I tried to keep my thoughts fixed on Peter and our evening together—especially the kiss. I forced myself to reflect, to wallow, and to wonder about the future, but my mind stayed scattered and, like, foggy. It wasn’t because everything leading to that night kept me off-balance, with little room to breathe. I frowned at the ceiling after I turned off my bedroom light. I couldn’t sleep, not because of Peter or the Noxious Nocturne or Magnifiman or the kiss. It was something else entirely—a quiet, nagging voice from some distant and uncharted corner of my mind, whispering to me in an endless, wordless stream. It stirred something in me—something deeper, something that worked at a gut level.
I didn’t understand what it was, and neither did I understand my brain going all obsessive-compulsive in pulling out bits of memory from the afternoon I’d gone to the theater for cheap entertainment. That quiet, nagging voice, though, insisted it had nothing to do with the bizarre hypnosis I was a victim to. It kept redirecting me to my rescue, but while I could remember my return to consciousness and my conversation with Magnifiman, I couldn’t see what it was my gut was trying to alert me to.
There was something about my rescue that didn’t sit well with me, I guess. A tiny detail my subconscious picked up, and it tugged away at my brain. I replayed that afternoon several times that night, wondering what the hell it might be, but I kept coming up short. Maybe it was because the situation was so chaotic, and my head was still under The Devil’s Trill’s spell. I couldn’t say for sure.
“Screw it.” I sighed and burrowed under the covers.
Chapter 10
Mug shots of The Devil’s Trill’s thugs showed up in the following day’s paper, and for that, I was way beyond grateful. My Chemistry Lab was temporarily forgotten, but I’d happily take delays in getting lectured and guilt tripped, no matter how short as Mom and Liz crowded around Dad to gawk at the pictures. The Trill’s henchmen didn’t look too strange other than that they sneaked around in tuxedoes and masks, guns in holsters snuggling nicely against silk.
I helped myself to some milk, which I liberally sprinkled with blue food coloring from my freshly-acquired supplies. Denim blue, finally. I took my seat, ignoring my family, and set my glass down with a triumphant little noise that kind of sounded like a fart.
“So what were they doing at the jeweler’s yesterday?” Liz prodded.
“Stealing, of course,” Mom replied. “Though I’ll have to say they could’ve done better than that particular store.”
“Are they saying anything, Dad?”
“Nope. If they had, I still wouldn’t expect the police to say anything about it unless they want to cause unnecessary panic.”
“How many criminals were caught last night? Did they keep a head count, Frank?”
“Uh—wait. I’m looking. Ah, here it is. About twenty were picked up by Mannequin Man.”
Liz chuckled as she walked back to her seat. She spotted my Blue Breakfast Beverage, made a face, but said nothing. “Magnifiman had a full night, it looks like. Hopefully some of those arrests were made by his sidekick.”
“I don’t think so, but just because it isn’t mentioned here, doesn’t mean that it’s not the case.”
“If he’s being paid to clean up the streets, he’d better be helping out.”
I watched Liz spread about half a pound of cream cheese on her bagel. “I doubt if they’re being paid. Aren’t real crime fighters, like, independently wealthy—or just abnormally generous? You’ve got to admit, people with superpowers are high maintenance. Money should be a necessary evil.”
My sister laughed. “Good looks, brawn, and money! I want to marry the guy!”
“What about brains?”
“I’d rather hold off on that. Absolute perfection is a bit scary. I’ll take what’s there, thanks.”
“Well, I’m glad they’re around to help,” Mom said, straightening up. “How about some bacon and eggs, Eric?”
“No thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome to color your eggs blue.” That was a low blow, and I must admit my resolution wavered. Then I remembered my Chemistry Lab and studied Mom—nope, no signs of remembering, with her mood being its usual upbeat self. Best not to disturb the waters and concede, at least this once.
“Okay, okay, I’ll have one of each. No food coloring required. I’m trying to save every drop of the stuff.”
