Luna (18 page)

“Your ass is grass, boy,” the guy threatened, loud and clear through my open window.

“What a dick,” Chris said as he caromed around a corner. “I hate him. A ten on the A.B.S. I don’t know why my mom ever hooked up with that creep. They’re getting married in a couple of weeks, if you can believe that.” Chris vented his anger on the accelerator and we warped back onto the highway.

A familiar sight loomed into view. The Taco Bell downtown.

Chris exited and swerved into the parking lot. He removed the jeans from my lap, which I was only vaguely aware were there, and said, “Be right back.” I nodded okay. My brain was stuck on The Hulk shaking his fist in my sideview mirror. “You want to come in and wait for me to change? Your lips are blue.”

I had lips? “No. That’s okay,” I mumbled. “Blue’s my natural color.” Which was the dorkiest thing in the world to say.

As Chris sauntered into the glassed-in entryway, this revelation came to me. I knew now what my life was about: Waiting for guys to change their clothes.

It didn’t take him long — not the hour and a half required for Luna’s transformation. Chris sprinted out the door and hurled himself into the driver’s seat, then ground the gear into reverse.

I relaxed, figuring, Okay, the worst is over. What else could happen? From here on in it’s clear sailing.

On a calm lake in a moonlit dream. But all my dreams had died somewhere around the end of sixth grade.

Chapter 18

W
e barreled down the highway until it petered out at the edge of North America. Really. We drove by neighborhoods and lakes and landscapes I never knew existed. “I think I missed the turnoff,” Chris said, squinting at this corner of notebook paper with hieroglyphics scribbled all over it.

By the time we finally arrived at the rave, the party was in full throttle. We cruised by a string of idling cars to check out the scene. Noise assaulted my ears: horns blaring, people shouting, music blasting out the door every time someone opened it. The rave wasn’t in a house exactly. More like a barn. Far enough out in the country that neighbors wouldn’t get all bent out of shape, because there were no neighbors.

Chris located a place to park about three miles away. As he wedged the car between a pair of SUVs, I saw from my window the barn door swing open. A hundred thousand writhing bodies were crammed inside. It totally freaked me out. What was a rave, anyway? Like an orgy? Nobody was naked, that I could tell. Naked, the way I suddenly felt. Exposed and small and scared. I’d never even been to a dance at school. Never been asked. I’d sworn off dancing.

Chris looked as lost as me, if that was possible. We just sat in the car, watching the action. He inhaled a deep breath and said, “What are we waiting for?”

I shrugged. “An invitation?”

“Got that.” He waved the scrap of paper in the air.

He jumped out and circled around front to open my door. Chris took my hand to help me out. And he didn’t let go. As we started toward the barn, he laced his fingers through mine like it was a natural thing to do. If I could’ve freeze-framed that moment everything would’ve been perfect. His warm hand sending shocks of electricity up my arm; the happiness of being with someone; someone who wanted me there with him. Me — a shape, a form, a person who mattered. I knew I was giving in to the feeling, but for one night I wanted to live dangerously.

As we neared the building it was obvious drugs were everywhere. The air reeked, and the second we stepped inside some guy tried to deal Chris. “Thanks anyway, man,” Chris yelled over the music. “Not into it. “ He added in my ear, “If I get caught, I’m off the team. If you want something, though —”

I shook my head no. No, no, no. I wanted to experience every moment of this night with full awareness.

The DJ cranked up the volume and the bass about splintered my bones. Chris hollered, “Let’s see what they have to drink.”

A few people were dancing, but most just milled around, smoking, drinking, getting high. We arrived at the makeshift bar and Chris bellowed at the bartender, “What do you got?” One speaker hung from the rafters directly overhead, so I couldn’t hear the bartender’s reply. Chris relayed in my ear, “They have Coke or beer.”

“Coke’s good.” I hoped it was the fizzy kind.

It was. Chris handed me a red plastic cup.

We blended into the crowd surrounding the dance floor, listening to the band and watching the dancers. It was too loud to talk without shouting. Chris sipped his Coke. I mimicked him. He stuck an index finger in his ear, like, Deafening, huh? I nodded.

A familiar form materialized off the dance floor. Shannon Eiber. She had on this tube top that was held up by hope. Her legs had been dipped into liquid leather. She looked twenty-five, at least. Made me feel twelve.

