by Carrie Jones
“How can you smile at this?” I say, trying to disentangle my legs from Lyle’s and actually sit upright. When we’re finally in proper sitting position, I grab Lyle’s gun and put it on the floor between my feet. The safety is still on.
“Because it’s fun,” China answers.
“Fun!” I turn to Lyle for help. “There is something wrong with him.”
“That’s why I was trying to rescue you,” Lyle says, handing me the seat belt.
I click it in. “I do not need to be rescued.”
“Right.”
“Lyle! Just shut up!”
“I will if you stop yelling,” he says in a perfectly calm voice.
“I am not yelling!”
China grunts, and the truck engine revs under the pressure of trying to go so fast so quick. “Yes, you are.”
I ignore that, watching behind us. “He’s getting into the oil truck.”
“Is he following us?” China asks.
“Yep.” I turn around and stare straight ahead of us. “I cannot believe he shot at us. I cannot believe you two have guns, and pointed them at each other.”
Whirling around, I stare at Lyle, who has his hand curled up like the gun is still there. “Do you know how dangerous that is? Have you ever actually even touched a gun before in your life?”
He squints his eyes at me. “Yes.”
“Right. When?”
“Mana, let’s not interrogate the boy yet. We have priorities at the moment. Can you tell me if you can still see the oil truck behind us?” China says.
“Is that not what your rearview mirror is for?” I say, turning around.
“I’m focusing on driving,” he says, as the truck lurches around a Subaru station wagon like my mom’s, only red.
I look behind us. The truck is cresting a hill on a straightaway. “Okay, he’s still following us. But we’re losing him. That’s what you say in your line of work, right? Losing him?”
“Any cops in sight?” China asks, veering around a sand truck.
Lyle answers for me. “No.”
The dark grit spills out of the sand truck and onto the road, trying to make us all safer as we drive in the snow. I wonder if the government really understands the threats we’re living under. I wonder if it would waste so many tax dollars on highway maintenance if it did.
“Is that oil truck guy actually one of the bad guys?” I whimper.
China grunts.
“What?” My hands clench each other.
“Appears that way. At least he is now,” he says. “God, what a day.”
“Mana?” Lyle touches my shoulder, gently, which is nice for a change, since in the past twenty-four hours everything has seemed terribly ungentle. “You okay?”
I make myself nod.
“You’re just sort of staring blankly. And your hands…” Lyle unclenches my grip.
“I think she’s just realized everything that’s going on,” China says. “And it can be a little much to process when you first figure everything out.”
Lyle pulls me against him. His gun is still down on the floor between my feet. I let his arm wrap around my shoulders, and lean into his puffy jacket.
“Figure what out?” Lyle asks.
China glances at me for permission, I guess. I give a thumbs-up sign. And then China starts to tell Lyle what he told me. All of it.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to trust anybody?” I say, after a mile of this.
Lyle removes his arm from my shoulders, which is fine, but a little immature, I think. I give him a raised eyebrow. He flops his arm around. “Fell asleep.”
Judging by the laugh lines near his eyes, China appears amused, and then he says to me, “People are always trying to protect you, aren’t they?”
“It’s because I’m short,” I say. “You’re not answering the question.”
“The kid showed some spunk. He had a gun. He stowed away in the truck. I’ve decided he may be a liability, but he may also be useful,” he explains, as we turn onto the exit for Maine, “if he can remember to take the safety off a gun.”
Lyle cringes.
“Are we going to Maine?” I interrupt as we cross onto Interstate 95, the one real highway into the state. We pass a New Hampshire liquor store with a zillion cars in the parking lot.
“Yep. And I only had two choices,” China continues, driving as calm as can be, apparently not worried at all about police possibly searching for us, or the fact that his truck has been shot by the oil truck guy. “I could trust your little friend here—”
“I’m not a little friend,” Lyle scoffs.
China keeps talking. “Or I could shoot him.”
