Translucent

by Dan Rix

  Not the one for radiation, but the other one.

  Printed in all caps below the symbol was an ominous warning.

  Do not enter

  Biohazard Zone

  To the left and right, strands of barbed wire snaked off into the woods, cordoning off the area beyond. More signs hung nearby, equally terrifying. Trail ahead monitored by remote surveillance aircraft. Trespassers will be prosecuted.

  Anxiety edged into my thoughts, which went back to the team in hazmat suits. That had been three days ago. Since then, they’d closed down the entire area.

  Was it the meteorite?

  My hand went into my pocket, the shard of rock sticky at my fingertips.

  A biohazard?

  Don’t touch it. I yanked my hand back.

  I never should have taken it.

  I should have gone straight to the authorities and handed it over right then. Just like I should have gone to the police at the beginning of summer. At the reminder, guilt bubbled up in my stomach like acid.

  Another sign caught my eye.

  Removal of any rocks, plants, or debris from beyond this point is strictly prohibited pursuant to 42 Code of Federal Regulations §73.12.

  I swallowed hard.

  But how could I have known? I’d taken the meteorite before they’d put up the signs. That wasn’t illegal, was it?

  My excuses wouldn’t stand up in court.

  They would say I should have come forward with the meteorite when I saw the team disembark from the helicopters.

  I had to put it back, I had to set this right.

  Today, I could do the right thing.

  I veered off the main trail and foraged through the chaparral, keeping the barbed wire on my left as it curved around in a giant circle. Every fifty feet or so, the biohazard sign repeated itself.

  Dry stalks scraped at my bare shins, and the barbs tore loose and funneled into my tennis shoes, pricking my ankles.

  My agitation from the trip up here lingered in my frazzled nerves. I’d taken the bus home right after school, and after an hour of staring at my car and hyperventilating, I’d finally worked up the nerve to drive it—and I’d come straight here.

  It was a big step for me.

  Maybe my mom forcing me to drive yesterday had done some good after all. I reached for the meteorite in my pocket, but stopped myself just in time.

  That word . . . biohazard.

  Of course I’d been touching it all day, fingering it in my pocket every five seconds during class. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cringed at the thought.

  I was definitely contaminated.

  Up ahead, the barbed wire fence slipped behind an oak tree that looked good for climbing. At waist height, a massive branch jutted out over the fence. I clambered onto the branch, balanced myself on the other branches, stepped out over the barbed wire fence, then dropped down on the other side and landed hard in the dirt.

  I stood up and brushed off, bracing myself for the sirens and the thump of helicopters.

  The woods remained silent.

  A cool breeze creaked through the upper tree limbs and rustled the chaparral. Fending off my anxiety, I headed toward the center of the cordoned off area—toward the crater. By now I recognized the geography from camping here with Megan.

  The meteorite made a lump in the pocket of my jean shorts, its sharp edge digging into my thigh below the hip. Soon, I would be free of it.

  Good riddance.

  I hurried my pace, feeling lighter already.

  Charred branches appeared in the bushes at me feet, telling me I was getting close. I pushed through a burnt cluster of chaparral and emerged in a clearing rimmed with charred oak trees—their bark scorched off to reveal cracked wood, black as charcoal. This felt like the place.

  But no crater.

  Maybe just on the other side of the trees. I crossed the clearing, my heel sinking in loose dirt, and ventured into the greenery beyond. Ten feet out, a wall of knotted vegetation arrested my progress. No sign of fire. It wasn’t this far.

  Back in the clearing, I peered around, confused.

  The dirt.

  The dirt under my feet had been disturbed, and while ash had mixed in with the soil everywhere else, here it looked pure.

  Had they filled it in?

  Carefully, I stepped off the mound, noticing how it depressed under my shoes. Loose dirt.

  I caught other details. A footprint off to the side, half wiped away—a boot.

  Only one thing to do.

  I picked up a dry branch and started digging, using it like a hoe. The top layer came away easily, and I kicked it to the side. My heel scuffed something hard. I dropped down on my hands and knees, and raked at the soil. My nails scraped a solid surface, shooting pain up my fingers. I went slower, clearing away what I could.

  At first, I thought it was a large rock buried a few inches deep. A boulder or something.

  But rocks didn’t have smooth faces.

  Rocks didn’t have letters stamped into them.

  I stood up, sweating in the summer heat. Around me, insects clicked and chittered, birds chirped, oblivious to the anomaly buried in their midst. I wiped my forehead and surveyed my find, each heavy breath sending a nervous twinge through my lungs.

  Before me lay a smooth gray slab stamped with some kind of code. Letters and numbers, gibberish.

  One thing was clear.

  This was indeed the site of the crater, but I would never be able to get to it.

  They’d filled it in with concrete.

  Chapter 5

  I didn’t leave the meteorite behind. Just dropping it on the ground didn’t feel right. Too exposed. Someone else could find it.

  For now, I was stuck with it.

  Admitting failure, I hiked back out of the wilderness and drove home, the meteorite still in my pocket.

  I needed to destroy it.

