happen if? What would it be like if? From that day we met in second grade, we were inseparable. Two kids with big ideas and just enough guts—or lack of brains—to give them a try.
When I open my eyes, the impossible golf course faces me again. I don’t trust my voice. “Hard to put Germ into words. Like a brother.”
She nods like she gets it, but how can she? Can anyone?
“We’re street artists.” I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking again. Moving makes it easier to talk.
“Do you mean, like, graffiti?”
“No. I mean, like, art.”
“But that’s illegal.”
I shrug.
“Is it illegal where you’re from?”
“It breaks compliance laws. But we find ways to do it anyway.”
“Is that where you learned your invisibility trick?”
I grin.
“Sounds like you have such a great life there,” she says. “Your parents…Germ…”
“You’d think so, right?” We wait for a car to pass and then cross another busy street. “But in my world, you can’t ever let your guard down. You’re always being watched. Listened to. Speak out about the wrong thing and you end up on someone’s shit list. Make a wrong move and you’re done. If anyone has it good, Eevee, it’s you.” I hold my hands out and turn in a circle. “Look around. The sun is shining and you are free to do whatever you want.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course. It’s home.” And then I have an idea. “Let me show you one more thing and then we’ll go back, okay?”
She agrees.
Our shoes shuffle along the sidewalk. The sun warms our backs as we cross the street and walk into the neighborhoods. After a while of just being quiet, she asks, “What happened that things went so bad there?”
“Well…” I run a hand through my hair and try to figure out where to start. “A long time ago, the Soviet Union launched a satellite into space.”
“Sputnik?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, well, Sputnik caused a lot of problems between the US and the Soviets. They got into a
kind of pissing contest, each side scrambling to build bigger, better weapons to outgun the other guy. They also created new ways of spying on each other. Things got really tense when the Soviets planted nukes in Cuba. Suddenly the enemy was right at the doorstep. So the government created a system to track the bad guys, in case they found a way inside. It worked so well, they decided to keep it going, even after Cuba backed off. There was always a new threat, a new enemy. So they kept upgrading the system. Expanding it. Eventually they gave it the name Spectrum.”
“You’ve mentioned that a couple of times.”
“It’s awful. A mix of technology and old-fashioned brute force. You never know how you’re being tracked. Avoid the cameras, but the guy behind you in line might be listening. I’ve heard rumors they’re working on a new upgrade. Spectrum 2.0.”
“That’s really scary.”
“And effective. Most people are scared of stepping out of line. Others have just gotten used to living with it. Every now and then you hear about a protest or a conflict somewhere, but they stamp those out pretty quickly.”
“Like Red December?”
“Exactly.”
“How bizarre. Our Cold War ended when they tore down the Berlin Wall.”
“Ours didn’t end. It turned into an ice age.”
We follow the road as it curves into Pascal. “There.” I point to the brown house that should be blue. A camping trailer sits in the driveway instead of a boat. “That one’s mine. Except we have a huge eucalyptus tree growing in the front. Sheds like crazy. Dad’s always asking me to rake up the mess.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” she asks.
“What?”
“Touching the collar of your shirt.”
I realize my hand is at my neck, reaching for what isn’t there. “My mom gave me a necklace when I was a kid. I must have lost it.”
“No,” she says, “the other Danny is wearing it now.”
“That makes sense.” I look again at my should-be house. “I keep thinking maybe if I stand here long enough they’ll walk out the front door.”
She touches my arm. “It’s okay. You’re going to see them again. We’ll figure out a way.”
She doesn’t sound very sure, but I let myself believe. She lifts the strap of her bag and resets it on her shoulder. Her neck is red where it’s been rubbing.
“Please, let me carry that.”
This time she doesn’t argue. I put it on my shoulder and pretend to stumble under the weight. “Too many books!”
She laughs and we retrace our steps back to the school.
When I wake, I’m tangled in the sheets, my heart racing and my legs trying to run from falling bombs and cracks in my walls. I tell myself it’s just a dream, but I reach out and touch the wall to make sure it’s solid. When I was little and got scared, I would listen for my dad snoring. I knew if I could hear him, everything was okay. But I’m not little anymore, and it’s hard to hear Dad when he lives next door.
I untangle myself and wander down the hall. Morning sun streams in through the kitchen window. Mom looks up from her coffee and paper.
“Sleep didn’t help?”
When we’d returned to campus the day before, I’d gone straight to the nurse and told her I felt sick. I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I covered my face and mumbled something about my head hurting. Between ditching and hearing Danny’s stories, I was such a mess she had no problem believing me.
Mom believed me, too. She touches the back of her hand to my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Want some toast? Juice?”
She sees the answer on my face. “I’ll call the school. You go lie down.”
The couch catches my fall. The weatherman smiles. His skin is so tan it’s orange. “Gorgeous day today. Sunshine and a high of 76°.”
I listen to mom leaving a message on the attendance line. “This is Judy Bennett. My daughter, Eve Solomon, will be out sick today.”
“Don’t forget the homework!”
“Please have her homework ready for me to pick up this afternoon. Thanks.” Mom walks into the room and mutes the television. “I’m sorry I can’t be home to take care of you. I have appointments all day. Remember to eat something if you can. And call me if you get to feeling really bad, okay?”
I groan.
