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Bobby looks up at him again, and the captain goes, “See, man, that’s why this’ll be a good place for you here. The sculptures, they’ll help you. Because the sculptures bring the Yimmies, and the Yimmies are what you need. You need their bright electroids. See him over there?” He points to the fat boy sculpture. “He was my first one. He told me to build all these others.”

I’m thinking this is some pretty serious weirdness, but Bobby’s like, “He told you? Like he talked to you out loud?”

“He probably called him on his cell phone,” says Chuck, but the captain goes, “Look, man, I’m not saying the actual sculpture spoke out loud to me the way we’re talking right now. I may be Captain Crazy, but I’m not that crazy. No, it was like the spirit of the sculpture vibrated his message directly into my inner ear drum.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, “when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound crazy at all.”

Chuck laughs, but Bobby shushes me. The captain seems used to sarcasm, though, and doesn’t let it slow him down. “What I’m saying is there are all these different frequencies you can sense the truth on—two hundred and eleven of them—but most people only listen on one, the one we’re talking on right now. But hey, man, I can tell you’re opening up.” He stares deep into Bobby’s eyes. “You’re opening up and starting to hear.
When you were young, you heard the Yimmies, but now you’re hearing the Nogo Gatu. They’re shrieking, man. But you can’t listen to them too much. It’s like listening to the rain. If you listen to the rain too much, you’ll drown.”

“What are the Yimmies?” Bobby asks.

The captain smiles. He has flecks of mustard in his scraggly beard, but his eyes sparkle like a little kid’s. “They’re the bright frequency, man, the good frequency. When they come, and you open up and they get inside you, you can do anything, man. Anything.”

Bobby nods again, like he actually understands what the captain’s talking about. “But this other thing—what is it, the Nogo Gatu?—what if you can’t get away from it?”

I can’t believe he’s getting into this stuff. In the firelight his face looks so intense you’d think he’s seen the stupid Nogo Gatu himself. He’s never been the type to believe in crazy ideas. One time this weird girl from down the street was trying to tell us her mom was psychic, that she predicted the 9/11 attacks, and Bobby’s like, “Then why didn’t she call someone? Why didn’t she try to stop it?” He picked that girl’s whole story apart. Now he’s buying into the captain’s BS?

“But you
can
get away from the Nogo Gatu,” says the captain, chewing on his hot link. “You have to call the Yimmies. See, man, that’s why they told me to make the sculptures. They help hold off the Nogo Gatu. That’s what I need to do. I need to hold them off until I get the aero-velocipede finished.”

That’s right—
aero-velocipede
. I’m like, Oh crap, another imaginary goblin from Captain Crazy’s warped mind, but Bobby actually wants to know more about that too.

The captain glances at Mr. White, as if he needs his opinion on whether he should go ahead and explain. Mr. White nods.

“The aero-velocipede,” says the captain. “It’s the ultimate Yimmy sculpture because it can fly.”

“It can
fly
?” Me and Bobby and Chuck say it all at the same time.

The captain’s grin stretches out so far you’d think it might push his whiskers off his face. “Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

“That sounds good,” Chuck says. “I’ve always wanted to see a flying sculpture. And maybe we can get some more of that wine while we’re at it. I need a drink. Jesus.”

“It’s getting late,” I say. “I don’t think anyone needs more wine.”

“No way,” Bobby protests. “A little more wine never hurt anyone.”

“All right,” says the captain, grinning. He hops up, pretty spry for a crazy person in his sixties, and leads the way toward a dilapidated barn behind the house, Bobby walking at his side. It’s beginning to look like I’m never going to have any time alone with him.

On the way to the barn, Mr. White grabs my arm and stops me. “What do you think now?” he says with a crafty little smile. “Are you beginning to see there’s a whole lot more to the captain than you thought?”

I’m like, “If you mean, do I think he’s even crazier than I thought before, then, yeah. Surely you don’t believe some kind of dark-frequency monsters are dancing around out there, and these statues, or whatever they are, keep them away.”

“Sure I do,” he says, “in a way. Seems like your brother’s getting into it too.”

“Yeah, well, my brother’s a good guy. He gives weird people a chance. He just hasn’t seen the captain’s true colors yet.”