  Or keep it hidden forever.

  In English class the next day, I couldn’t think about anything else. Even sitting at home in the bottom drawer of my bureau—now stuffed in a sock—the rock seemed to be burning a hole in my mind. Suppose I borrowed my dad’s sledge hammer and pulverized the fragment into dust, then scattered the dust at the beach.

  But what if I needed to get it back? Never in a million years would I be able to collect all the pieces. It seemed less risky to keep it contained, keep it in a safe place in my room.

  I should go to the police.

  But I couldn’t.

  Normal people didn’t just wander into police stations. They would take one look at me and know instantly what I had done at the beginning of summer. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe I would just burst into tears and confess the whole thing on the spot. Maybe this had nothing to do with the meteorite, and this was all my subconscious trying to get me to answer for my sins.

  So I couldn’t go to the police . . . ever.

  “You want to be my partner?”

  I snapped out of my daze and glanced around. Next to me sat a boy with curly brown hair, dimples, and bright eyes.

  I blinked at him for a second. “What?”

  Goes to show you how distracted I was, I hadn’t even noticed the hottie sitting right next to me. This was the last thing I needed right now.

  “You want to be partners?” He leaned in, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. “For the exercise?”

  The exercise.

  Around me, students were sliding their desks into pairs. I glanced down at my desk, which bore only the course syllabus. Without realizing it, I had knotted my fingers in a tight ball. I quickly pulled them apart and searched for some kind of worksheet, nowhere to be found. “Um . . . sure?”

  I said it like a question, bec
ause I still didn’t know what the hell we were doing.

  “Awesome.” He hopped out of his desk and shoved it up against mine, then sat back down, carelessly brushing my arm.

  I went rigid and stared straight ahead.

  Definitely not what I needed right now.

  “Andrew.” He smiled and held out his hand.

  I took it. “Leona . . . Leona Hewitt.”

  “You got any ideas?” he said. “For the exercise? Here—” He tore out a sheet of notebook paper and slid it in front of me.

  “Tons,” I said, writing my name at the top. Next I titled the sheet, Exercise, and glanced around again for a clue.

  “Cool, let’s hear some of your ideas,” he said.

  I brushed my hair out of my eyes and stared at my blank paper. “Uh, how about you go first?”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath and stared at his own blank page. “It’s kind of a funny thing, actually . . . this exercise. We’re supposed to write about something we regret, right? So I was thinking I was going to write about this time I was in class and there was this really pretty girl sitting next to me, and I wanted to talk to her so bad but couldn’t work up the nerve to do it, and that’s something I regret, but then . . .” he glanced up at me. “I can’t do that one anymore.”

  In my preoccupied state, his words took a stupidly long time to register. And then they did.

  I felt myself blush under his stare. Just don’t blow it. “That’s . . . really sweet.”

  “Okay, your turn,” he said, holding my gaze.

  I opened my mouth. Mercifully, our teacher—Mrs. Holbrooke—cut me off before I said something moronic.

  “To write from the soul, you must tackle your darkest emotions,” she said. “Think anger, jealousy, fear, guilt, regret. Pain is what makes great literature, not pleasure. Now you have your partners, I want you each to take five minutes to write about a dark secret you have, something you regret or something you feel guilty about. The darker the better. Part of the exercise is learning not to censor yourself, even though you know your partner will read everything you write.” She glanced at the clock. “Go. You have five minutes.”

  Pencils scraped across paper.

  Something you regret or something you feel guilty about.

  I stared at my blank page, petrified. Terror deadened the feeling in my nerves, replacing it with the icy buzz of adrenaline.

  I could think of only one thing.

  The terrible event at the beginning of summer.

  July first. I had just gotten my license . . .

  I couldn’t write about that, I couldn’t ever tell anyone about that. But with the blank lines gaping before me and my name floating in the top right corner, my mind had gone infuriatingly blank. My skin broke out in sweat.

  Something else, something else, think about something else . . .

  But I couldn’t.

  The pencil refused to budge.

  I scanned the room, the other students scribbling effortlessly. I licked my dry lips, but saliva only parched them further. My heart thundered in my ears, making me painfully aware of my surroundings—the prison-like classroom caving in on me, Andrew’s elbow inches from my own, Mrs. Holbrooke’s hawklike gaze moving up and down the aisles, sweeping toward me like a spotlight.

  I glared at my blank page and forced the tip of my pencil to the first line. My hand gave a violent tremor, and the lead tore a hole in the paper with a loud scratch.

  In my periphery, Andrew’s head angled toward me. At once, burning heat clawed up the sides of my cheeks. I was giving myself away. Every second I didn’t write, I was giving myself away.

  Think of something else, think of something else . . .

  Face hot and clammy, I peeked at Mrs. Holbrooke.

  Our eyes met.

  My breath choked off, and I froze. Other students looked over.

  They knew . . . they all knew.

  I wanted to be invisible.

  Sudden nausea twisted in my stomach, and I bent forward, gasping. I had to leave. Now. My fingers found the edge of my desk, which I pried away from Andrew’s, staggering to my feet.

