Kitabı oku: «Ignite the Shadows», sayfa 2
Chapter 3
Awkward. Awk-ward.
All the way home, Xave and I stare at the ground, mouths zipped. I should apologize, but after he dragged my family into the argument, I’m too mad.
His limping is worse.
He deserves it!
I’m not sorry for him, not when he assumes the worst about me, like everyone else. I expect more from him. I don’t care if he has no way of knowing I’m possessed, crazy or whatever it is, he should treat me better than this. He’s known me for nine years. “He feels my pain,” like he often says. Maybe he doesn’t.
Our street comes into view. A few lampposts cast weak light on the cracked sidewalk, but it’s mostly dark in spite of the clear, moonlit sky. Too many large trees line the street and few people keep their floodlights on once they turn in for the night. It helps keep the electric bill low, Mom says. I don’t argue; it helps me sneak out when I need to.
I slow down as we approach Xave’s house. The split-level looks gloomy, spotted with shadows from the nearby trees. A shudder goes down my back, making me wary. I’ve seen his house in this light before. Why is it spooking me all of a sudden?
I’m contemplating the question when a male figure steps from behind the largest tree in the front yard. His face is obscured, but the silhouette and swagger let me know it’s Xave’s brother. I stop and exchange a quick glance with Xave. There’ll be no lying our way out of this one. We never got our story straight. Besides, Clark’s not blind. He saw us from the alley. Why else would he be waiting for us?
Still wary, even though it’s just Clark, I look around. A faint buzz begins in the back of my head for the second time tonight. I frown.
Clark plants his intimidating six-three, muscular frame a few paces from us, arms crossed. I can see his face better, and it isn’t pretty. Well, it is pretty, but in a Dirty Harry kind of way. Intense eyes, tight lips, strong jaw.
“Hello there, X-avier.” Clark says the name as if he’s referring to pond scum. He pauses at the “X” and says the rest with a sarcastic British accent.
Xave’s eyes shift from one crack of the sidewalk to another. He hates being called by that name, has heard enough jokes about gay mutants in tights and will pretty much beat up anybody who dares call him by the full name his comic-book-obsessed father gave him. Clark’s the only one I know who still dares call him that. If you ask me, he’s just lucky his dad didn’t name him Louise instead of Clark.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” Clark says.
“It was my fault,” I say.
Xave gives me a dirty look. I match it. So he’s gonna be ungrateful like that? Well, in that case, I hope his brother kicks his ass. Clark turns toward me, very slowly. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, stamping his biker boot down. The heavy heel taps. He takes in the full length of my body.
“So what are you saying?” he asks. “That my sissy brother has no more sense than a wet-’round-the-ears gal?”
What did he just call me? Not like he’s all mature and experienced with only four years on me and three on his brother.
“Told you to stay out of it, Marci,” Xave mumbles through the corner of his mouth.
Very slowly, I inhale, closing my eyes until my lungs are full. I let go of the bike and give it a shove toward Xave. It catches him off guard and he scrambles to keep it from falling on him, favoring his injured leg. I’m about to turn and head home when that strange buzzing in the back of my skull gets worse, recognizable. It stops me in my tracks.
This sensation has nothing to do with being spooked, like I thought at first. I’ve felt this before, except this time it’s so intense it sends strong shudders down my spine, totally freaking me out. My eyes dance around the yard, but there’s no one else here. It makes no sense. I only get this creepy feeling in crowded places, like the mall or the movies. That’s the reason why I hate crowds. But I’ve never felt it at home, at school with my friends, and certainly not with Xave’s family.
I stare at Clark. He’s watching me with sudden distrust.
“You should go home, Marci,” he says. “My little brother and I have some serious talking to do.”
It is then that I sense, more than see, a dark shape moving behind Clark. I take a step back, eyes darting, adrenaline pumping.
Xave spooks at my behavior. “What?!” he asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.
He hasn’t noticed the dark shape behind his brother. The shadow advances without making a sound, hidden by Clark’s bulky frame, who shows no sign of suspecting something lurks behind him.
I’ve finally gone crazy.
The shadows don’t only live inside my head. They’ve figured out a way to break free and stalk me in the night. My heart beats in my clenched fists as I dissolve into fear.
Something stretches out of the darkness, reaching for Clark’s shoulder. Words of warning rise in my throat, but they die down when a thin ray of moonlight falls upon the shadow, revealing a flesh and blood man. He steps next to Clark and pats him on the shoulder. I’ve never seen him before. I would remember, because he makes my head drone with a thousand bees. I want to run, but I’m glued to the sidewalk.
“Wow,” Xave says, startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger.