She spotted Chris and waggled her fingers at him. Dancing over to us, she wiggled close to him and mouthed, Wanna dance? She jutted her hip into his. My invisibility shield must’ve been set on maximum power.

Chris said something in her ear, then slid an arm around my waist.

Shannon actually met my eyes. Her face registered ... what? Disbelief? Shock? “Hey, Regan,” she yelled.

“Hey,” I yelled back.

She wheeled around and danced herself out of our scene.

Our scene. Chris and me, standing there with his arm around me. It was the longest song in history and I prayed it’d never end.

He leaned down and said in my ear, “You bored? You want to dance?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t dance.”

His head rolled back on his neck. “Thank you, God,” he spoke to the rafters. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He said to me, “I hate to dance. I’m so bad.”

“Me, too.” I hadn’t tried lately, not since the slumber party.

It was hot. We finished our Cokes in record time. Chris took my empty cup, slid it under his, and set both atop a five-foothigh floor speaker, then hitched his chin and said, “Let’s go outside.”

We wedged through the fleshy mass to the rear exit. A group of people, five or six, were huddled near the door, exchanging baggies for cash. They split when we cut through.

Behind the barn was a pasture with a wooden rail fence extending along the perimeter. The last snowfall had made the ground mushy and our feet squished in unison. The night air was chilly. I was grateful for all my layers. Beside me, Chris shivered.

“You cold? You want one of my sweaters?” I asked him.

“Sure. I’ll take the one off the bottom.”

“Shut up.” I smacked him.

He grinned. We slogged all the way to the fence. Chris stepped onto the bottom railing, swung a leg over the top, and reached back to help me up.

My purse weighed a ton. It was my gigantic Wal-Mart bag, which I’d chosen specifically so I could stuff in all my extra clothes after I changed. I never got that far. As we balanced on the fence, my purse felt awkward in my lap, like a stomach tumor. I looped it around the fence post next to me.

“Cows,” Chris said.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed. “There’re cows out there.”

I had to squint to see that far in the dark. “Oh yeah.”

“My sister and I used to play this game,” Chris raked a hand through his hair, “where you take turns describing an object. Whatever you say about it has to start with the next letter in the object. You want to play?”

Oh boy. Party games. “Sure,” I said.

He shifted to face me. “You go first.”

“What’s the object?” I asked.

“Cows,” he answered. “You come up with a ‘c’ word that has to do with cows.”

Cows. “Okay. Cud.”

“Huh?”

“Cows chew their cud.”

“What’s a cud?” he said.

Was he kidding? He didn’t sound it. “Regurgitated stomach contents.”

Chris frowned and curled a lip. “You’re making that up.”

“Totally serious.”

“Cud. Huh. I’ll have to remember that one. Okay, ‘o.’” He thought a minute. “I pass.”

You can pass? I racked my brain. O. Ordinary? Odd? Oxygen, which I might need if he was really sliding his arm around my shoulders and moving in closer. He was. “I can’t think of anything with ‘o’, either,” I said. Can’t think at all.

“It’s a stupid game.” He drew me into him.

“Ow.”

He loosened his hold. “What?”

“I got a splinter in my butt.”

“Yeah? Want me to get it out?”

I jabbed him with an elbow. After I dug it out myself, we resumed with the arm around my shoulders experience. Even through my layers, I could feel his body heat. He was still shivering, though. “Really, do you want a sweater?”

“Nah. You’re warming me up.”

Ditto, I thought.

I let my feet dangle. Breathed in the air. Mine, his. I felt comfortable with him, like this was meant to be. Natural. “Let’s play again,” I said. “We’ll pick something easier.” I scanned the pasture. Too dark. The sky? Stars. There were billions of them, and they were all visible tonight. Had they always been this brilliant? “Stars,” I said.

“Okay, you start.”

“S. Stars are in space.”

“T. They twinkle.”

“A.” I paused. “They ...um...” What starts with A? Astronomy?

“Did I mention you get to sucker punch the person who gets stuck?” He slugged me with his free hand in the thigh.

“Ow. You might’ve mentioned that earlier.” I slugged him back. He had hard, muscular thighs. “Wait, I’ve got an
A
word. Absent. Stars are absent during the day.”

