by Dan Rix
This wasn’t the fire department.
These machines looked more like military.
Ropes spooled out of the vehicle’s belly, landing near the crater.
At once, dozens of people disembarked, their silhouettes dancing like phantoms through the haze.
They were dressed in full hazmat suits. Head to toe reflective material, airtight helmets. Suits that protected against radiation, toxic chemicals, biohazards. They hit the ground and jumped into action.
Were meteorites radioactive? No one had told me about that.
And here I’d gone down into the crater with nothing but a thin cotton T-shirt.
Lovely.
In a few seconds, they sprayed out all the fires and began to erect lights around the crater, shining down into it. More gear was lowered from the helicopters, power tools and winches, excavators, digging equipment, which was assembled around the hole at lightning speed.
This wasn’t the fire department, and they weren’t here for the fire. That much was obvious.
They were here for the meteorite.
A pair of suited personnel knelt off to the side, pointing at something on the ground and gesturing to each other, pointing some more.
Our footsteps.
Their aluminized helmets pivoted, scanning the surrounding trees, and for a moment, they seemed to stare straight at us. Then they moved on.
I let out my breath.
Megan tugged my sleeve. “Now it’s time to go.”
As I followed her back to our campsite, the heavy drone of machinery fading in my ears, I touched the fragment still in my pocket.
Chapter 2
It looked like a normal rock.
I rotated it between my fingers, examining it under my desk lamp back at home the next day. Jet black in color, the meteorite resembled obsidian. Areas of it were porous, like lava rock.
Cool, yeah . . . but not that cool.
I leaned back and brushed my long, dark hair out of my eyes.
Those helicopters had gotten there so fast, they had to have been flying nearby. Waiting for it. Maybe they’d been tracking this one.
Did they always respond to meteors that way?
And the hazmat suits?
The whole episode had left me shaken.
I opened my laptop and scanned the recent news headlines to see if any of them mentioned the shooting star. Absently, I picked up the meteorite again and rubbed it between my fingers.
It felt oily.
I set the rock down and my fingers came away wet. At least, they felt wet. Looking at my thumb and forefinger, I expected to see some kind of residue—but saw nothing. Still, I wiped my hand off on my jeans.
None of the articles mentioned a team in hazmat suits.
So Megan and I were the only ones who saw it happen.
I grabbed the meteorite and collapsed on my bed, where I let my mind drift to what I’d been dreading all this time.
School tomorrow.
My first day of junior year, when everyone would be looking at me.
My stomach knotted even thinking about it.
A quiet knock sounded on my door, and my dad poked his head into my room. “Hey sweetheart,” he said. “You all set for tomorrow?”
I flinched, as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I scrambled off the bed, yanked open the drawer of my nightstand, and hid the meteorite, feeling guilt warm my cheeks. “Hi, Dad.”
His eyes narrowed a hint, but he said nothing. “Well?” he said.
“What?” I brushed my hair out of my eyes, then changed my mind and let it hang over part of my face. I looked down.
He came in, and I edged away from him.
He sat down next to me, and I felt him studying the side of my face, his gaze pained.
He wondered where his daughter had gone.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. My heart made dull, aching thumps against my sternum. My entire body felt rigid, like rubber bands about to snap.
He arm landed on my shoulder, and he pulled me in for a side hug. “I love you,” he whispered against my scalp.
I nodded, limp in his arms, unable to hug him back, unable to pull away. I hated this part. I hated being held, because I felt dirty everywhere. I hated others touching me . . . even when I craved it.
My dad released me, and his gaze went to the drawer of my bedside table. He pulled it open. The meteorite had come to rest between a framed photo of Megan and me and a miniature Eiffel Tower, laying on its side.
He’d been expecting drugs.
I’m not hiding my secrets in that drawer, Dad.
He nodded, as if I’d actually spoken to him, and left the room.
“That’s him,” Megan whispered, pointing across the Santa Barbara High School quad the next day.
The first day of junior year.
Somehow, through sheer force of will, I’d managed to make it through the morning periods without meeting anyone’s gaze. At lunch, we’d avoided the crowds and staked out a spot under a tree like loners.
It would be like this from now on.
We would be loners.
I followed Megan’s finger to a blond boy hunched forward on a bench, also alone. His lunch sat unopened next to him. The sun glimmered off his high cheekbones and cast shadows into his deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. His wide shoulders slumped forward in a tight T-shirt, sleeves riding up sinewy biceps. He stared vacantly at the ground.
“Who is that?” I said curiously, and immediately felt an uncomfortable knot rise in my throat, forcing me to turn away. “No, Megan. I can’t.”
“No, look. That’s him.”
“Who?”