“Did you ever think maybe you’re the one who hasn’t seen his true colors? I mean, if you think about it, the Nogo Gatu
and the Yimmies are no weirder than people believing in devils and angels. It’s the same thing.”

“Only what? It’s just about being on a different
frequency
?”

“I’d call it a difference in brain chemistry. Devils/angels, dark/light, Nogo Gatu/Yimmy—it’s all in the brain chemistry. In ancient societies, the captain would’ve been a shaman, a holy man. That’s what true artists really are. Take his sculptures. The captain, he’s our Michelangelo. He makes sculptures out of junk, turning it into something beautiful.”

“Sorry to have to tell you this,” I say. “But that is an actual load of crap. That guy’s nothing but screwed up.”

“Why do you think he’s screwed up?” There’s no anger in his voice, just a cool scientific tone. “What makes you think your reality is any more real than his? If you want to expand yourself, you don’t have to drink or do drugs. Just try to see through someone else’s eyes every now and then.”

“You know, you may be even crazier than the captain is.”

He smiles. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I shake my head.

“You know,” he says. “It was interesting watching you by the campfire, seeing the way you looked at your brother.”

“Why’s that?”

He looks me straight in the eye. “Because it’s the first time I saw how really beautiful you are.”

“What?”

He reaches out and gives me a little punch on the arm and then takes off walking toward the barn. “How about that for crazy?” he calls over his shoulder.

I just stand there and watch him for a second. It’s hard to know what to think. I mean, surely he was making fun of me, but he didn’t sound like it. And believe me, I’ve been made fun of enough I can recognize the sound of it in boys’ voices pretty
much right away. They don’t do it for very long. That’s one hundred percent for sure.

But Mr. White didn’t have a trace of teasing in his voice. He spoke in that same scientific tone, stating the word
beautiful
like it was just another fact. I guess most girls wouldn’t want to hear it like that. They’d want something all romantic, with flowers and music playing, but that could just mean the guy wants to get in your pants. This is different. No hidden motive. It’s just plain unbiased reporting.

And believe me, I don’t get told I’m beautiful every day. I can’t even remember my dad ever saying that to me. He’s said it to my sisters but not me. But why does it have to come from a freaky dude like Mr. White? Why couldn’t Tillman say it? Or even Chuck. Somebody I could really fall for. Still, I guess every girl wants to hear they’re beautiful sometime, no matter who it comes from.

Inside the barn, Mr. White is already kneeling next to the captain. Bobby’s squatting on the other side, and Chuck’s standing behind them with one hand in his back pocket and the other holding a cup of blackberry wine. The only light comes from a mechanic’s lamp hanging from a rafter. Me, I feel like I’m caught between two forces—wondering about this new development of Mr. White telling me I’m beautiful and then also wishing I could come up with something to say to get Bobby out of here.

They’re all inspecting this thingamajig the captain calls his aero-velocipede. If he’s going to try to fly this contraption, he won’t get far—it doesn’t have any wings. Right now, it just looks like a giant silver tricycle, only the seat’s lower and has a high back and sparkly blue vinyl upholstery. The thing doesn’t even have wheels.

Just about anyone who saw it would say it’s just a big piece
of crap, but for some reason Bobby has a different idea. He looks up at me and goes, “You can see it, can’t you, Ceejay? Get some wings, some wheels, and an engine on this thing, and it’ll be riding the sky with the eagles and crows.”

He seems so happy about it, I can’t bring myself to do anything but lie. “I can see it,” I tell him. But all I can really see is disaster if someone tries to take this thing up in the air.

More cups of wine and more stories go around until finally the wine runs out. Bobby grabs his wallet. “Here, Chuck, I’ll give you a few bucks. Run into town and get us some beer.”

Of course, Chuck’s totally up for it, but finally I have to put my foot down. Which isn’t easy. It’s not my place to tell Bobby what to do, but the last thing I want to see is him passed out on the ground in Captain Crazy’s barn.

“No, you don’t,” I say, aiming the words at Chuck instead of Bobby. “It’s late. I have to go home. And I sure don’t want to get in your truck with you after you polish off a six-pack of beer on top of everything else.”

“That’s all right,” Chuck says. “I’ll drop you off when I go get the beer.”