Chris gave me an odd look. “I think we’re going to need an official ruling on that.” He called over his shoulder. “Skippy?” Cupping a hand around his ear, he went, “Acceptable? Rats.”

“Rats doesn’t count for your R,” I told him.

“Rats.”

“Still doesn’t count.”

“Silence, woman. Let me think.” He pursed his lips. “R.”

I hummed the
Jeopardy
theme.

He sliced a finger across his throat.

I grinned.

“They’re radiant.”

“Ooh, nice.” Back to S. “S,” I said. “They ... stop shining eventually.”

He dropped his arm. “They do? When?”

I met Chris’s eyes. “When they die.”

His eyes widened. “Stars die? I didn’t know that.”

“They burn out and leave behind black holes,” I informed him.

He blinked a couple of times. He had the longest lashes. “Do your wishes die with them?” he asked.

Was he serious? He sounded totally serious. More sad. Like a little kid who just found out the truth about Santa Claus. “No. The wishes last forever.”

He let out a long sigh of relief.

I could never tell when he was joking. I kicked his shin, testing. He caught my ankle in his foot and wrapped it around his leg. Which initiated a leg wrestling match. Shoving. Giggling. We almost fell off the fence. He clamped a hand around my arm to steady me and said, “Did you ever wish upon a star, Regan?”

My name. It made me tingle every time. “Probably. I don’t remember. Liam used to. When we were sleeping out back in the summer once, we tried to count the stars. Liam got to a thousand. I couldn’t even count that high. Liam said, ‘Know what I wished for, Re? I wished God would fix me.’” My breath caught. Did I just say all that out loud?

“What was wrong with him?” Chris asked.

“Nothing,” I murmured. “He was just ... nothing.” I hadn’t thought about Liam all evening. Now here he was again, intruding.

Chris nudged my shoulder with his. “Where are you? You left.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m here.” I smiled up at him. “Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah. It is.” He gazed into my eyes. Intensely, deeply.

Too deep. I had to look away.

“Do you have other brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“No, just the one brother.” One’s enough, especially mine, I didn’t say.

Chris didn’t speak for a long moment. When I glanced over, he was staring at me.

“What?”

“I thought you had a sister.”

How did he know ...? That day in the hall when I told him I was going shopping with my sister. “I do,” I said quickly. “A half sister.” Half brother, half sister. “What about you? I know you have a sister with a loft.”

“Yeah, she’s cool. Pam. When I need to get away, she lets me crash at her place. And I need to get away a
lot
from Denny, the dickhead.”

“What happened to your dad? Are you parents divorced or something?”

“No.” Chris exhaled a visible breath. “My dad died when I was two. I don’t remember him. Mom doesn’t even have a picture. It’s like he never existed. Sometimes I think about how different it might’ve been if I’d grown up with a father, instead of this steady stream of Mom’s loser boyfriends.” He shook his head at the ground. “I can’t believe she’s marrying Denny. God. I’m moving out. Are your parents divorced?” He twisted to face me.

“No. I still have the original set.”

“Lucky.”

“Oh yeah.”

Chris caught the sarcasm. “What, they’re jerks?”

“No. Yes.” I stared off into the middle distance. “I don’t know. They don’t seem all that happy together. Sometimes I wonder how they even got together. I wonder if they should’ve gotten divorced. Maybe they would have if . . .” I stopped and swallowed hard.

“If what? You think they stayed together for you guys?”

“No.” I tried to focus on the cows, anything solid. “I think they felt stuck with each other. Then they got stuck with us. They wasted their lives, both of them.” I looked at Chris briefly, then looked away. The majority of Mom’s life apparently didn’t count, and Dad’s was on a downhill skid. “I don’t think the American dream quite lived up to their expectations.” There was that word again — expectations. “I don’t know,” I went on. “They seem ... disillusioned. Like they’re just going through the motions, you know?” I glanced up at him again.

“Do I ever,” Chris said. “My mom always wanted to be a model, or an actress. She could’ve been, too. I never want that to happen to me. To look back on my life, say, ten, twenty years later and think, ‘Man, I could’ve been something. If only I hadn’t given up my dream.’”

“Exactly.” He nailed it. I had a dream once. I couldn’t even remember what it was. “What
is
your dream?” I asked him.

He hesitated. “You really want to know?”