Double Cross [2] by Carolyn Crane

touch the rim.
    He says, “If I was a highcap, you’d see the blur around my head. Sort of like, you know on a hot day and you look at the sidewalk and see this blur above it? That’s how highcaps look when you wear the glasses. Slight blur around their heads—it’s the energy that their freak brains give off. At the same time, there’s a chip implanted in the frame, right here, that disrupts the waves or something.” He points to the area between the lenses, the part that rests above the nose.
    “Do you make these?”
    “No, they came from the Internet.”
    “You can get these on the Internet?”
    “Twenty-nine ninety-nine, baby. Paradigm Factory dot com.”
    I sit up straight. Should I believe him?
    “My brother buys all their conspiracy shit—lead-lined hats to guard against space rays, insoles for radiation from tectonic plates, you know.” He lowers his voice. “He bought me this pair. Just for the hell of it, I tried them out on this guy at my chess club who I’ve always suspected of being a highcap cheater. Sure enough, the blur’s coming off his head and suddenly he can’t beat me.”
    “You’re sure nothing will happen?”
    “Only that you’ll have the power.”
    “I mean, will they alter my brain chemistry or anything?”
    “Your brain chemistry?” He squints like I’m talking crazy. “No. Just try them.”
    Now I’m totally suspicious, because I feel like he’spressuring me. “Forget it, I’m not touching them. I don’t want anything to do with these glasses.”
    “What is wrong with you? Christ!” He bangs the table—really hard this time. “I’m trying to help you!”
    Another bang behind me—the door. I spin around. Packard is staring beyond me. I turn just in time to see Marty shambling the glasses back on, but it’s too late.
    “The glasses,” Packard says. “It’s the glasses.”
    Marty holds them fast on his face as Packard closes the distance between them and looms tall over him, his hard, angular frame in soft plaid—browns and burnt reds that match his shaggy curls.
    “Take them off or I’ll rip them off of you.”
    “Fuck you.”
    I back away from the table. I don’t need to see Packard’s expression to know it’s intense.
    “Fine! Okay.” Marty pulls them off and places them in Packard’s palm.
    Packard jerks his arm. “Ah!” The glasses clatter onto the floor. “What the hell?”
    My heart jumps. “Are you okay?”
    Packard’s inspecting his hand. “Yeah … just a kind of a bite. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
    I glare at Marty, outraged.
    “They wouldn’t have done anything to you,” Marty says, as though I’ve accused him of something. “They’re antihighcap glasses, and you’re not a highcap.”
    “Well, they did something to
him
, didn’t they?” I snap. “They hurt his hand.”
    “He’s a highcap!”
    Packard stares at the glasses where they landed on the floor. Curiosity has made his features softer, more boyish. “Where’d they come from?”
    Marty turns to me. “Don’t tell him. Don’t be a collaborator.”
    “Of course I’m telling him,” I say.
    Marty’s eyes go dark; there’s a rumbling in his throat, and then he spits—a longish goober that flies through the air, seemingly in slow motion, and lands in the center of my sweater, a shiny blob on gray cashmere, just above my belly button. I stare, dumbfounded. I’ve never had a person’s spit on my clothes.
    Out the corner of my eye I see Packard fly at Marty, pin him against the wall. “You do not do that! You do not!” He jerks Marty with every
not
. “You do
not
disrespect that woman, you understand me?” Packard speaks through his teeth, as if to bite back his fury. “It was your goddamn
lucky
day she decided to come in here. And you would spit at her? You were
privileged
she came in here!”
    “It’s okay,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the glistening wad. I’m vaguely aware of buzz-cut Greg entering the room.
    “What’s up?” Greg asks.
    I