I’m like, “No way. I’m not going without Bobby.”

Finally, Bobby looks up at me, smiling a drunk smile. “That’s right, Ceejay. Don’t you go anywhere without me. You’re my best, best, best little sister. And if you’re leaving, then I’m leaving too.”

Sure, it took a few glasses of wine for Bobby to finally say something that sounds like him, but that’s all right. It feels good, like cool water pouring down to the bottom of my stomach.

Unsteadily, he gets up and addresses the captain, “Captain, I’m glad to meet a man of your caliber. You’ve given me a lot to think about, sir.” He shakes the captain’s hand and starts to
turn but thinks of one last thing to say. “I will be back. And you can bet, sooner or later, we will fly.”

The captain grins and salutes him.

On the way to the truck, Bobby leans against me and I take his arm. He’s more like his old self, happy and talkative, though more wasted than I’m used to. As we drive down the highway, he puts his arm around me. “I love you, Ceejay,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” I say. “I love you too.”

“Thanks for being patient with me,” he says. “I know I’ve been weird.”

“No, you haven’t,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I have. It’s just I’m not ready yet.”

“Ready for what?”

“Anything.”

“If you want,” I say, “I can tell Mom and Dad you called while they were out and said you were coming back early. That way you don’t have to make up something to tell them. I can say you’re coming home this weekend or whenever you want.”

He reaches over and strokes my cheek. “I’ll leave that up to you, Ceejay. You’re my girl. I know I can count on you to do what’s best.”

“That’s right. You can count on me.”

He scrunches down and leans his head against mine. “But I don’t want to think about that stuff right now. All I want to do is ride.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “We’ll just ride then.” I still don’t have answers to the million questions I want to ask him, but at least we’re together and I’ll settle for that right now.

My plan is simple—since I get off work before the parents do, I’ll go home, get cleaned up, maybe go over to Gillis’s for a while, and then come back just before dinner when I know Mom and Dad will both be there and spring my story on them. I’ll make a big production of it, really build up the suspense, then—
bam!
—hit them with the phony news that Bobby called while they were at work and said he got an early furlough. He’ll be home this weekend.

Should be easy, right?

Still, I go over my lines all afternoon while I’m painting with Uncle Jimmy. It’s like I’m rehearsing for a play. I recite my little speech over and over in my head, thinking up answers to questions my parents might hurl at me and trying to visualize the facial expressions I’ll need to make my delivery convincing.
I even pick out the outfit I’ll wear. By the time Uncle Jimmy drops me off after work, I have everything well rehearsed.

“Did you hear me, Ceejay?” Uncle Jimmy says as I open the door to get out of the truck.

“What?”

“I said I’d be by to pick you up half an hour later tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Where’s your head been today, girl? You seemed like you were off in another galaxy.”

“Just daydreaming, I guess.”

“Boys, huh?” He smiles slyly.

“What? No.”

“Sure.” He says it like he doesn’t believe me. “Just do me a favor. If you meet up with a boy that’s anything like I was when I was your age, run as fast as you can in the other direction.”

I force a smile. “If I meet a boy like you, he’d better be the one to run.”

I’m home a little later than I figured, so I hurry to get cleaned up and changed. I wanted my yellow top because yellow is a happy, good-news kind of color, but it’s in the clothes hamper. White will have to do. Like Mr. White says, it’s the color of hope, but it’s also the color of innocence, and I may need both before I’m done.

When I go to Gillis’s, he can tell right off that something’s up, and I can’t fool him like I can Uncle Jimmy. There’s not much reason to keep Bobby a secret from him now anyway, but from the way he reacts, I wish I had.

Everything that comes out of his mouth is negative. Maybe Bobby’s AWOL. Why else would he have to go sneaking around? Maybe the military police are searching for him right now, and if me or my family help hide him, then we could all
go to jail. Or Guantánamo Bay. After all, it might be considered treason, this being wartime and all.

It’s too much. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” I ask him, and I end up leaving earlier than I planned.

But now I’m not so sure I want to spring the news about Bobby coming back. I don’t want to believe it, but I have to admit there is a slim possibility that Gillis might be right. Bobby could be AWOL. That would explain a lot.