bed, pull my legs
to my chest, and I stay up with him, breathing slow, trying to calm him down
with my thoughts. I wait to see if he’ll try to go back to sleep.
He doesn’t. So neither do I,
though, to be fair, I require far less sleep then my brothers.
There is only one logical thing
Tarren can think to do to ride out the night. He punishes himself. I can’t tell
for sure, but I think he starts with pushups then moves to crunches and then
lunges, until he’s huffing and his aura grows smooth.
Finally, Tarren slumps against the
wall. I slip out of my bed and join him, so that we’re sitting back to back
with only the wall between us. He sighs and lays his head back, so I do too,
and I try to figure if this helps him at all. If his penance will ever be paid
in full.
It must do some good, because
Tarren crawls back into bed and finds an accommodating tide of sleep that pulls
him through the final hour of the night.
Chapter 11
We are back at the sports arena by
6:00 a.m., and Gabe huddles miserably in his new trench coat as Tarren
dispenses our assignments. The breath coils from our nostrils, and the sun is
only just beginning to yawn on the horizon. It speckles over cacti and palm
trees and reveals high-peaked mountains in the distance.
I climb up the back of the sports
arena and pull myself up onto the roof, startling a flock of fat pigeons. They
launch clumsily into the sky, beating the air hard with their wings before
gaining altitude. Their energies pulse an odd greenish-gold, and they line up
like pins on a nearby telephone wire to watch me.
The arena is deserted. Leave it to robo-Tarren
to drag us out here before the workers even show up. I stretch out on my
stomach, rest my chin on my palms, and try really hard not to think or to let
the bad things in my brain loose.
I am extremely successful at
this…for a good three minutes.
Then Ryan’s ghost kneels just
behind me so I don’t know if the soft flow of air on the back of my neck is his
breath or just the breeze. He kisses my shoulders. I kind of thought visiting
his grave would somehow make things better, but it didn’t. Not really.
I know that Ryan will disappear if
I turn my head to look at him, so I close my eyes and try to keep his face
locked in my mind. That half smile he would give me if I was especially clever
or sad or being over-dramatic again. I can’t remember the shirt he was wearing
when he died, and this bothers me. Really bothers me.
“You’ve been dead for almost three
months,” I inform him, “and I still miss you, and it’s still my fault that you
died, and I still think about going home every single day.”
I turn to grab onto him, but I am
alone on the rooftop.
The sun comes up and finds deep
umbers and reds in the looming rock faces. I roll up my sleeves and pants to
feed off the rays. The song softens.
The setup crew arrives at 9:00 a.m.
I focus on the mission, determined to turn in a flawless performance this time.
No more frozen Maya. No more putting my brothers in danger.
All through the morning I lay flat
on the roof and watch the small group of men back battered trucks to the
unloading dock. Each worker is swathed in a healthy, colorful glow of energy.
They shout at each other in Spanish, and someone sets up a radio where Spanish
callers wail about unfaithful lovers, and the host interrupts them to play
loud, colorful Spanish pop songs.
Every hour I text the boys with my
lack of findings. Time trickles by. My utter commitment to excellence begins to
wan. I’m still paying attention, mostly, but now my elbows start to complain,
and I can’t help but glance at the pigeons each time one of them flutters off
the telephone wire. I’ve found that almost all of our missions are
uncomfortable and tedious like this — long drags of time punctuated by a sudden
burst of violence and adrenaline.
My brain keeps churning, and now
thoughts of Rain Bailey move to the forefront. I can’t understand why the
to my chest, and I stay up with him, breathing slow, trying to calm him down
with my thoughts. I wait to see if he’ll try to go back to sleep.
He doesn’t. So neither do I,
though, to be fair, I require far less sleep then my brothers.
There is only one logical thing
Tarren can think to do to ride out the night. He punishes himself. I can’t tell
for sure, but I think he starts with pushups then moves to crunches and then
lunges, until he’s huffing and his aura grows smooth.
Finally, Tarren slumps against the
wall. I slip out of my bed and join him, so that we’re sitting back to back
with only the wall between us. He sighs and lays his head back, so I do too,
and I try to figure if this helps him at all. If his penance will ever be paid
in full.
It must do some good, because
Tarren crawls back into bed and finds an accommodating tide of sleep that pulls
him through the final hour of the night.
Chapter 11
We are back at the sports arena by
6:00 a.m., and Gabe huddles miserably in his new trench coat as Tarren
dispenses our assignments. The breath coils from our nostrils, and the sun is
only just beginning to yawn on the horizon. It speckles over cacti and palm
trees and reveals high-peaked mountains in the distance.
I climb up the back of the sports
arena and pull myself up onto the roof, startling a flock of fat pigeons. They
launch clumsily into the sky, beating the air hard with their wings before
gaining altitude. Their energies pulse an odd greenish-gold, and they line up
like pins on a nearby telephone wire to watch me.
The arena is deserted. Leave it to robo-Tarren
to drag us out here before the workers even show up. I stretch out on my
stomach, rest my chin on my palms, and try really hard not to think or to let
the bad things in my brain loose.
I am extremely successful at
this…for a good three minutes.
Then Ryan’s ghost kneels just
behind me so I don’t know if the soft flow of air on the back of my neck is his
breath or just the breeze. He kisses my shoulders. I kind of thought visiting
his grave would somehow make things better, but it didn’t. Not really.
I know that Ryan will disappear if
I turn my head to look at him, so I close my eyes and try to keep his face
locked in my mind. That half smile he would give me if I was especially clever
or sad or being over-dramatic again. I can’t remember the shirt he was wearing
when he died, and this bothers me. Really bothers me.
“You’ve been dead for almost three
months,” I inform him, “and I still miss you, and it’s still my fault that you
died, and I still think about going home every single day.”
I turn to grab onto him, but I am
alone on the rooftop.
The sun comes up and finds deep
umbers and reds in the looming rock faces. I roll up my sleeves and pants to
feed off the rays. The song softens.
The setup crew arrives at 9:00 a.m.
I focus on the mission, determined to turn in a flawless performance this time.
No more frozen Maya. No more putting my brothers in danger.
All through the morning I lay flat
on the roof and watch the small group of men back battered trucks to the
unloading dock. Each worker is swathed in a healthy, colorful glow of energy.
They shout at each other in Spanish, and someone sets up a radio where Spanish
callers wail about unfaithful lovers, and the host interrupts them to play
loud, colorful Spanish pop songs.
Every hour I text the boys with my
lack of findings. Time trickles by. My utter commitment to excellence begins to
wan. I’m still paying attention, mostly, but now my elbows start to complain,
and I can’t help but glance at the pigeons each time one of them flutters off
the telephone wire. I’ve found that almost all of our missions are
uncomfortable and tedious like this — long drags of time punctuated by a sudden
burst of violence and adrenaline.
My brain keeps churning, and now
thoughts of Rain Bailey move to the forefront. I can’t understand why the
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