Burning Midnight (2 page)

Sully slid one of the huge, flaccid, greasy fries off Dom's plate and bit it in half. Normally he wouldn't go near the ode to grease and swine parts that was the school cafeteria's hot dog platter, but he was starving. He'd forgotten his lunch, and couldn't bring himself to blow half of yesterday's paltry earnings on a chicken sandwich and a Coke. He turned in his seat, eyed the wrapped sandwiches and steaming steel serving bins. He was sorely tempted to get something. He couldn't afford to buy school lunch, though. He and his mom might not be able to afford anything if Dom didn't loan him money for the Forest Green, unless he sold it before Saturday. Sully hated selling in a panic; it would mean knocking fifty, even a hundred off the price.

Dom was talking to Rob Dalton, his sleeves rolled up to show off his impressive biceps. Sully tapped him on the shoulder. In profile you could mistake Dom for a tough guy, with his thick eyebrows, meaty lips, and boxer's nose, the big jawline. But once he turned those open, friendly eyes your way, the illusion was shattered.

“I want to show you something.” Sully unzipped his pack, which was on the floor between his knees, and pulled the Forest Green halfway out so Dom could see it.

Dom leaned closer, tilted his head, trying to see the color. “Is that a Forest Green?”

“Yup.”

“Holy crap.” Dom grinned at him, squinting. “A Forest Green? Where did you get that?”

“Someone brought it to my table at the flea market.”

Dom set his hot dog down, wiped his hands on his pants. “Can I see it?”

Sully handed it to him under the table. “Keep it low—I don't want to get jacked on the way home.”

Dom rotated the sphere under the table. “How much does one of these go for?”

“Six hundred. Maybe six fifty.” Sully felt slimy about asking for the loan. It was a hell of a lot of money. Dom's parents were pretty well off, but they didn't give Dom crap. Sully took a big breath. “The thing is, I still owe the girl I bought it from a hundred and seventy-five. I'm supposed to pay her Saturday.”

Dom shrugged. “I'll spot you.” He handed back the Forest Green, pulled out his phone.

“Really?” Sully was relieved he hadn't had to come right out and ask.

“Sure, no problem.” Dom tapped keys on his phone, looked up. “Give me your account number.”

“I can pay you back as soon as I sell it. I'll cut you in on some of the profit.”

Dom gave him a look. “You're not paying me interest. You're like my brother.” He squinted, shook his head. “Come to think of it, my brother's an asshole. I wouldn't loan him my used gum.” He laughed, clapped Sully on the shoulder.

“I feel bad asking.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Sully felt a warm glow of affection for this guy he'd known since second grade. He could still picture Dom down in his basement, making explosion sounds as their Hulk and Spider-Man action figures stormed a fortress they'd made out of Legos. It would kill Sully if he had to move away.

He didn't like thinking about what life would be like if they moved in with Uncle Ian and his family. It gave him an awful sinking, panicked feeling. He'd have to share a room with his mother, with no privacy except in the bathroom or outside the house. He'd have to go to a new school where he didn't know anyone.

The fire alarm sounded.

Sully was halfway out of his seat before he realized it was one of the kids at the spoiled brats' table, showing off his Tangerine-driven ability to mimic sounds. Again. A couple of weeks back, the lunch attendant had evacuated the whole cafeteria before figuring out that it was some kid, not the fire alarm.

Mr. Boyce, Sully's English teacher, approached the table and stabbed a finger at the kids. “I hear that again, and I'll put you
all
in detention. It's a felony to cause a false alarm, whether you're pulling a lever or using your mouth.”

As he stormed off, the kids laughed and made obscene gestures behind his back.

“Look at those twerps,” Dom said, shaking his head. “You can't trust guys who always look like they just got their hair cut. What do they do, get it cut twice a week?”

That got their whole table laughing. Sully had never thought about it before, but Dom was right, their hair always looked freshly cut.

Rob leaned in. “Have you guys seen Jayla Washburn yet?”

“Have I
seen
her?” Sully asked, confused.

Rob nodded. “Her parents got her an early Christmas present. A pair of
Cranberries.
You're not going to believe it.”