“Clark, is this your brother?” the man asks in a deep purr that makes me think of an idling motorcycle engine. His bald head reflects what little moonlight there is. He’s several inches shorter than Clark and Xave, maybe five-eleven. He’s also leaner, but I have the feeling he could beat up both of them if he wanted. Something in his confident and powerful stance makes me suspect that. I wish I could see his eyes. I’ve got a feeling they’d tell me a lot, but they’re hidden under the shade of his strong brow.
Clark nods, never taking his eyes off me. “Yep, that’s him.”
The man removes his hand from Clark’s shoulder and extends it toward Xave. “Nice to meet you, Xavier. My name is James McCray.”
Xave stares at his hand. James’s mouth twists into a crooked grin, as he waits for Xave to make up his mind. In the end, he shakes it, encouraged by a nod from Clark. James hasn’t looked directly at me, but I feel watched, evaluated like an open book.
“So you were … spying?” James’s speech is calm and reassuring, but I don’t trust him at all. “I take it you’d like to know what your brother’s up to?” James asks. He smiles, but his voice sounds like a dare, hinting at something dangerous.
Xave puffs up like a bullfrog. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
Clark called him a sissy. I guess he thinks this proves he’s not. It doesn’t. The panic that flashes in his eyes gives him away. I don’t blame him. Something’s going on here. Maybe Clark got himself in a real mess this time. I don’t think I want any part in it. Xave shouldn’t either.
As if James could read my thoughts, his eyes settle on me. “What about you, Marci Guerrero?”
He knows my name?! Why would freakin’ Clark tell him my name?!
“No, thank you,” I blurt out. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” I take two steps back, look straight at my friend. “Xave, you should stay out of it, too.”
“Who says he’s got a choice?” Clark puts in. “Not after wrecking my bike like that. No, he’s got a debt to pay. Besides, he has a right to know what’s going on in our neighborhood, our country. Hell, our fucking world!”
What is Clark talking about? And why is James looking at me like I’m to blame for world hunger? There’s no way Xave doesn’t see through this weirdness. Besides, I’m not a joiner and this sounds too cult-ish for my taste.
“Xave.” I pull on his sleeve. He pulls his arm back.
I jerk my head to one side. “Come talk to me for a minute.”
“Get lost, Marci,” he says.
“Don’t be stupid. This—”
“I said get lost.” His eyes bore into me with anger. He can’t stand to be challenged, much less in front of the “guys” and by a girl, no less. God, he so needs to grow up.
I resist the urge to scream and let him go get brainwashed if that’s what he wants. Instead, I give it another try. “Please, Xave.” I give him big, pleading eyes. His expression softens, but he quickly tries to hide the shift.
He motions with his head for me to follow and walks out of earshot. “Why don’t you just go home?”
“Look,” I start, but my head drones so loudly I’m having trouble thinking straight.
“What is it you want to say?” he asks.
I focus on his hazel eyes. “Look Xave, I don’t think you should go with them.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“What do you care what I do?” he asks, thick brows pinched in that way that always gives him two creases above his nose.
“I … I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I say.
“Right, that’s why you wrecked Clark’s bike and got the cops on our tail.”
“Please.” I take his hand. “Don’t go.”
He looks deep into my eyes. “Why?” His tone suggests that if I find the right words, he’ll stay.
I struggle to figure out what he wants to hear. “Because … I think Clark is up to no good, and you’re, um, my friend. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Xave drops my hand. Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. Our almost-kiss of three weeks ago flashes through my memory. I pulled away from him that day, surprised and confused. The sudden closeness between us had been an accident. We’d both turned at the same time and ended up nose to nose without meaning to. But accident or not, there’d been something there, hadn’t there? And I, not Xave, pulled away. Since then he’s been getting mad at me for no reason at all. He’s always been too tough, too proud to say what really bothers him. In spite of that I was fluent in Xave, up to a few weeks ago, but after the non-kiss, the Tower of Babel has nothing on us.
“Go home, Marci. Go hide in your dungeon. I’ll see you later.” He walks to James and Clark. I stand there feeling vulnerable and lost. Maybe our friendship won’t survive our teens, after all. Red wagons and skateboards may be the only type of rides that’ll ever bring good memories back. Frustration floods me.
Fine! He can go get brainwashed for all I care. I spin on my heels and speed-walk home. The droning in my head dies down as I put distance between me and them. I cast glances over my shoulder every few steps.
The first time I look back, all three are staring at me. For an instant, James’s eyes reflect the light, putting the image of a wild cheetah inside my head. Ice crawls slowly up my neck, then I realize I’m just imagining things. The second time I look back, James has an arm around Xave and seems to be talking him up. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, but what can I do about it? Xave’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.
I trudge up my front steps and look back one last time. Xave is walking up the road toward two parked bikes. They look like big Harleys. He climbs on the back with Clark as James straddles the second bike. The engines roar to life in unison. The poor, wrecked Yamaha is left behind by the sidewalk, all battered and broken.
