Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) (25 page)

The straps of Danny's duffel bag are still tangled around the handlebars from the last time we went out painting. The rest of it bangs against my knee as I pedal toward Acoma Park. I don't have a plan; I'm just riding through the night looking for him, forcing my legs forward, peering into the shadows, moving from one amber patch of streetlight to the next. The sidewalk winds through the park, circling the playground at the far side.

There's no sign of him.

Headlights approach. I pull the bike into the dark beneath a tree and wait. Please don't let it be my parents. Have they even noticed yet that I'm gone? The car drives on and I push off again, heading toward school. Cold stars shine down on me. Exhausted and running on adrenaline, I'm trusting my gut to get me where I need to go.

The school campus is dark, of course, and locked up tight. I didn't really think he'd go there. It was just a stop on the route. I ride past the teachers' parking lot and head north, following a loose trajectory of street names and landmarks that Danny has mentioned, hoping to find the way. The night casts everything in shadows. I pass a chain-link fence, hear a barking dog. Three streets up, there it is. The dirt yard. The dead tree.

I've found the foster home.

The curtains are drawn and the lights are off. I park the bike between two cars in the neighbor's driveway and wait. There isn't any movement at the house, or anywhere on the block.

Then the porch light flicks on. The front door opens, and a woman smoking a cigarette walks outside. She stops at the curb and looks up and down the street before taking a few more puffs. The tip glows red in the darkness. A booming voice calls out from inside the house. “Sooz!” That must be Brent. Sooz takes her time with the cigarette, then tosses what's left into the street. She turns and walks slowly back up the drive. The door closes and the light goes out.

My gut tells me Danny isn't in there. Which means I'm wasting my time.

I retrace the route back to the park, the bag banging against my knees, the paint cans rattling.

Paint cans.

My legs pedal faster as I make another pass through the park (just to be sure) and then ride south to Thunderbird Road. I hang a right through the neighborhoods, my heart thumping inside my chest, and pass the strip malls and gas stations, cruising toward the Paseo Park overpass.

Danny isn't here either.

The park is deserted. Only an occasional car rumbles across the bridge. I cross my arms over the handlebars and rest my head on them, exhaustion falling on me like a blanket. Then I let the bike crash to the sidewalk, and collapse onto the grass. I've never been so tired in my life. Not just tired. Gutted. I curl up on my side and the grass pricks at my arms. My eyes ache. I try to cry, but no tears come.

Empty.

I pick the bike up again from the sidewalk and push it under the overpass. The paint cans rattle and my eyes move to the ceiling. The bright paint glows through the shadows, the words and skulls and flowers. Beautiful impermanence.

Stillness settles over me as a terrible thought fills my mind: What if he's gone? What if he had a nightmare episode, like that last one in the kitchen, and it took him and now he's gone? For good?

I wouldn't be able to do anything to change it. But if he's gone, the least I can do is make sure the world knows he was here. I'll make my own art, for him.

With uneven steps, I lug the bag up the incline of the overpass. My feet walk across the countless images. I brace the bag with my feet, pull my shirt up over my nose like he does and press my finger to the nozzle.

It's as good a place as any. I couldn't go back to Eevee's house after the showdown with her parents. At least here, I'm in my element.

This body is in no shape to go on, every ounce of strength spent fighting to stay in control.

I stash the bike in a clump of bushes at the bottom of the trail. Someone will find it in the morning. Ride off with it. Give it a new life. It's a trek to the overpass and my feet trudge like bricks. Whatever this is going on inside me, it feels like it won't stop until it's done me in. Maybe I should just lie down and give up. This body is in no shape to go on. In the morning, a jogger'll find me. The cops'll haul my meat off to a cooler. They'll report it on the news. Unidentified body of a young man. John Doe. DOA.

Would it be me, though, or the other Danny? Either way, we both would probably be better off.

I drag myself to the base of the overpass and crumple to the concrete. The paintings swirl above me. I'll just lie here and let the patterns carry me away. The hard ground bites into my shoulder blades, but I'm too tired to care.

The bridge shudders as a car drives overhead, then everything goes quiet. Just my shattered breathing.

And the sound of an aerosol can.

I lean up on my elbows and listen for it again. Squint my eyes and see a guy up in the space where the bridge meets the support. The can rattles and sprays. Rattles and sprays some more.

“Hey!” My voice is pinched. I cough and try again. “Hey!”

The hissing stops and the guy creeps into the shadows. Scared. But he doesn't run.

“I didn't mean stop,” I say. “Just don't paint over the moon and her name, okay?”

The can clatters as it bounces down the incline. Crashes at the bottom and spins to a stop.

Amateur.

“Danny?”

Here come the voices again. I brace myself for the crush of pressure, the pulsing. But instead, there's just one voice.

Hers.

“Danny!”

I drag myself to my feet and see her racing down the slope. She's coming at me fast, dragging her feet to slow her descent. It takes all my strength to train my eyes on her and lock my feet to the ground.

She flies the last few feet, falls against me, and before I can even catch my breath, my arms are full of awesome.

“I've got you.” I squeeze her tight and kiss her face and hair.

“I thought you were gone.” Her cries echo off the overpass walls.

“I thought I was, too.” I look into her eyes. “Don't let me go. Please. Don't. Let me. Go.” Then my mouth is on hers and her lips taste like saltwater tears.

“Turn left here.”

She's standing on the wheel pegs, her arms around my neck. Even though my legs feel like freaking Jell-O, just having her near keeps me going.

We turn off 51st Avenue and head down Country Gables. Looks familiar.

“Is school that way?” I point.

“Yeah.”

This is the neighborhood I ran through the day I arrived.

“This one.” She points to the one-story coming up on our right. I steer up the curb and into the gravel driveway. The house is dark. “I thought teachers lived as far away from school as possible.”

“Not Mac.”

I lean the bike against the low fence lining the yard, and feel the pressure build. Eevee grabs my hand and hurries me to the door. She knocks and paces and knocks again. It's late. Really late. This is a bad idea. The static buzzes in my brain. I focus on her face and blink away the blurring.

“We should have done this a long time ago.” Her voice is purposeful. “We should have gone to Mac the moment you showed up.” She knocks again and looks through the window, then walks away toward the side of the house. I don't know if she hears me whisper her name or hears me hitting the ground, but she's at my side as the pressure crushes down.

“No, Danny!” Her face is in mine, and I try to fight. Try. But the haze takes over as I watch her lips saying my name.