My stomach lurches. China smiles at me. “I figured you didn’t want me to shoot him. You’d probably run off or fight me, and that would make things more difficult, too.”
Lyle’s leg starts jiggling like it always does when he’s mad or nervous. The whole damn truck vibrates. I decide to change the topic. “Why don’t you tell him the rest, then?”
China talks. Lyle listens. I listen, too. I just heard it all, but how many times can you hear that your mom is an alien hunter, that the government has secret agencies dealing with aliens, that even the president doesn’t understand the magnitude or nature of the threat?
One time is too many times.
But I listen again anyway.
I listen because it might bring me closer to Mom. Even so, it all kind of hits me in the stomach, punching it in with such great force that the only thing I can compare it to is the time I came out of a double tuck front twist and landed on Seppie’s elbow.
“So, Mana’s mother is my partner. We hunt aliens, mostly, and we try to collect proof of their plans so that we can present them to the president,” China says, all matter-of-fact casual. He seems awfully young to be working with my mother, to be driving in a truck with a gun, explaining this to us. He’s probably in his twenties, but he’s so different than we are, so calm and confident and in charge. It’s almost like he is the alien.
“That’s why they’ve taken her,” China continues. A hand lifts from the steering wheel to rub at his eyes. “They thought she had the proof on her.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lyle says. He closes his eyes, like he is trying to figure it all out. “What did you just say?”
The edge of China’s lip creeps up, like he’s trying not to smile. “Mana’s mom works with me. We hunt aliens.”
Lyle sputters and then is silent, obviously stunned or astonished or whatever word you want to use to describe it.
And then we’re all quiet.
* * *
We drive across the big green metal bridge that spans the brown river of ugly marking the line between New Hampshire and Maine. Cars zip along with us. The people in those sedans and SUVs and trucks are probably talking about normal things, like Thanksgiving and grocery lists, probably thinking the biggest thing to fear is fear itself and all that crap.
Ha.
Lyle finally remembers how to talk. “Holy crap.”
“That’s a brilliant response.” China laughs. “Sanctifying feces.”
“Be nice to him.” I pull closer to Lyle. “It’s a lot to process.”
China raises his eyebrows.
“You … you … you believe him?” Lyle gapes at me, stunned. “You just believe him, Mana? He could be insane, criminally insane. He could be kidnapping us right now.”
“Why would I want to kidnap you?” China says, amused. “Mana, maybe. But you?”
“No clue.” Lyle’s exasperation shows in his head movements. His hair flops into his face and he shoves it out of the way. “It makes more sense than Mana’s mom being an alien hunter.”
“Lyle, think about it,” I say. “Think about what we saw in my house last night, about what I told you happened in the locker room.”
Air leaves Lyle’s mouth in a slow hiss, and then he says, “I know … I know … But … Ah, God. Your mom is so mom though. I mean, she’s n
ot some kick-ass, Joss Whedon—or J. J. Abrams–style toughie, you know?”
I pat his arm. His pop culture references are kind of beyond me. “It’s okay.”
“Kid, you need to man up,” China says.
I smack his leather coat sleeve. “Will you stop?”
He laughs and smiles. “You’re pretty protective. Your mom is the same way.”
I know. Or I think I know. I’m not sure how well I know my mom anymore, actually. “You don’t need to put others down to feel better about yourself. Lyle is manning up just fine, thank you very much. He’s not even hysterical. Most people would be hysterical, given these circumstances.”
China turns off the Maine interstate. He points a finger at me. “Wow.”
“What?”
“You sound just like your mother.”
I’m not sure whether that’s an insult or not.
* * *
As we drive down the bumpy streets, wind blows new snow across our path, twisting it into white fingers that always seem to be reaching out to capture us. Lyle slowly stops jittering, losing some of the anxiety that has propelled him forward, I guess. He slumps against the window as we drive past a big store advertising, in big block letters, GUNS, BAIT, WEDDING DRESSES, BEER.
“Love that sign,” China says, nodding at it.