It seems Xave has finally graduated to the big boy club, like he’s always wanted. By tomorrow, our friendship may be a thing of the past.
Chapter 4
Inside the house, everything is dark. Shapes dance on the living room wall visible from the foyer, where I stand watching them shift. Blue, white, gray … the changing frames from the TV screen reflected on the white paint.
I stand there, hypnotized by them, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and Mom’s rhythmic breathing. I sigh, weighted down by all the sadness that hangs like a haze inside this house, a haze that obscures everything, even ourselves. Out there, I hide from the world and put on a tough exterior. In here, I hide from Mom and wish for so much more than I’m given.
The only place where I don’t have to hide is my bedroom. My sanctuary, where I can listen to heavy metal, read poetry, hack computers and cry my eyes out all in the same hour, without anyone thinking I’m a basket case. I want to run in there, lock the door and, for a short time, just be who I really am, but Mom’s been waiting for me. I should at least let her know I’m home.
After a moment, I walk into the living room and watch her sleep on the sofa in front of the muted television. She looks sad, even in her sleep. Her hands are sandwiched between her face and a cushion. Her sandy blond hair spills over the sofa’s dark fabric, and her pale skin serves as witness to how little time she spends outside. Her job at a small fashion magazine keeps her tied to a desk. She’s still wearing her fashionable clothes and, for some reason, that brings a knot to my throat. She used to model and desperately clings to that prettier, younger version of herself. She takes a deep breath and her face turns my way a little, as if some part of her knows I’m watching. Her long lashes flutter, then her eyes open.
She looks unsurprised by my presence. She sits up, arches her back and rubs her eyes. Aided by the coffee table, she stands and walks toward me.
“You’re home,” she says. Her tone suggests she wishes I wasn’t. Her blue eyes are cold and expressionless, but I can still see the disappointment in them. Why does she wait for me? So I can see in her gaze how much I let her down? She leans in and gives the mandatory kiss. I close my eyes as her lips touch my cheek and wish for so much more than this formality. Mom turns toward the hall, pats my shoulder and heads off to bed.
So much pain, so little to say to each other. She used to yell at me when I was late. It still didn’t mean she cared, though. She was only worried the neighbors would gossip. These days she doesn’t even care about that.
In my bedroom, I click the light on. The bed is unmade, inviting. It’s past 1 A.M. I should crash and get some sleep, so I can make it to school on time. But I want to check my probes, see if they found any unprotected servers when they scoured the web looking for vulnerable targets.
I kick an old motherboard out of the way as I make my way to the computer, shedding my jacket. I sit and rejoice in front of my rig. Three wide-screen HD monitors, the best gaming keyboard money can buy, a laser sensor mouse—all hooked to a blazing-fast, custom-made CPU. I smile, tap the keyboard and enter my password. The monitor in the middle displays a black screen with a few IP addresses written in white. I started the probe this morning, and it’s already found some vulnerable servers. I smile to myself. The algorithm is working. Of course. I’ll let it run a full twenty-four hours, and tomorrow I’ll peruse through those systems.
On the left hand side monitor, I start my heavy metal playlist. On the right, I log into the H-Loop and take a quick look around to see who’s online tonight. As I wait for it to load, I slip out of my leather pants and look them over. Several holes run from my thigh to my knee. Great, looks like I’m going to need a new pair. I’m reminded of Xave, so I throw the pants on the floor and push thoughts of my friend out of my head. I can’t worry about him. I won’t.
After I change into a pair of pajama shorts, I examine my leg. There are a few spots where it looks as if someone attacked me with a sheet of coarse sandpaper. In four different spots the skin’s split open, and there’s dark, dry blood caked on the wounds. Not too bad. Nothing some soap and ointment can’t take care of.
SMASH and Hazard-Us are logged into the H-Loop. Those two never seem to have anything better to do, which is sad because, for some reason, I imagine them as middle-aged men without real jobs. I bet they never take a bath.
SMASH> Late night, Warrior?
I crack my fingers and begin to type.
Warrior> Yep, just got in.
SMASH> Ur outta luck, I’m off. Sleepy. L8r
Hazard-Us> Night, sissy!
Hazard-Us> What u been up to, Warrior?
Warrior> Testing some new probes, u?
Hazard-Us> Unleashing a few viruses here n there, fun stuff!
Hazard-Us and his viruses. Doesn’t he get sick of doing the same thing all the time? I play along, though, tell him he should send me the code. He promises he will, but I know he won’t. He’s a script-kiddie. We chat for a bit before he hops off the loop. The cursor blinks next to my handle name. I need to quit staring at the computer screen and go to bed.
I’m about to log out when Mom screams. My heart slams against my chest. When the burst of panic passes, I sigh. I should have known she’d have one of those nights tonight.
In her room, I find her sitting up in bed.