“You’re underweight. You’re having two of each.”
“Can I have them baked, not fried?”
Mom blinked. “Eric, your breakfast’s going by way of the frying pan. Honestly, the way you go on and on about my cooking—you’ve been listening to that woman on that dumb frou-frou cooking show on cable again, haven’t you?”
“No, my arteries, actually,” I muttered as I helped myself to a bagel, trying to ignore the expired date on the bag. I saw no signs of mold anywhere, and careful sniffing yielded nothing but the usual smell of bland factory-produced food that had the consistency of old rubber.
“I heard that.”
* * * *
Peter was grounded, but he took it all in stride. He appeared more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. More confident, even, which got me to wonder. Hell, I didn’t even recognize him when I was at my locker, sorting through my junk, and I turned when I heard my name called and saw this boy waving at me from the other end of the hallway, grinning toothily.
It was a reflexive move to look behind me just in case it was another Eric who was being saluted, but I only saw the usual swarm of students hurrying to and from their lockers, chattering and laughing.
“I was calling you, Plath.”
Peter sauntered over to me, his usual well-dressed self. The only difference was that the boy was glowing—almost literally. I looked suspiciously at the dreary fluorescent lights overhead.
“Hi, Eric.” Althea stepped out from behind Peter, half-pissed, half-glum as she eyed me through her thick glasses. “How’s it going?”
“I’m doing great, thanks.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
She knew. I looked at Peter, who nodded and shrugged with a sheepish little smile. Great. Poor Althea—I loved her to pieces, but now I dreaded the fallout, if any. I didn’t have a lot of friends—girl buddies, even less so. Initial impressions in Althea’s case said nothing more than complete teenage heartbreak.
Althea Horace of the Mystery Machine, we always called her because she was the flesh-and-blood incarnation of Scooby-Doo’s Velma, save for the fact she was black. Althea’s baby dreads followed the shape of a chin-length bob, and a pair of oversized, black-rimmed glasses subtly complemented her rich, chocolate complexion. She was also fond of turtleneck sweaters, and it was through Peter’s joking encouragement—because he was a crazy-ass enabler that way—that she went all the way and wore short pleated skirts no matter what the weather, but she drew the line where the shoes were concerned and wore boots instead.
“You look good,” I offered, my face hot.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Althea then sighed. “Thanks.”
“I’m grounded,” Peter said, his voice non-committal.
“I was hoping that you wouldn’t be. For how long?”
“A week.”
“I guess that’s not so bad.”
He smirked. “You say that now. I’ll give you a week to change your mind.”
I stared back, surprised into silence.
The bell rang, and the three of us fell into step together as we made our way to our first class. I kept Althea sandwiched between us, seeing how she was looking more and more miserable as the conversation wore on. I did that in hopes of getting her involved, but it only made things worse because Peter had tuned her out, behaving as though no one else existed but him and me. When I offered to carry Althea’s books, I thought I heard her growl, and I swear foam was starting to form in her mouth. She stayed quiet as we walked up the stairs to the third floor, and Peter, his anxiety gone and his confidence stoked, yammered nonstop, giving me my second shock of the
day. I think I spent my time gaping at him, my mind sending out warning signals about poor Althea. He didn’t pay attention.
She snapped once we reached the third floor landing.
Turning to Peter, she swung her fist and slugged him in the shoulder, sending him staggering toward the wall. For someone who stood at five-foot-one, she sure packed an impressive wallop.
“Ow, what the hell?” he yelped.
Althea drew herself up and squared her shoulders back with a contented smile. “There. That felt good.” Then she looked at me. “I swear, they’re either gay or priests. It’s really pissing me off.”
“Or both,” I stammered, poised to defend myself.
She left me alone, though. It was Peter who’d broken her heart. Then again, I could never tell with girls.