Dark brown wood the color of a UPS truck covers the store’s exterior. The paint peels, to make it even more inviting. The OPEN sign is all lit up.
“Pretty white trash.” Lyle snickers in a way that makes him sound like such a rich boy. It’s ridiculous. He’s only upper middle class. It’s like Dartmouth’s pretentiousness has already invaded him.
I hit him in the leg. “Shut up.”
Lyle rubs his thigh. “What?”
I scowl at him. He still doesn’t get it.
“What?”
“It’s a mean thing to say.”
China kind of chuckles, like a normal person, as he turns the truck into the empty parking lot and drives toward the back of the building. He pulls the truck next to a large green Dumpster and parks.
“This is it?” I say, but it obviously is, because China is already unclicking his seat belt and jumping out of the car.
“Stay here while I make sure it’s clear,” he says, leaning into the truck and staring at us super seriously. Snowflakes quickly conceal his dark hair. One lands on his eyelash. “I’ll leave the key in case you get cold.”
“And why are we here again?” I ask.
“Supplies and intel. Plus, I have to check in—in person—every week while working the field.”
The door slams shut. We watch him amble-hustle, which you wouldn’t think would be possible, across the parking lot. He leaves footprints in the snow and opens a marked-up door in the back of the building. The door was white once, I guess, but now it’s just dingy. A giant black dirt mark shaped like a crescent moon marks the center of the door.
Lyle unclicks his seat belt and stretches out, groaning. His long, thick-muscled legs don’t have quite enough room to stretch.
“God,” he says. “What the hell are we doing here?”
I shiver. The truck is already getting cold. I repeat what China just told us. “Intel. Supplies. Check in?”
I unclick my seat belt and edge away from Lyle so we aren’t smooshed together anymore. It feels good to move my body, but not good to be a few more inches away from him. This, I realize, is sort of pathetic.
“You believe this guy?” Lyle asks, picking up his gun from the rubber mat on the floor.
“China? Yes. Sort of. I’m not sure. Why wouldn’t they back up names? How long does it actually take to get enough evidence to convince a president? His story doesn’t seem right, really, you know?”
“I know.” Lyle opens the glove compartment and starts pulling out papers. “I think he’s only giving us half the truth. A chip is so cliché, you know? Like a bad movie plot from uninspired writers. It’s got to be more than that. There must be some kind of detail that connects more directly to your mom.”
I wrap my hand around his wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to find some evidence. Factual, indisputable evidence. I believe him partially, but I don’t know if I trust him.” Lyle reads the registration for the truck. He sucks in his breath. “This truck belongs to your mom.”
I snatch the yellow paper away. “What?”
“It’s right there.”
I read it.
Mom’s name.
“I didn’t know she had a truck,” I whisper.
“Seems like you kind of didn’t know a lot about your mom.”
I let this brilliant statement settle in, and my head starts aching, right in the center, like thoughts about my mother are just pain-inducing right now. So I say, “How pissed is your mom?”
“Beyond pissed.” Lyle sighs. “I’m grounded for eternity and never allowed to see you again.”
“That’s going to make cheering a little hard.” I unzip my bag, pull out the pretzel container and get us two to munch on, then shove the container back in. I hug the bag to my chest and munch. It makes me think of my mom, eating these pretzels. For a second, I worry that they will be the last things she ever makes me.
No. I will not think that way. I am going to get her back.
“Thanks,” Lyle says. He bites the pretzel and thinks for a second. “She also wants you to put the baby up for adoption.”
I choke. “What?”
“She wants you to put our baby up for adoption.”
“Lyle. We do not have a baby.”
“I know.” He wiggles his eyebrows pretty lasciviously.
“We haven’t had sex,” I insist.
“Believe me, I know that, too.”
Fear overwhelms me. “Wait. Do I seem pregnant?”
“A little bulky right now…” He eyes all my clothes.
I hit him. “Shut up. It’s cold.”