“You okay?” I ask from the threshold. Light from the hall spills on her, revealing a pale face with strands of sandy blond hair matted to her cheeks. Sweat stains the front of her gray tank top in a V-shape.
She shakes her head in response.
“I’ll get you some tea.” I head to the kitchen.
I pour two cups of water in the electric kettle, open the tea drawer and select the Sleepytime variety for the both of us. Four spoonfuls of sugar later, I walk into Mom’s bedroom. Her bedside lamp is now on. Her room is tidy. She sleeps on one side of the bed, as if she expects Dad to come back one day. I wish she’d just use the whole stupid bed and stop reminding me of his absence. He’d be here if he could, but the dead can hardly make someone’s bed warm.
She cradles the mug between both hands and I sit by her side, holding mine the same way. We both sip quietly.
“Sorry to wake you,” she says, though her eyes are unapologetic, and still seem lost in the folds of her nightmare.
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just double checking my math homework.”
Her eyebrow lifts, an indication that she knows I’m lying. Homework has never kept me up at night. School’s too easy for my overactive brain. Besides, I learned long ago that marginally good grades keep you out of the spotlight, both ways.
My eyes gravitate to the picture on her nightstand. In it, Mom looks radiant with Dad’s arm around her and the ocean sparkling in the background. I stand in the middle, a toothless grin on my face, my chubby body stuffed into a pink bathing suit. Hard to believe I ever liked that horrendous color, harder yet to recall ever being that happy.
Dad’s wide smile gleams on his tan face. He was tall, handsome and strong, with deep brown eyes that inspired trust. I’m glad I look like him and love those rare occasions when I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.
Back in those days, my brother’s kidnapping never weighed so heavily on Mom’s mind. Since Dad died though, it’s like she lost her grief compass and went off the deep end. While Dad was alive, she never lit an extra set of candles on my birthday cake and wept as I blew them out. Or told near-strangers she had two kids just to have them ask later why one of them was never around. Or kept a box under the bed full of baby outfits Max never had a chance to wear.
No, when Dad was alive, she was normal.
“We were happy then, weren’t we?” Mom asks, as if she’s read my thoughts.
The question makes me recoil. She knows I hate talking about it, yet she insists. Maybe to torture me.
“Yeah.” I slurp my tea and shift my body toward the door.
“I dreamed about Max,” she says.
I clear my throat. Let’s not go there, please.
“A memory, really,” she adds. “His tiny body whisked away, prodding needles, doctors. He was so small. Only three pounds. He never made a peep. You, on the other hand, came out ten minutes after Max, kicking and wailing.” She makes it sound as if I came out with two heads. I can’t help but wonder … if I’d been the one taken away, would she hurt Max the same way she hurts me by saying stuff like this?
She must notice something in my expression because she adds, “You had a head full of black hair already, spiky and shiny.” This is one of the things Dad used to say when he fondly talked about the day I was born. The words sound empty on Mom’s lips.
“It still sticks out if I cut it too short. That’s why I keep it long,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. I don’t like where this is going.
Mom puts her tea down on the night table. Her hands fall to her lap, where she worries at a hangnail. Her eyes lose their focus and her expression grows pained.
Oh, no.
“When I saw Dr. Dunn at the hospital and then that horrible alarm shrieked, I knew what had happened. I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me. Not even your father. That man took your brother, Marcela.”
“I know, Mom.” She’s told me this story a million times, as if talking about it will make the outcome different.
My teeth grind, as her memories swim in my brain. They’re lodged in there like a splinter, as vivid as any movie I’ve seen on the big screen, as vivid as if they were my own. This is why I hate these conversations. They awaken these images, which have no business being in my head. I already have enough in there that doesn’t belong. They make me understand Mom’s pain all too well and, even if I never knew Max, his loss hurts. Every time Mom brings this up, the splinter digs deeper—so deep that I think it will split me in two one day.
I imagine Dr. Dunn as a balding, short man with small hands and Vienna sausages for fingers. He wears a spotless white coat over an equally white button-up shirt and dark blue tie. He smiles with thick, fleshy lips. He winks at me and my heart skips a beat.
Damn, my overactive brain. I shake my head. “Mom, uh, I think I should …”
“Why would he take him? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Because he was a sick man, I want to say. Why else would he have tracked Mom’s pregnancy after doing the fertility treatments? Why else would he have stolen a newborn baby in need of neonatal care?
Mom clings to this hope that Max is alive somewhere. I know because one night she woke up screaming that she had failed Baby Max and now that he was a teenager, we both failed him every day by not bringing him to his real home.
Does she really want him growing up with that bastard? I want to shake her, ask her if she’s crazy. I pray to God my little twin brother didn’t survive after he was taken from his incubator. I pray he’s an innocent little angel with wings and a halo, floating on fluffy white clouds.
And like always, as I pray for his redemption, I think: it could have been me, that monster could have taken me.
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