Monster. Майкл Грант
with delusions of grandeur or a simple hunger for adventure might come up with. That mistaken belief lasted only a very short while, for it was clear, absolutely, unmistakably clear, that Shade Darby meant to steal the rock.
That she meant to experiment with the rock.
And though Shade never quite said it, Cruz knew it was all connected to the absent, never-mentioned, but always somehow present Dr. Heather Darby, PhD.
Then, too suddenly, the date came. ASO-3 was on its long glide path to earth, orbiting once before it would begin its tumble into the atmosphere. And by then whatever doubts Cruz had became irrelevant.
Because the line was before them: and both girls knew they were going to cross it.
Shade drove a dull but sensible Subaru, a few years old, clean inside and out, in a color that could best be described as Forgettable Beige. It was so at odds with Shade’s personality that Cruz guessed it had been Shade’s mother’s car.
Cruz herself did not drive. She could have; she could easily pass the test, but she was not yet ready to face the trauma of something which was simple for everyone else: answering the question “Male or female?”
Yes or no, up or down, in or out, male or female, and no, there could be nothing that did not fit into a binary. Either/or, not some of this and some of that.
“Where’s my phone?” Cruz asked in sudden consternation, patting various areas of her body before vaguely remembering she’d left it in Shade’s room.
“I took it,” Shade said. “Look in that bag by your feet. There are two burner phones in there.”
Cruz looked as Shade pulled out of the driveway and turned in the direction of the freeway.
“These are crap. These aren’t even smartphones.”
“Cell phones—especially smartphones—are tracking devices,” Shade said, distracted by traffic. “They leave a record of your movements. First thing Sixty-Six will do when they see they’ve been robbed is look for cell phone signatures at the crash site. It wouldn’t be hard to connect my cell phone to my father, and burners are not exactly iPhones. We did discuss this, Cruz.”
“I just . . .” A heavy sigh. “I just didn’t think you meant it. We’re practically cave people now. I’m going to go into withdrawal.” Cruz pulled out her Moleskine and a pen.
“What are you writing?”
“I’m writing that a monster has kidnapped me and plunged me back into the twentieth century.”
“I thought writers enjoyed the chance to write, free of distractions.” A car sliced too close to their front bumper and Shade leaned on the horn. “Hey, asshole!”
Cruz did her silent laugh and for a while was lost to conversation, bent over her notebook, pen held in her left hand in an awkward-looking position.
“You stick your tongue out when you write,” Shade observed.
“I do not!”
“You get the tip between your teeth and it sticks out between your lips.”
Cruz made a rumbling sound of irritation, added a sentence to the Moleskine that ended with an unnecessarily emphatic exclamation point, and put her notebook away.
“You’re sure your folks won’t send cops to look for you?” Shade asked.
“I’m totally, absolutely hundred percent sure,” Cruz said grimly, then chided herself. No, no, don’t go to the bitter place, we’re having an adventure. We’re committing a federal crime.
Yay?
“You wouldn’t believe how little interest they have in where I am,” Cruz said, trying to inject some lightness into her tone. “And your dad?”
“I checked. He’s in Nebraska.”
Cool, calm, unruffled.
She must know this will put her father in a bad spot, Cruz thought. But she won’t stop.
Won’t? Or can’t? Obsession? And why am I going along? Am I really this desperate for a friend?
But of course Cruz knew the answer to that question. Yes, she was desperate for a friend. Yes, she enjoyed the odd status that came from being associated with Shade at school. But mostly, Cruz admitted, she herself had no goal, no plan, no clear idea of what she wanted to do. And Shade did.
I’m a puppy who hopes Shade will throw a stick I can fetch.
Traffic was awful as usual in Chicagoland, but in time they emerged from beneath low rain clouds to a sunnier suburbia west of the city and soon were moving along open interstate, penetrating the vast spaces of the American agricultural heartland.
It was autumn and the corn that extended for hundreds of miles around was being harvested. Giant, insect-like machines painted red or green powered slowly but relentlessly, stripping off the ears and leaving forlorn pale yellow stalks and mulch behind.
“How long is this drive to hell without apps?” Cruz asked.
“Four and a half hours. You know, Cruz, the human race survived for a million years before the first phone, let alone the first app.”
“Survived,” Cruz said, raising a finger. “Survived. But it wasn’t really living.”
“We have music.”
Cruz turned on the stereo and punched buttons until she came to the loaded files. She scrolled through Shade’s music, thinking it an opportunity to get some insight into her new friend’s soul. She found a number of things she didn’t recognize, experimental music, but also more familiar Reggae, Blues, Pop, Rock, Punk, even classical. If there was a coded message in Shade’s playlists the message was that she sampled widely and committed to no particular genre or artist. But there were a few things more accessible.
“Seriously?” Cruz asked. “Beyoncé? What else, Taylor Swift?”
“I suppose you’d like something more cutting edge?”
“Not really,” Cruz admitted. “Luis Malaga? Cantea?” Cruz peered at Shade, waiting for signs of recognition. “Nothing? OV7? Come on, Shade, they’ve been around forever.” She sighed. “What can I say, I move to the beat from south of the border.”
“Isn’t that all, like, accordions?”
“I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Mmmm. To cover the awkwardness you could put on some of my music,” Shade said, batting her eyelashes.
Cruz had found the right song, the one with the most plays. “Yes, yes, this is definitely Shade Darby,” Cruz said and hit play. The guitar was twangy, and the voice was thin but strong.
Cruz sang the refrain with a small adjustment.
“Hey, baby, there ain’t no easy way out.
Hey, Shade, will stand her ground.
And she won’t back down.”
It was the shark who cast her a chilly, sidelong glance. Shade had a great sense of humor about lots of things, but not as much about references to her . . . her interest . . . to use a kinder word than obsession.
They listened to music for a while until something ska came on, which they both liked, and Cruz began to dance in place.
“You’re bouncing the whole car,” Shade said, sounding like someone’s mother.
“I know. Help me!”
Soon the Subaru was bouncing happily as they both danced in place, arms flailing, heads bobbing, shoulders twisting, Shade inevitably more controlled, more contained, less committed to the music than Cruz. But after three hours of corn, corn, the