I Hope You Get This Message

by Farah Naz Rishi

  But then, what about Mom? Her window curtains were drawn. Maybe because she was sleeping in today. Or because she didn’t want to look out the window and see him.

  This machine was supposed to be for her, for their fresh start in California. For them. What was the point of all this effort if she was too disappointed in him to even accept his help?

  No, that wasn’t even right anymore. The machine was supposed to save them from their debts—debts that were all his dad’s fault. But now the machine would barely pay off Jesse’s own debts to Marco.

  He was an idiot to think he could ever be of any help to Mom.

  Like father, like son.

  Something caught Jesse’s attention—a shuffling in the crowd, someone shoving their way through like a rogue tide—and for a moment, his heart soared up his throat to choke him: Was it Marco’s friend, coming to collect early? As Jesse’s panic bubbled over, it was clear someone was desperately clambering through the lines to reach him; heads bobbed as they were knocked over by some invisible force. Could he get away with hiding a portion of his earnings from him, quickly, before he showed?

  He heard the panting first, saw the hands reach out from between two tightly knit bodies of the next customers in line, then:

  Ms. K emerged, stumbling, her hair sticking up in more directions than Jesse thought possible.

  “Um, hi?” said Jesse, surprised. Lack of sleep was screwing with him worse than he thought.

  “Cell towers down . . . pissing me off . . .” She heaved.

  “Oookay . . . ?” When he decided she wasn’t a sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination, he asked, dreading her response, “Do you need something? Water, maybe?”

  He hadn’t expected her to show up at his house. He hadn’t even had a chance to explain everything to her. She’d made it clear she knew about the machine, but she still didn’t know the circumstances, and what if she called him out on his bullshit just to make a point, right here, in front of everyone?

  He sighed inwardly. He was being stupid. Even he knew Ms. K was too nice to pull something like that.

  “I saw Corbin . . .” She swallowed. “At the hospital. Mari’s in surgery.”

  “What?” The world suddenly swayed around him.

  She just nodded. “It’s not good, Jesse. I tried to calm him down, but . . .” Ms. K chewed her lip. “I really think you could help him.”

  “I . . .” A sudden chill bit at Jesse’s skin. He gripped his scarred wrist tightly through the cuff and squeezed; it cracked from typing all day. What the hell had happened to Mari since he’d last seen her? The thought of her going through something like cancer . . . the thought of what that must be like for her whole family . . . it just didn’t seem fair. People like Corbin and Mari, people like his mom: bad shit happened to them all the time, when they hadn’t done a thing wrong—like goodness was a lightning rod, meant only to attract bad luck. There was no justice in it. How could anyone explain it?

  He wondered if that’s why his old man had been so horrible. In Jesse’s experience, bad things rarely happened to bad people. Maybe Dad had had the right idea.

  But he had to stay calm. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him. He couldn’t afford to: he only had two days to make enough money to be acceptable to Marco’s friend, who was still watching him closely. Any less than at least a couple thousand, and he’d know Jesse was holding out on him.

  Jesse stopped fighting the chill that crept up his chest and let it swallow him whole. “I can’t,” he said evenly.

  Ms. K recoiled like he’d suddenly spoken in tongues. “You can’t? Can’t or won’t? Jesse, I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but please, think about it. The machine can wait. I don’t want you to regret not being there for him, and I know you’re scared, but this could actually be a chance for you to open up, let someone in.” She took a step closer. “And he could use a friend right about now. You’re the closest thing he’s got here.”

  Jesse smirked. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Instead of looking angry, as he would have expected her to, Ms. K only looked hurt.

  “People are in surgery all the time,” he continued, keeping his demeanor cold as steel. “If Corbin can’t even handle that on his own, how the hell does he expect to handle the rest of Mari’s treatments? Or Alma?” He beckoned the next customer over with a flick of his wrist. “I have more important things to do here.”

  Ms. K opened her mouth to say something, then closed it just as quickly. Her fingers fumbled at her neck to grab her crescent moon necklace. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the same thing she told him to do before he said anything he might regret.