“Go back to bed.”
I groan again and shuffle to my room.
The plan goes off without a hitch. I stay in my room until Mom is gone, then check the windows to make sure Warren has moved on and Dad’s car is no longer in the drive. The EMP discussion is on hold until Mac gets back tomorrow, and Danny has things he wants to show me. No time like the present, right? Still, my hands shake as I get dressed and slip out through the backyard.
Danny is waiting for me in the alley. A duffel bag hangs from the handlebars of a bike.
“Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I guess you don’t know me very well. Where’d you get this?”
“I bought it at a garage sale the other day with some of Danny’s money. Like it?”
“Sure.” I hold on to his shoulders and step onto the pegs sticking out from the back tire. He pedals and we’re off.
The orange-skinned weatherman was right. It’s a beautiful day. I lift my face to the sun. I don’t know me very well either.
I have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t ask. Danny rides in the street, heading south through the neighborhood, passing houses and cars and women watering their lawns. Dogs bark and sprinklers run into the gutter. I hold on and try to keep my feet from slipping. When we reach Thunderbird Road, he turns right and we ride with the traffic. The wind whips through my hair and Danny’s shoulders grow warm beneath my hands. Every now and then he says something, but I can’t hear him over the noise. Soon houses give way to strip malls and block walls and I lose track of time. My legs grow tired, standing on the pegs.
“Almost there?” I yell. I can’t hear his answer, but see him nod.
At 59th Avenue Danny ditches the main road for a shortcut through a parking lot. Drive-Thru Liquor and Forever Fitness whir by before he turns around the far side of the Flower Shack. We coast down a sloped path leading into Paseo Park. I’ve seen it from the road a number of times. From the Thunderbird overpass it doesn’t look like anything special, but down inside it’s enormous. What once was a canal is now full of grass and trees, playgrounds and bike paths.
Danny rides under the overpass, taking me to a world I never knew existed.
I hop off the bike, still feeling the pegs in the arches of my feet, and look at the bridge above me. Every inch of the walls and ceiling is covered in graffiti.
“Yes! I knew it would be here.” Danny throws his bag over his shoulder and climbs the sloped support of the overpass. I follow, trying to keep myself from slipping back down to the grass below.
He stops where the ceiling meets the wall. The traffic rumbles loudly over our heads. He sets the bag at his feet, then pulls out a pair of black gloves and a can of spray paint.
“Where did you get those?”
“Pinched them from the foster home.” He flashes a wicked smile and goes to work. The aerosol can hisses as he sprays a line of black across the concrete.
“Danny.” I check to see if anyone is watching.
“What?” More black lines turn into black boxes. He pulls another can from the bag and continues to work, his body angled and shoes gripping the concrete. The black boxes turn into a city skyline. Buildings with windows lit up in yellow.
The park is deserted and the traffic growls nonstop above. I take in the pictures around me. A Tyrannosaurus rex, red-eyed and salivating, snaps at a tangle of words, all sharp angles and indecipherable. The soft shades of a man’s face and the letters R, I and P below. Psychedelic flowers in bright pinks and blues swirling around a whirlpool sun. A robot with a human skull. An octopus with bulging eyes and curlicue tongue, tentacles wrapped around the throat of King Kong. And all kinds of words. Block letters and sc
rolling letters and letters that look like shards of glass.
“Are any of these yours?”
“Nope. Haven’t been out since I got here.” He takes a moment to stretch his arms up over his head, then goes back to work. “I almost feel like me again.”
The more I look, the more I notice the differences in each picture. The styles, the shading. With a little study, I’m able to decode the artists’ names tucked into the edges. Buzz. Sweet Tooth. Sham. Big Boy. Vermin. And then I watch a new Danny emerge like the picture he’s painting. His arm moves closer to the concrete and then back, closer and back, and his body moves rhythmically with him. The city buildings grow into spirals that swirl into an arm with ghostly black-and-blue fingers reaching back toward the buildings. Moving quickly, he draws a boy on top of a high-rise, running from the arm. The boy has long black hair and wears a black shirt and stoner high-tops. Around the curve of the menacing hand, he sprays the letters D, O and A.
His signature.
He stands back and wipes his forehead with his arm. “Wanna try?”
I shake my head so hard I almost slide down the wall.
“You sure?” He fishes through the bag and hands a glove to me. I pull it over my hand, my heart racing. He shakes the can and the clanking of the ball echoes off the concrete.
“What if…”
“What if nothing. Here.” He hands me the paint. I turn the can over and read the label. Rust-Oleum. Deep blue. I take a breath, aim the can and spray a blue dot. Then another blue dot. Then a curved line beneath them. The paint runs down the slope. My smiley face looks like it’s drooling.
He crosses his arms. “You can do better than that.”
“Well, excuse me. I’ve never broken the law before.”
“Let me help you.” He stands behind me and extends his arm along mine. He’s so close. The panic I felt while cutting his hair rises again, and with it the realization of what I’m doing. What I’ve done.
I should be in school. Not here. Not committing a crime.
I step away from him and hold out the can. “I can’t do this.”
He steps back, nodding. “It’s okay.” He takes the can and paints a moon over his cityscape with huge craters pocking the surface. As it takes form, I see how he’s tucked my name into the design.
Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) Page 9