She said nothing at first, and I saw her throat work up and down in a swallow. “Emory . . . Emory Lacroix.”
That name.
Lacroix.
It was the first time we’d uttered it in months. My insides squeezed into a tiny ball. I looked back at the boy. “She’d be . . . this year, she’d be what?”
“A sophomore. He’s a senior.”
“He looks so sad.” My mouth had gone dry.
“They ate together . . . last year, they used to eat together. They were really close.”
I stared at her. “Stop it. What you’re doing right now. Just stop.”
“Oh, come on,” Megan sneered. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
“He’s hot.”
“Are you serious?” I gaped at her. “How can you even think about that right now?”
“It’s not like that, it’s just . . . it feels good to act normal again. It would feel good, you know . . . to be able to think about that.”
“This is not normal,” I said. “You doing what you’re doing is not normal.”
She looked wistfully toward Emory.
“Megan,” I warned. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Go talk to him.”
“Why not? He’s sitting all alone.”
“No!” I grabbed her arm, panicking. “Don’t ever talk to him.”
“How can you be so heartless?” she snapped, yanking herself free. “You know, sometimes it’s kind of disturbing how good you are at hiding it.”
The comment stung like acid, and I turned away, struggling to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, laying out the sandwich my dad had packed for me—turkey club, which had always been my favorite. “We’re just trying to survive. How did it go today? In class?”
“It was okay,” she said, munching on a pretzel. “Better, actually. At least I wasn’t thinking about it every five seconds.”
“Yeah.”
“But it’s weird too. It doesn’t feel right to not think about it for too long, like I need to be thinking about it.”
“Yeah . . .” I nibbled on the crust of my sandwich, swallowed, and the dry ball wormed its way down into my stomach, which immediately squirmed to reject it. “I can’t do this.” I set the meal aside, practically untouched. I had no appetite.
My gaze went back to Emory Lacroix, sitting there all alone. Even from here I could feel his pain, and I couldn’t look away. It drew me to him, and suddenly I felt the same urge as Megan. To go to him. To talk to him. To comfort him.
His head snapped up.
Across the quad, his hardened gaze bored into me.
I jerked my head away, and my heart took off galloping. Burning heat scorched my cheeks. “Megan,” I whispered, frantic. “Megan, he saw. He saw me looking at him.”
“What? Who?” She looked around.
“Don’t look,” I hissed. “Emory. He saw me looking at him. What if he knows?”
“Leona, he doesn’t know.”
“Is he still looking at me?”
Her eyes flicked to the left. “Yeah, he’s still looking at you.”
My insides caved in. “Megan, he saw. He knows. He’s going to think it’s weird that I was looking at him. He’s going to be suspicious.”
“Just relax,” she said. “Deep breaths, Leona, deep breaths. It’s only suspicious if you freak out. Come on, we know how to do this. We’re pros at this.”
I risked another glance his way. Still staring right at me.
He knows.
I’d just given myself away.
At that moment, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I muttered, stumbling to my feet.
I teetered across the quad, queasy. The world spun around me, reeling in dizzying circles. My stomach clenched and unclenched, writhing like a knot of worms. I clenched my abs.
I never made it to the bathroom.
My body betrayed me. Unable to hold it in, I keeled over at the nearest trash can and vomited the nonexistent contents of my stomach. Right in front of everybody.
Right in front of Emory Lacroix.
My mom picked me up from the health wing an hour later, and we drove home in silence . . . until the necessary interrogation began.
“Rough first day?” she said. Not a hint of judgment.
I nodded, wishing instead she would just be angry with me, not concerned.
I needed someone to be angry at me.
I tilted my head away from her and closed my eyes.
“Leona, are you okay?”
“No,” I blurted out, before I caught myself. “I mean, yeah, I’m fine. I was just nervous about the first day of school.” If only she knew.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Um . . . no.”
I could feel her gaze on the back of my neck.
“You know you can talk to me . . . or Dad,” she said. “You know you can talk to us, if something’s on your mind.”
Again, I nodded.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to them, or anyone.
I could only talk to Megan . . . because she had been there.
Because we did it together.
“Did something happen? Your dad and I . . .” she cleared her throat, “we worry about you, Leona.”
I said nothing.
“It’s Megan, isn’t it? Is there something going on with Megan?”
“It’s not Megan,” I said.
I wasn’t playing it off well. I knew that. I should have reassured her, told her it was nothing, that I was fine. Tried to make small talk. But right then, I couldn’t tell her that. Maybe it was puking in front of Emory Lacroix, maybe it was my hellish first day of school, maybe it was the meteorite and seeing the guys in hazmat suits two days ago—whatever the reason, I just couldn’t take it anymore.
Maybe deep down, I wanted my mom to know my secret.