  “Jesse,” she said finally, her voice pleading, “I need you to know I care about you when I ask, What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  Jesse swallowed and turned his back to her.

  He wished he knew how to answer.

  It was strangely warm for September. All that panic in the air, maybe. Jesse took off his leather jacket and tossed it over a scraggly bush by the shed. He had just finished counting his earnings—he’d made $3,900 just since last night, the most money he’d held in his hand.

  He should have felt happier. Accomplished. But he didn’t feel anything at all.

  This sun was almost at its peak, and he was sweating through his clothes. The neighborhood had lost power about an hour ago, so Jesse decided to use the donated generator that had been powering the machine as a phone, radio, and battery charging station for anyone who needed it—for a nominal fee of twenty dollars every five minutes, of course. While someone volunteered to try and procure another backup generator for the machine, Jesse took the opportunity to finally give himself a break—after all, mankind had yet to invent a human power generator, and the lack of sleep was finally getting to him. He’d resume, he promised his remaining customers, just as soon as a new power source was found. For now, he was locking up, and he was finally going to take that nap he so desperately needed.

  Many of his customers complained they had no time to wait anymore, but for now, most of the line had miraculously disappeared to do whatever the hell it was people did before they thought the world would end. Break shit. Or sing campfire songs under the water tower next to Hangar 84.

  Jesse reached for the first padlock on the shed to lock up; rows of locks and chains hung down the side of the shed like metal vines, glinting in the newly emerging sunlight. He paused. The paint on the shed had once been close to nonexistent, having peeled off throughout the years and storms that relentlessly chipped at it. But the customers who’d begun spray-painting the shed had managed to finish an entire mural, mostly when he wasn’t looking. He’d meant to stop them earlier, certain they’d just drawn a bunch of crudely rendered dicks. He was wrong. Upon closer inspection, he now saw the intricacies, the love and care that went into their art. He was entranced. A giant silver-and-gold UFO ornamented the entire side of the shed, gilded with glitter that caught the light, while on the other side, smiling faces stared back at him: realistic portraits of famous people, like Malala and Mr. Rogers, Anne Frank and Albert Einstein, and several others he didn’t recognize.

  These people had accomplished something with their lives. Made the world a better place. And now he had to look them in the eyes, all while pretending to be something he wasn’t: someone who believed in humanity. Someone who cared. Someone that Corbin and Ms. K wanted Jesse to be.

  The worst part was the spray paint above the shed door. White wings outstretched, a dove stared up toward the sky. A symbol of peace between the alien UFO and the best of humanity.

  Jesse laughed bitterly. It would have been far more appropriate to put a crow.

  Once, when Mom had forced them out of the house for some father-son bonding time at the Spring River Zoo, Dad had finally explained why he’d sewn the strange crow patch on his leather motorcycle jacket. They’d been standing outside the wolf exhibit when
Jesse admitted they were his favorite animals, and Dad had tutted disapprovingly.

  “Everyone knows crows are the best,” said his dad, his pale yellow grin wide against his thick black beard. “Crows are tricky bastards, so smart that they can get other animals to do their bidding. Even your gullible little wolves get fooled by them all the time.”

  “How . . . ?” asked Jesse, though he was almost afraid of the answer.

  His dad bent down low to meet Jesse at eye level and whispered conspiratorially: “They lead wolves to the prey they can’t kill themselves. And the wolves, well, they’re stupid enough to listen. The crows wait for the wolves to take the bait, and once the wolves make the kill, the crows chase the wolves off to keep the fresh meat for themselves.”

  Jesse imagined sharp beaks and talons digging into the wolves’ skin, wolves that were no doubt already tired and weak from the hunt. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  Dad only laughed, then tapped at his crow patch on his jacket. “It’s a crow-eat-dog world, J-Bird. You’ll learn soon enough.”