His pretzel stick dangles out of his mouth. “I know you’re not pregnant, Mana. It’s my mom we’re talking about here. I’m sorry she’s so … so…”
“Nonsensical? Lyle.” I point my pretzel stick at him. “Your mom thinks I am pregnant, and we haven’t even kissed, let alone made the funky vertical monkey.”
“Believe me. I know. I’d remember that.” He makes this awkward laugh noise and starts shuffling around, fidgeting, checking everything out. He pulls an M&M’s wrapper out of the glove compartment. “Your mom likes M&M’s?”
I touch the dangling metal key that could turn the heat back on. “No. It must be China.”
“He’s weird.”
“You just don’t like him because he’s cute for an old guy with bossiness issues.”
“Right, if you think men who grunt are attractive.”
“He does not grunt.”
“Sure, he does. ‘Ugh. Ugh. We go here. You stay in truck. Me no kill you,’” Lyle mocks.
I start cracking up. Lyle keeps doing it and I double over, laughing hard. I snort.
Lyle points. “You snorted.”
This makes him lose it. We’re both doubled over, hee-hawing and snorting, until he holds my hand and goes, “It’s not that funny.”
The laughter makes the words difficult. “I know.”
We keep laughing. And it isn’t. It’s not that funny. But it is, you know, because it is funny-bizarre-weird that all of this is happening. It’s funny-bizarre-weird that yesterday morning I thought my world and the world were all safe and sane and understandable, and now … now? Now, it is so far from that. Now, it’s a mess of wonder and fear and heartbeats accelerating into overdrive. Now, it’s some bad sci-fi movie/TV show that doesn’t have commercial breaks or a script.
So I laugh.
I laugh and I laugh, leaning away from Lyle, leaning into myself, doubled up, because that is the only way that I can deal with this right now.
I laugh.
And while I’m laughing, the truck door flies open and horrible reaches in.
Hands lunge into the cab of the truck, yanking at us, and suddenly we’re not hyena laughing or pig snorting anymore. In less than a second, my elbow scrapes by the steering wheel. Someone is physically dragging me out into the cold air.
“Mana!” Lyle reaches for me. But this monster-large bald man with a goatee and a lot of metal in his lip hauls Lyle out backwards. Lyle’s legs scrabble to find footing.
My legs must do the same, but I’m lighter, so the man who has me just keeps me smooshed back against his smelly leather jacket. It’s all dead cow and body odor.
“Let me go,” I order him.
“You’re a little wildcat, aren’t you?”
“Wildcat?” For God’s sake, really? “How freaking sexist are you? Women are not cats. Or dogs. Or animals of any kind. But thank you for at least making me not domesticated.”
My feet kick backwards. They connect with leg. My captor drops me and I land on the balls of my feet, just like after a stunt dismount, then whirl around to face a big—really big—okay, monster-sized man. A mullet haircut only adds to his air of disgusting evil. A giant dragon has been inked around his neck. His eyes narrow.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter. “Hiss? Meow?”
He reaches out to seize me again. I dive away, pivoting, and bomb back into the truck. Throwing the door shut, I flick it locked just as he lunges.
“Lyle!”
I turn the damn truck back on. The engine roars to life.
Beefy-faced mullet man smashes his fist against the window. “What are you doing here?”
His voice is high like a sparrow’s. Yes, now I just compared him to an animal. It almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Lyle is still trying to twist away from Baldy, but the guy has him in a stranglehold. The guy’s arm wraps around Lyle’s neck as Lyle flails. I swear, the arm is the same circumference as a freaking tree trunk.
Lyle starts choking.
The other guy keeps pounding on my window. I lunge across the seat and point the gun at Baldy.
“Do not tell me I have to save you,” I say to Lyle.
He gasps for breath. His eyes bug out.
I hold the gun up and yell, “Step away from the boy!”
Baldy loosens up his grip, just a little, but doesn’t let go. Lyle glares at me. His mouth tightens into a mean, angry line, and it takes me a second to figure out why.