Even though that terrified me.
I was so sick of all these feelings, so sick of the warring emotions ripping apart my heart, so sick of the debilitating fear that seized me every time someone looked at me too hard. I wanted to be numb. I wanted to feel nothing.
“Is it a boy?” she said.
I shook my head.
The car slowed, and I felt us pulling over. My mom’s door unlatched, and the whoosh of passing cars and exhaust flooded the car. The dashboard beeped a warning—keys still in the ignition. I opened my eyes. She’d pulled to the side of the road.
She came around to my side and opened the door. “Get out, Leona.”
“What?”
“Get out. Right now.”
“What’d I do?” I said defensively, climbing onto the sidewalk. My pulse skittered, sick and giddy at the same time.
Did she know?
“I want you to drive,” she said.
My jaw fell open. “What? No!” I scrambled back toward the car.
She beat me to it, scooted into the passenger seat, and yanked the seatbelt across her chest. “Drive,” she said, pointing a stern finger to the driver’s seat.
My lower lip trembled. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to.”
“You need to practice.”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I already got my license.”
“And you haven’t used it once. I’m not asking you, Leona. Get in the driver’s seat and drive us home.”
“Mom, please, I feel sick,” I said, holding my stomach and pretending to look faint.
“You’re fine, Leona.”
“I think I’m going to puke again.”
“Not going to work on me.” She leaned back and kicked her feet up on the dashboard. “Well, it’s up to you, but we’re not going anywhere until you drive us home, so if you want to sit here all day, fine.”
I was too miserable to argue further.
My legs felt like noodles as I crossed around to the other side and climbed into the car. Instant panic clenched around my throat, and my breathing hiked.
“Just relax,” she said. “You’re a pro. You aced your driver’s test, remember?”
I nodded, and put the car in gear. I let off on the brake, and the car inched forward of its own accord. Alarmed, I slammed the brake again, and our bodies tipped forward. I sat there, panting. “I can’t do this.”
“You’re fine,” she said.
“Okay, here goes.” I inhaled, held my breath for a few seconds, then let it all out in a rush. Then I inched out into traffic, earning honks as cars veered past me. The noises made me wince. At last, we proceeded up the street at ten miles per hour. Jaw clamped in determination, I scanned the road ahead, the mirrors.
She said nothing, just let me get the feel of it.
A police car pulled out behind me.
“Mom!” I gasped. “There’s a cop behind me! What do I do? What do I do?”
“Just pick up your speed a little, you’ll be fine.”
“What if . . . what if he pulls me over?”
“He’s not going to pull you over.”
“He’s following me!”
“Because you’re going five miles per hour, Leona. Can you go a little faster?”
I edged up to fifteen, trembling all over now. I couldn’t breathe. The squad car hugged my rear bumper, creeping closer, and my eyes froze on the policeman’s hard face in the rear view.
Staring right at me.
He knew.
I took fast, shallow breaths. I wanted to shrink out of existence.
My mom swiveled in her seat and peered behind her.
“Mom, don’t look,” I stammered. “He’s going to see
you.”
“Put on your signal and pull onto this side street,” she said, pointing.
I clicked on my turning signal and crept toward the side of the road, all my nerves buzzing. The police car gunned it around my side and sped off up the street.
“Pull over,” said my mom, her tone biting.
I pulled over.
And then I burst into tears.
“I don’t get you,” she said, shaking her head. “You couldn’t wait to get your license in the beginning of summer. You loved driving. You aced your test . . . We even bought you a car.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door, but didn’t get out yet. “What happened, Leona? You’ve never driven it, you’ve never even taken it out of the garage.”
I shook my head, as a deadened feeling spread through my chest.
She didn’t know the truth.
I had driven my car.
Once.
Chapter 3
“Does it feel wet to you?” said Megan, examining the meteorite in her palm. She touched it and studied her finger. “Like . . . slimy almost.”
After school, Megan had brought over my homework assignments from the afternoon classes we shared, and now she sprawled on my bed.
“I don’t care,” I said, still agitated from the car ride home with my mom. Shame bristled my cheeks. I sat against my bureau, fingers knotted in my hair, staring at nothing.
It would be like this always.
There would be simple things I couldn’t do, simple pleasures I couldn’t experience—like food and sex, like sunsets and driving.
I, Leona Hewitt, would live a broken life.
“You’re right, it is really pretty,” said Megan, holding the rock up to the light.
“Put that away,” I said.
“Hold on, I’m looking at it.”
“Put it away, Megan.”
“There’s something on it,” she said. “Look, you can feel it.” She scratched at it with her fingernail.
“Could you not touch it like that?” I didn’t know why I cared, but the meteorite felt like mine—I had gone down and gotten it, after all.