  When Dad died, Jesse had no choice but to learn. Sure, crows manipulated. Crows deceived. But crows also survived—it was their trickery that kept them alive. It was what Jesse had been doing: leading people here, to Roswell, while they were none the wiser, only to steal from under their noses.

  Except now, he didn’t hear the sense in it. All he heard was that his thoughts were starting to sound more and more like Dad.

  Fucking Dad.

  This was all because of him. This entire mess. Being stuck in this shithole town. His whole life. It was all a failure. The only real shock was that Dad hadn’t run off on them sooner.

  Mom liked to insist to Jesse that “you always have a choice, in anything you do,” but sometimes, people didn’t have choices.

  Suddenly, Jesse wasn’t tired anymore. He was burning. He was on fire with anger.

  Suddenly, there was a craving in his fists.

  Come on, J-Bird.

  The hammer was in his hands before he had time to think much about what he was doing. Thoughts—plans, schemes—were what had gotten him here. Maybe it was time now to let himself go, let himself be free. Destroy the lies.

  Break something.

  Maybe break everything.

  He wondered, wildly, if this was how the folks up in Alma—if they even existed—felt about Earth. That it was all just a dressed-up joke, a failed experiment, a big fat lie, full of promises never meant to come true.

  He wanted to break something the way that Ms. K’s eyes looked broken when she looked at him earlier—from disappointment or worry or fear, he didn’t know and it didn’t matter.

  Break something the way his relationship with Mom was, who’d left so much unspoken, dead words long abandoned on the kitchen linoleum floor.

  Break something the way Jesse had broken his chances with Corbin, all because he couldn’t allow himself to taint someone so fucking good. The kid was smart—how did he not see what a loser and a liar Jesse was? Why did he keep coming back? Couldn’t he take the hint?

  Well, maybe now he’d get the message.

  Pressure built in Jesse lungs and joints, choking him like water. The doors to the shed protested with a sharp creak as he yanked them open. The muscles in his forearms rippled in anticipation, and he moved as if controlled by some invisible force.

  The first hit was so hard, the force of contact reverberated through his aching bones. The crash was deafening in the stale quietude of the shed. The beautiful white metal façade of his machine, his own personal Frankenstein, now had a giant crater, and Jesse hit it again and again until it started to look like the moon. Soon, the shed floor was littered with nuts and nails and glass and metal pieces. It felt crazy. It felt almost good. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. Maybe it was tears. He couldn’t tell the difference.

  He smashed the computer screen in.

  He hit it until his biceps ached and his shoulders cramped.

  He hit it until he had nothing left to give, until he fell to his knees, heaving. He wasn’t crying—not really—he was panting, but the breath tore through his throat like angry fire. He felt dizzy. When had he last eaten? Maybe he was going to die here, right next to his dead joke of a machine. Maybe that was the greatest and cruelest joke yet—maybe the world wasn’t going to end, only his world.

  He remembered this feeling. This tingling numbness that was beginning to descend over him like a welcome blanket—eerie, silent, yet deafening. It was the feeling of giving up. Of being done.

  Only as he swayed forward, he noticed something sparkling . . . something caught between the shed floorboards. He blinked.

  He wiped sweat from his eyes.

  He reached out, yanking the thing—a piece of paper?—from the cracks, and smoothed out its edges.

  No, not just paper.

  A Lucky Star Lotto ticket.

  Unscratched.

  Like a sign.

  Jesse gingerly wiped the sweat that had collected on his upper lip.

  He brought an unsteady finger to the silver glitter at the bottom of the ticket and scratched.

  WINNER—$5

  His laughter cut through the shed. His chest hurt, but he laughed so hard, he almost lost his balance, and had to hold out a hand on the shattered machine to keep himself steady.

  Was this the sign? Was this all that was left of hope? Five bucks.

  But then:

  A creak at the doorway killed his laughter.

  They’d come. They’d come for their pay. When he turned around, he prepared for the worst. Another beating—maybe this time one that would send him to his grave.

  Instead, there was just a figure standing at the entrance to the shed with his hands stuffed into his pockets, staring at Jesse.