Cranberry. Better-looking. Rarity
seven.
How did these people afford this stuff? Sully knew you could get twenty-, thirty-year loans from the bank to buy spheres, but he couldn't believe people actually
did
that just so their daughter could be prettier.

“There she is.” Rob pointed toward the cash registers, where Jayla Washburn was paying, her back to them. She lifted her tray and turned.

“Holy—” Dom said.

Results varied when it came to Cranberries. In Jayla's case, she'd hit the jackpot. Her eyes were bigger and brighter, her cheekbones higher, her chin smaller. She'd been okay-looking before; now she almost looked like a model. She was grinning like she'd won the lottery.

The bell rang. As kids grabbed backpacks, Mr. Boyce called, “Buses with blue tags in the window are going to the Hammerstein. Have a good afternoon.”

Sully still couldn't believe they were letting school out early for Alex Holliday. It made him want to puke.

“You guys going?” Rob Dalton made a face. “I'm going to the mall instead. I need sneakers. You want to come with?”

Sully looked at Dom, who shrugged. “Why not? I'm sure as hell not going to the Hammerstein.”

Sully appreciated Rob and Dom not saying Alex Holliday's name. Everyone else in the school, especially the teachers, had been saying almost nothing but Holliday's name for the past week. Big deal, Yonkers was giving its prodigal son some lame award. Was it really so noteworthy that they closed school early? It wasn't the president, or Taylor Swift, or Kanye West. It was a con artist with a lot of money.

No one seemed to understand what it felt like. They'd shaken hands. Alex Holliday had
handed him
a check for two and a half million. In that moment when Sully took the check, everything changed. All of his and Mom's money problems had melted away.

Rent? No problem; in fact, they could buy a house, cash.

The old junker Ford he had to share with his mother broken down, again? Buy two new cars.

College tuition for Sully, when he graduated from high school? Paid for.

Then the Cherry Red hadn't done what Alex Holliday expected. It hadn't given him, personally, any new abilities to add to his repertoire. It had only reseeded the entire freaking planet with new spheres—as many spheres as had appeared in the first wave five years earlier.

And,
poof,
the money was gone. Check, voided. Next time read the fine print, sucker. There would be no college for David Sullivan.

Holliday had opened that old wound again just this week, mailing Sully a gold-embossed VIP invitation to his appearance. Front-row seats to hear how great Alex Holliday is! Admission to the private reception afterward! What a petty, bush-league move. Cheat a kid, then rub it in. Nice.

Sully hated Alex Holliday. Would throw a party if the man died. Not that he was likely to die anytime soon, since he was barely thirty and had burned the entire spectrum of health-boosting spheres, from Aquamarine (quick healing) to Olive (pain control).

Central Avenue was quiet, a cold wind keeping pedestrians inside, traffic cruising along the wet street past the muffler shops and fast-food restaurants.

“Where's Jeannette?” Dom asked Rob as they walked, hands in pockets, chins tucked against the wind.

“She's going to the thing,” Rob said. “You know. Holliday.” Rob muttered the name.

Dom glanced at Sully, who kept his eyes on the gum-stained sidewalk.

“That asshat,” Dom said.

Holliday. Everywhere Sully went, Holliday. At this very moment, the elite of Yonkers were falling over themselves to kiss Holliday's rich butt. Those without VIP passes would have paid good money for Sully's. He'd torn it into pieces and flushed it.

Everyone knew Holliday had ripped Sully off, ripped off a thirteen-year-old living in the Garden Apartments. No one cared. Success was a whitewash for shitty behavior.

“I'd like to tell him what a thief he is to his face,” Dom said.

“I guess now's your chance,” Rob said. “When he asks for questions you could raise your hand and ask why he's such a crook.” He cackled at the idea.

Dom slowed. “You don't think I would?”

“Come on, Dom,” Rob said.

“Two and a half million dollars. That's how much he owes Sully.”

“I
know.
I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying you don't have the balls to call Alex Holliday a thief in front of a thousand people.”

Dom slapped Sully's arm. “Let's go. Come on.”

