“Guys,” says Luck. “Guys, we need to go.”
And Luck is absolutely right.
“We’re heading east,” says Pineapple, pointing to the place where the sun will surely rise.
“We’ll go some other way,” says Timmer.
“See you,” says Pineapple, like it is possible our orbits might touch again.
“Bring it in,” says Timmer. “Bring it in.” And he opens his arms wide. We all huddle and hold one another close.
“What we got,” says Timmer, “is yours.”
Pineapple and Luck each take a box of cereal.
“Gas money,” says Timmer, and he holds a card out to Pineapple.
“Man, can’t do it.”
“No!” says Timmer. “You damn well will!”
Pineapple takes the card.
“But there’s a condition,” says Timmer. “The deal is you be looking. You be looking for the ones you need to help.” That’s when Timmer buckles. He puts his hand over his eyes and his shoulders shake.
“That’s the deal,” says Luck.
Then Pineapple and Luck get into their car. The backseat is level, full of clothes and cereal boxes and useful stuff. They’re gone.
Timmer puts his arm around my shoulder. “Hey! You! Last Girl. Where you want to go? There is no bus to Terra Incognita. I can give you a ride.”
“I don’t want to go to Terra Incognita; I want to go to Mars. . . .”
“I don’t have that much gas,” says Timmer.
“Well then, just take me home.”
Before the sun sets and the frilly underpants of the sky touch the naked rock of the mountains, I see a plume of black smoke rising reflected in the rearview mirror. It might be a scrap yard. It might be a laundromat.
“Earth seemed to explode, catch fire, and burn,” says the book.
We drive north. I hold my badge out the window and it flippy-floppy-flips in the speeding air until I let it go and then it’s gone. That’s the end of ZERO.
My pillowcase is at my feet. Inside are my underpants, my pink bunny bowl, and the book about Mars. We have boxes of cereal, jugs of water, and an orange plastic can that’s almost full of gas. Kral wouldn’t be impressed, but we have what we need to survive right now.
We drive, and the desert is full of nothing, miles and miles of empty AllMART bags caught on the twiggy weeds. When we come to the exit for the Villages at Moonrise River Meadows, the moon does rise, and light on the road shines like a river. The little LED candle flickers on the windowsill. Timmer parks and says, “Home. For tonight.”
We walk in the front door, and the voice of the house says, “Welcome home. Welc.” It falls silent. Dust on the solar panels has starved the house of power. It has nothing to say. In the dim light, I see the fake cake right where we left it.
“We will drink some water, 5er. And I’ll read to you until we lose the light.”
“The whole damn planet belongs to us, kids. The whole darn planet,” says the book.
I don’t know if 5er understands the words. I don’t know if I understand the words. But we both understand that this is a way to care for each other.
In the morning, the sky is a melted mirror. I step out onto the balcony, where Timmer is standing. He turns to me and smiles, his hands open palm in front of him, like the world is a gift, like he created all of this for me. If there is any living thing in the world except the two of us, it doesn’t matter. Dust is sifting into the waiting craters of basements and bone-dry swimming pools. This moment will last forever. Our shadows stretch out, wavering and thin.
The dust on the roof can’t bear the weight of sunlight, and it breaks free, slides off the blue solar panels like wrinkled silk, avalanches down the red clay tiles. The falling dust makes no sound. The air is still as glass, and the smallest motes shimmer in the early light. Timmer reaches out to touch my face.
My phone rings.
After all this time, all this waiting, someone is calling out to me. . . .
. . . ZeeZeeBee! You need to come to the city right now! You could find a great job — easy-peasy — or you can go back to school! Either way. But I can’t live without my baby Zoëkins. Please come. I miss you so much. I miss you thirty-seven pink socks and a bowl of cereal. So, so much!
. . . Hello, my name is Ed Gorton. I think . . . Damn, this isn’t easy. I think maybe . . . I’m your dad.
. . . Zoë, this is Dawna Day, your personal human-resources manager. Please, make this easy. Let me help you. You’ll be helping me too. That’s what families do. They help and care for each other. Just tell me where you are. . . . I don’t think you understand, Zoë; you are a human resource of AllMART. And until you return to AllMART, you are in illegal possession of property that belongs to AllMART. If you don’t return to AllMART custody in twenty-four hours, I have to press charges for felony theft. Please don’t make me do that.
I pick up the phone, still singing unanswered, and throw it out into the empty world. There is a little explosion of dust when it lands.
There is no ZeeZeeBee, no ZERO — there isn’t even a Zoë. There is only me, Z. I am the last girl, and I don’t want closure. I want to see how Timmer and 5er go on. That’s what interests me. I want to be there when 5er wakes and looks open-eyed at the dark. I want to be there when a pearl of water rests at the bottom of Timmer’s backbone. I want to be there when satellites kiss and fall like burning butterflies. The sparkle of satellite rain means the end of something, but not everything. It is not the end of me. It is not the end of Z, the last living girl in Terra Incognita.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Liz Bicknell and Candlewick Press gave me the opportunity to write this book. Without her vision and the support Candlewick provided, there wouldn’t be a MARTians. special thanks to copy editor Betsy Uhrig and designer Sherry Fatla, who brought all the media to life through typography — I owe those women roses for their hard work. Carter Hasegawa, who sought permission for the Bradbury quotes, has my eternal gratitude. Matt Roeser designed the cover — judging by that, MARTians is a fine book indeed.
I also acknowledge a debt to my Clarion West class and instructor Connie Willis. I will never forget the time I shared with you during the summer of the apricot moon.
Sarah Davies of Greenhouse Agency was, as always, the best fairy godmother in publishing.
Finally, my family takes care of me and forgives me more often than they should. Everything I do depends on that.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2015 by Blythe Woolston
Excerpts from The Martian Chronicles are reprinted by permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. copyright 1950, renewed © 1977 by Ray Bradbury.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2015
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2015931430
Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
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