  Corbin.

  “Jesse,” he croaked, his eyes filled with fear. “What are you doing? What have you . . . ?”

  Jesse was still on his knees on the floor, the scratch card in his hand, the hammer—and remains of his machine—scattered around him.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded. His voice scraped through him, raw. Hurt. “You’re supposed to be at the hospital.”

  “I was”—Corbin’s eyes trailed down, resting on the hammer, then back to Jesse—“but Mari’s in the operating room. They’re putting in a stent now, so there’s nothing else I can do but wait.” He was speaking fast. Nervously. “Ms. Khan said she told you, but, I guess you were . . . busy. Which sucked, because, you know, where else was I supposed to go? Except the strange thing is, I found myself really wanting to see you. At first, I thought I was being silly; I mean, I barely know you; we only went on one date together, and with the apocalypse and all, does it even count? But then I thought, Maybe that’s exactly why it counts, and before I knew it, my legs just . . . brought me here.”

  Corbin swallowed and took a step closer.

  Jesse went stiff. “Leave. Please.”

  An uncomfortably heavy silence smothered the air around them. Nothing but the rhythmic thud inside Jesse’s chest.

  Corbin didn’t leave, though. Instead, he inched forward again, hesitantly, letting the hot sunlight leak into the depths of the shed, sending dust swirling and dancing through the air.

  “Jesse,” he whispered.

  “Leave,” Jesse tried to say, but his voice shook.

  “No.” Corbin stood his ground. “Jesse, listen. Listen to me. People rely on this machine. They need it—they need you. And I do, too. So tell me what’s going on. Please.”

  Jesse stared at the scratch card, at the hammer, at the pieces of metal now glinting in the streak of sunlight.

  “When we first met,” he said, “you asked me if my machine worked, and, well, in a way, it does. Or did. It worked in the sense that it ripped people off and took money from those stupid enough to believe aliens would find them worth listening to. That’s how it worked.”

  Corbin’s eyes slowly searched Jesse’s face, but the usual smile in his eyes,
like a gentle, flickering flame, had dwindled to cold, ashen embers.

  Jesse had always been good at reading faces. He knew how to put on a mask, how to manipulate his own face to get other people to read him wrong, so he knew what to look for in other faces, too. But Corbin was different. So beautifully, frustratingly, painfully different.

  “Jesse,” Corbin said, “I knew the machine didn’t work. I mean, how would you know there are actually Almaen satellite receivers in orbit? How would you pick up their messages through all that cosmic background radiation? It just didn’t make sense. And I’m probably not the only one who’s figured it out. But that’s not the point.”

  “What?” Jesse felt sick with shame and embarrassment. He hated how easy it was for Mom and Ms. K to see right through him—to see the flaws and fears he tried so hard to hide—but now, to hear Corbin confirm he’d seen through him, too, made Jesse feel like an outright fool.

  He’d almost have preferred Corbin telling him from the start that he’d known the machine was a fraud. At least it would feel better than Corbin going along with it all, like a game of make-believe. Like Jesse was a child.

  Corbin’s eyes softened. “You wanna know why people believe in you? It’s because hope gives people something to hold on to. It makes them feel better. It gives them a reason to keep fighting. People need hope right now, Jesse. Desperately. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Jesse chuckled darkly. “There are some things hope can’t fix, Corbin. Maybe it’s time you learned that.” He’d learned it the hard way. He’d been stupid enough to believe the machine would be enough to save him and Mom, save their house. But false hope never saved anyone.

  “I know.” Corbin’s voice cracked. “But isn’t that the point of hope? And faith, even? That you have it and you hold on to it and you protect it, even when it’s impossible? Isn’t that when you need hope the most? You can’t blame people for wanting to feel better.”

  “But I can blame you for lying to a little kid to make her believe talking to aliens is somehow going to cure her,” Jesse snapped. “Holding on to false hope is going to hurt you both.” He’d stood up and was brushing off his jeans. “I did you both a favor.”