“No way.” Sully didn't want to see Holliday's smarmy face while everyone clapped. “All the way into the city for that? No way.” There was no venue in Yonkers swanky enough, so the Yonkers Citizen of Distinction Award was being presented in Manhattan.

He
would
like to hear what Holliday would say if Dom called him out about the Cherry Red, though. The thing was, Dom would probably chicken out.

Although maybe Sully should ask the question himself.

“We're going. ‘Not only are you a liar and a criminal, you walk like a rooster.' That's what I'm gonna say.” Dom shook his head, laughed. “Oh, man, this is gonna be great.”

He wouldn't do it, though. Dom could talk a blue streak with his buddies, but in class he sat in the back and clammed up. He wasn't much on public speaking. Sully was the talker. He'd have to see how he felt when they got there, but if the mood hit him he might just call Holliday out. What did he have to lose?

“Hang on,” Dom said, “I have to take a piss.” He cut into a shallow alley beside Addeo and Sons Bakery, which was festooned with Christmas wreaths and garlands. Sully and Rob waited, Rob weaving slightly as he stood, as if he were standing on the deck of a ship at sea, while Dom pissed against a silver trash can and chuckled to himself.

A lone figure stood on a portable podium to one side of the Hammerstein Ballroom on Thirty-Fourth Street. He was young, holding a Bible, his polished black shoes pressed tightly together.

“Every time you absorb a pair of those titillating balls, you welcome Satan into your soul. They are Trojan horses, sin in your choice of colors.”

“I've got a Trojan for your balls right here,” a guy shouted as he passed, setting off laughter among his friends.

Ignoring the crack, the preacher opened his Bible to a bookmarked page. “In the book of Revelation, God warns, ‘Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength…' ” He held up a finger. “They are the mark of the beast, a sign that the end of days is upon us.”

Sully found it interesting how split religions were on the spheres. The pope thought they were okay, because they didn't go against anything in the Bible and didn't hurt anyone. Some of the evangelists on TV were like this guy on the podium; others claimed the spheres came straight from God. If there was a God, Sully didn't think he had anything to do with the spheres. They weren't angels or devils; they were pretty obviously things, even if no one could explain how they suddenly materialized all over the world or why they gave people enhanced abilities.

“The arrival of the spheres is a sign. Judgment Day is upon us, and Alex Holliday is a servant of Satan. He offers you the mark of the beast!” the guy on the podium shouted as Sully and his friends pushed through the doors.

Sully couldn't argue with the guy's view of Holliday, even if he didn't buy into the Judgment Day stuff. Not that there weren't a lot of nonreligious people who were saying the same thing, that the spheres were bad news. It was hard to turn on the TV without hearing some pundit warning about pigs being fattened for the slaughter. Sully only sold spheres—he couldn't afford to burn any—so he figured he didn't have anything to worry about, even if the doomsayers turned out to be right.

There was a huge poster to the left of the ticket window, advertising an Arcade Fire concert in a couple of weeks. All seven band members had finally given in and absorbed Lavender spheres (enhanced musical ability, rarity level two) live on the
Late Show with Stephen Colbert.
Sully was dying to hear their new album. He'd kill to see them live. But no, he was going to see Alex Holliday live instead.

The Hammerstein had a high domed ceiling, plush burgundy seats, four levels of balconies along the sides for VIPs. It was packed. Sully, Dom, and Rob nabbed some of the last general-admission tickets reserved for Yonkers High students and found three open seats near the back on the ground level. Holliday was already speaking, backlit by animated slides. A lot of people thought he was good-looking, but Sully thought he looked like a cartoon bandit, his black eyebrows dark and thick, as if drawn in with a fat-tipped Magic Marker, his jaw peppered with black speckles like he needed a shave. The black boots with heels didn't mask that he was short, despite the extra inch or two he'd gotten by burning a pair of Lemon Yellows. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms. Chocolate spheres, which gave you both enhanced strength and the build to go with it, were rarity level nine. In today's market they would set you back three or four million each at auction, and of course if you wanted to burn them you needed two, which meant six to eight million.