  “I can’t . . . I can’t do this,” I muttered, the words escaping in a hoarse whisper. I careened up the aisle toward the door, banging into desks. My insides gave another lurch, and I clutched my stomach, about to lose my breakfast.

  “Leona, you okay?” Andrew’s voice followed me.

  “Ms. Hewitt?” said the teacher.

  “I can’t do this,” I gasped, fleeing for the door.

  By now, everyone was staring at me. Their eyes burned into the back of my skull.

  They knew.

  I had just given myself away.

  I threw open the door and fled. Sunlight scorched my cheeks, singed my long hair, blinded me. Past a row of lockers, I stumbled into the shadows under an overhang and slammed into a trashcan. I pulled my hair back and stared down into the bin, lungs wheezing as my stomach swam in nauseating circles. My stomach clenched, and I made a choking sound, but nothing came out. My stomach clenched again, harder this time, yanking my spine forward.

  Behind me, a dry voice said, “Again?”

  I jerked upright and swallowed my urge to vomit. My eyes adjusted to the shadows, and the outline of a figure came into view, leaning against the wall between two rows of lockers, not five feet away from where I stood.

  As I watched, he pressed a cigarette to his mouth and took a slow drag, making the tip glow red-orange. The whites of his eyes peered out at me like a wolf’s.

  I recognized him instantly.

  Emory Lacroix.

  My heart went eerily still.

  “You bulimic or something?” he said.

  I backed away, horrified. “I can’t . . . I can’t be talking to you.”

  He nodded to the trashcan. “I said, are you bulimic?”

  In the narrow, unlit corridor, my heel hit the opposite wall. My back banged a locker. Trapped. I shook my head, too terrified to speak.

  He tapped out the ashes. “It’s an eating disorder girls get. You know, you throw up everything you eat so you stay skinny. Stop doing it. It’s fucking stupid.”

  “I’m not bulimic,” I said.

  “I’ve seen you around twice,” he said, studying his cigarette. “First day of school and today. Both times you’re blowing chunks. That sounds to me like you got a problem.”

  “What do you want from me?” I whispered.

  “Just trying to do a little good in this shitty world. Maybe I just saved your life. Who knows.” He took another drag, his eyes on me again. “What’s your name?”

  For a moment, I found myself trapped in his tormented blue eyes, and I couldn’t look away. Then I remembered who I was, and who he was, and my eyes flicked to the ground. A fierce heat rushed to my cheeks.

  I couldn’t be here.

  This was wrong. This was so, so wrong.

  “I can’t be talking to you,” I whispered.

  “I said, what’s your name?” An edge crept into his voice.

  Don’t say your name.

  “You got a name, right? You know, that thing you write at the top of your homework?”

  I swallowed hard.

  Just walk away. Run. You can’t be here.

  But for some reason, I didn’t run. I stayed. Like an idiot, I stayed, my feet rooted to the concrete. Because running would look even more guilty.

  Don’t say your name—

  “Leona,” I whispered. You idiot. My heart had already curled up into a tiny, quivering ball.

  He nodded. “Emory.”

  “Lacroix, I know.” I risked another peek at him. Alarms screamed in my brain, telling me to move my ass. But I couldn’t. My knee
s trembled, frozen in place and twitching to flee at the same time.

  Maybe I felt obligated to stay.

  Holding my gaze, he took a deep inhale from his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Yeah . . . lot of people know me now.”

  Mouth dry, I opened my mouth to say something, to apologize, to offer my sympathies, anything. But even that I couldn’t do. My words lodged in my throat somewhere and all that came out was a little choking cough. I averted my eyes, mortified.

  He tapped out the ashes again, eyebrows knotted.

  “Smoking’s bad for you,” I offered, and immediately, the burning returned to my cheeks.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I might as well get down on my knees and confess everything, beg for his forgiveness. At the thought, my legs grew weak.

  “Bad for you, yeah. That’s the point,” he said, putting it to his lips again. “Kind of don’t care right now.”

  Confess everything.

  I could do it, too. Right now. Get it all off my chest.

  As if he’d heard my thoughts, his eyes flicked to mine again, and my heart jackhammered against my sternum. He would see it on my face, see my guilt. He would know.

  If I stood here any longer, he would know.

  Maybe I wanted him to know. Maybe that was why I couldn’t move.

  No, Leona . . .

  I blinked, and a warm tear dripped down my cheek, for which I was deeply ashamed. I turned away, letting my hair hide my face as a shiver slipped under my skin. My entire body felt numb. I hated this feeling, and yet I couldn’t move, couldn’t walk away.

  His mere presence tugged at the guilt inside me, held me rigid.

  “And I thought I had problems,” said Emory’s voice.

  “Go away,” I said.

  “I was here first,” he said.

  “Go away, go away, go away,” I cried, and another tear burned its way down my cheek, and I wiped it away angrily. Right now I loathed myself.

  “Nah, you don’t really want me to go away.” He took another drag from his cigarette and chuckled darkly. “What do they say? Misery loves company?”