Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow by Lee Baldwin Page A

watches silent as he builds up the fire with oak and split cedar.
    Sipping tea on the dilapidated sofa, he says, “Care to tell what you were doing this evening?”
    S till rattled, she feels like talking so tells him of the spell, about wanting to talk to her mother. Her zigzag path among massage therapists, the psychologist, arcane book shops, local psychics. Clay listens, saying nothing. Senses something dark hidden.
    “So this is about talking to your mom?”
    “Mm.”
    “What will you say to her?”
    “How she hurt me. Left me with creepo boyfriends. Got her ass killed.”
    “ What’s the one thing you want from her?”
    “ To know her own shit.” Wanting to trust him with a truth, trust someone.
    “Will you ever forgive her?”
    “Yes of course. Well maybe. First I want to hit her with everything. Full impact.”
    “That’s a tall order.” Clay goes to the pantry, takes down a bottle of single malt Scotch, pours a couple shots.
    “To Montana,” he says, lifting his glass.
    “Oh sure, right. Bitch sent me to Camp Siberia.”
    Clay laughs.
    “No, weirdo, I really mean it. That was our name for a juvenile boot camp in the Sierras. All the other kids were ordered there by a judge. Mom was in the corrections system, so she got me in.”
    “What for?”
    “She freaked because I had some pills in my dresser. Sent me to this insane training camp for two weeks when I was fourteen. The counselors were sadists. Once they gave me a cold shower outdoors at night.”
    “All women, I hope.”
    She laughs. “A couple of them we weren’t too sure about.”
    “Sounds too familiar. The wardens. I had to completely fake it with them.”
    “Fake it how?”
    “Invented a whole new personality.”
    “Great minds think alike.”
    Clay goes silent, watching the burning logs. She nudges him. “Hey where’d ya go?”
    “Ah. Wondering if you could taste the strychnine I put in your orange juice.”
    “Clay, you wouldn’t! Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.”
    “You hurt my feelings back there, you know?”
    “Back where?”
    “Boner boy. Messing in your room. What’s up with that?”
    She pulls away a little. “My stuff gets moved. Hate when people snoop me.”
    “You’re the one with all the spooky friends. Don’t look at me.”
    What she does do is look straight at him. He looks back. She sees only calm.
    “Well okay. But I’m freaky to males in my house.”
    “How come you’re messed up on anyone who could actually care about you?
    “Who ya thinking?” Does he mean him?
    “Like Rayne. Like your mom.”
    “Don’t be a 'tard. Rayne and I were done way before.”
    “Yeah? So why move her in here?”
    “My hunter was hungry.” She sighs.
    Clay looks at her. She said more in that sigh than I’ve said all day. “So that boner boy thing…”
    She laughs. “Your morning junk sometimes, in your shorts.”
    “Sometimes you get up too early. Alright, then what’s a knuckle-dragger?”
    “Oh, that. Males living in their reptil ian brain. They understand eating, fighting, fucking, running.”
    “Ah. Then for sure you can tell us the source of your true wisdom.”
    Tharcia considers this. As in, what kind of answer suits her at the moment. Maybe she has been messed up on Clay. He wouldn’t be the only thing. Her funny side surfaces, she grins at the thought, first tells herself no. Then laughs, doesn’t care what he thinks. With a solemn wise-woman expression, she points a finger at her crotch.
    He chuckles. “Your wisdom comes from your hunter.”
    She tries to answer but instead can only laugh, looking at his eyes.
    “Well, if that’s how all your problems get solved …”
    “No,” she says, points at her head.
    “May I borrow this?” Clay takes her hand, turns her finger around so it points at her heart. “This is where you are.”
    She looks at him. Bomber has materialized in his lap , unnoticed. Clay strokes the animal’s ear. Of the two of them, he listens to her advice more