“Since you’re grounded, Peter, I’d like to borrow your boyfriend this afternoon. The traveling carnival’s about to pack up and move, and I want to check it out before it’s gone. I need an escort. Two would’ve been better, but shit happens, apparently.”
“You’ll probably be my escort, not the other way around. Looks like I’ll be well-defended against freaky clowns.”
Peter gingerly massaged his shoulder while I opened the door to the third floor for Althea. “You don’t need to ask for my permission. Eric’s free to do whatever he wants. Not like I can do much, being walled up at home after school. God, where’d you learn to hit like that?”
“Bruce Lee. That one-inch-punch thing. Read about it online. I haven’t gotten it right yet, but I’m working on it.”
Althea vanished through the door and trotted off to class while I hung back, waiting for Peter. I chuckled and shook my head. “Serves you right. Insensitive bastard.”
“What? What did I do?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ignored her, that’s what. She was right there, a couple of inches away, and you just kept on talking over her.”
“Did I?”
“Uh, yeah.”
He grimaced. His mood mellowed out, and for a second or two, I thought I’d just caught a super quick glimpse of the old Peter. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll have to make it up to her sometime.”
“You’re a different person,” I noted, cocking my head thoughtfully. “Not in a bad way, though—just different. I’ve never seen you this upbeat and restless.”
“Oh,” he said, chuckling and coloring a little. Then he shrugged. “I’m in the doghouse—sort of—and for good reason.”
“You know, I’ve never seen anyone enjoy being grounded this much.”
“I’m a sucker for punishment,” he replied, kissing me once assured that we were alone. “It’s the cause of my punishment that’s been my mood enhancer today. That said, I’d do it again if given another chance.”
“Don’t tempt fate, fer chrissakes, or I’ll never be able to go out with you. I’m forced to wait a whole week as it is.”
“Tempt fate? Oh, you mean like this?”
Another kiss or two—actually, it was a longish series of kisses—actually, it was something close to a torrid make-out session, yes, on the third floor landing, with me getting slammed against the wall and pressed there, Peter’s mouth, hands, and body serving as a very exciting anchor. We were the only students in the stairwell, and in the crazy melting swirl that used to be my brain, I could barely hear distant footsteps and voices fading off as well as doors opening and closing.
What was left of my self-control managed to drag itself out of my brain muck and give me a sharp slap upside the head. I pushed Peter away and tried to hold him at arm’s length. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. I never until then realized how strong he was—though it might be because he was horny—and it was a struggle getting him off me.
Then again, I guess it was very likely because I didn’t want him to stop, either.
I swallowed and waited for my breathing to quiet down. “We’ll be late.”
“I know. I don’t care. I’m beginning to enjoy this rebellion stuff.” He smiled, his eyes a bit glazed, and traced my mouth with a finger.
“You almost broke my back, throwing me against the wall like that.”
“Did I hurt you? Jesus, I’m sorry.”
The glazed look was still there. This time a bit of fear tempered it, and I had to smile to reassure him. “I’m all right, seriously. I didn’t hit my head. Just got the wind knocked out of me—caught me off guard. Looks like your tennis lessons are paying off.”
“Yeah. Looks like they are,” he stammered. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he stepped away and led me out of the stairwell. Thank heaven for slackers.
About half a dozen students scurried up and down the hallway, frantically searching for their classrooms. Peter and I crossed the threshold of ours just as the second bell rang. I glanced in Althea’s direction and caught her staring daggers at us, her arms crossed on her chest. Whether she was blessed with the keenest perception a human being could ever have, or we were way too obvious, I couldn’t say, but that look of hers spoke volumes of what she knew. Well, I suppose the fact we entered the room a good three or so minutes after her would have been a dead giveaway. Reflexively, I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened out my jacket and shirt, just in case.
I took the empty seat in front of her while Peter sat beside me.
I flashed Althea a crooked little grin as I deposited my bag on the floor. She merely narrowed her eyes and mouthed, “Skank.”
Chapter 11
The carnival, ironically enough, was situated in the abandoned corner of Vintage City’s industrial area, where the biotech companies used to flourish. It was almost fitting. The carnival—which went by the name The Solstice Masque—presented itself as the blue-collar equivalent of Cirque du Soleil, and the grounds swarmed with employees in grotesque costumes.
One would say they looked like genetic mutants.
The rides, which were pretty tame, were old. The merry-go-round, the tilt-a-whirl, the Ferris wheel, and the swing carousel reeked with age, from the rickety creaking of moving joints to the soiled and scratched paint.
Animal and cherub carvings looked like relics that were salvaged from the darkest corners of the oldest antique shop. The wild, manic expressions on the horses’ faces and the wide-eyed, watchful looks on wooden cherubs’ had that distinct gleam of craziness to them. I couldn’t help but stare back, kind of hypnotized and a little creeped out. The waltz from the calliope had a freaky, off-key quality, sort of like the violin music I’d heard in the theater several days earlier. In this case, though, there was nothing ominous about the sound—nothing threatening. It was just spooky. With the swarming figures of costumed carnival workers and the clouds of smoke and steam being belched into the air, the fairgrounds kept us in an atmosphere of phantasmagoric mystery (“phantasmagoric”: another vocab quiz remnant).
Althea totally loved it, of course. As a peace offering for stealing her hoped-for gay boyfriend, I shelled out what was left of my allowance for cotton candy and gave it to her.
“Pretty cool,” she breathed, looking around.
“Want to check out a ride?”
“Nah—I might have nightmares. I’m here to enjoy the view.” She nodded in the direction of the old, abandoned buildings some distance from the fairgrounds. “Except for those, anyway. Someone should’ve had those torn down.”
“They could be used for something else,” I offered.
With all the lights, the laughter, and the music that transformed the empty concrete lot, the old biotech buildings looked like rotting old shells looming above us.
Darkness hid much of them from view. Their silhouettes and their windows’ faint outlines appeared like something from the beyond, and what bits I knew about the industry back in their heyday didn’t help ease the tickling crawling of my skin. Reports of people dying or getting hurt during lab tests that went wrong were better known, but there were also rumors that floated around involving genetic manip
ulations and the monsters that came out of the test tubes.
“I doubt it. At least I hope not. That place is bad news.”
“Was bad news, you mean.”
Althea shrugged and tugged at her cotton candy with sticky, pink-stained fingers. “I guess. When I look at those buildings, though, I feel like they’re alive—their windows watching everyone, their walls breathing. Drives me nuts. They really should be torn down.”
I laughed, draping an arm around her shoulders and steering her away from the outer edges of the fairgrounds.
“You’ve been watching way too many Twilight Zone episodes, honey.”
“Uncle Moses used to work there. Can’t remember what he did—security, I think. He said all the hoity-toity scientists there were pretty freaky. Like, secretive and obsessed.”
We stopped before the merry-go-round and leaned on the iron fence. Children, adults, and teenagers swarmed on and off the platform while a couple of costumed workers ushered them to and from the ride. Althea continued to talk, but I only half-listened. My attention was divided between my friend and the carnival staff—at least the two who worked the merry-go-round. They were dressed in bodysuits of giant orange and black polka dots, with white full masks and glittering wigs that mimicked black and orange straw. The masks, I thought, were interesting—white with nothing else but small, round eyeholes and bulbous noses. No mouths. I’d never seen anything like those before, and when a woman who had a small boy with her paused to talk to one of them, she didn’t seem to have trouble understanding what was being said in return.
From where I stood, I could only see the carnival worker nod his or her head and make gestures. I didn’t know how long I watched them, but eventually the dream-like state I was in faded. I grew more and more aware of the two costumed people standing by the gate—no longer surrounded by people—and staring back at me, while the merry-go-round creaked along in a circular dance.
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