Obscura Burning (5 page)

“You learning anything useful in that book?”

“Some interesting stuff about the stars, but nothing that really explains Obscura or what’s happening to us because of the syzygy.” Glancing over her shoulder, she yells, “It’s closed,” to a group of kids hanging around the van.

“A scissor-what?” I’ve never heard the word.

“Syzygy, an alignment of celestial bodies. Messes everything up, gravity and magnetic force fields and stuff.”

“Like screwing with the TV.”

“I couldn’t care less about the TV. I’m wondering what it’s doing to our space-time continuum.”

“The what?” This feels good, real, talking to this girl. I haven’t had a proper conversation with anyone since the fire. People are always afraid of saying the wrong thing. Even Danny and Shira are careful around me, like they’re afraid I’ll explode if they press the wrong buttons.

“The space-time continuum. It’s this mathematical structure that explains time in three dimensions. Gravity can slow time, and since Obscura is interfering with gravity and the whole mechanics of our solar system, we might be experiencing major temporal shifts or other phenomena and not even be aware of it.”

“That explains it, then.” And I have this eerie feeling that it
does.

“Explains what?”

“Why I thought I saw you at Sully’s.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t explain what you were doing there, though.”

“So you reckon the world’s going to end?” I ask, dodging the question.

“Nah, not because of Obscura. Then again, what do I know? I’m reading
Astronomy for Dummies
after all.” She laughs, a breeze through meadow grass. “I should be getting back. Got ice cream to sell, secrets of the universe to unravel.”

“It was nice talking to you, Mya.”

“You too, Scarface.” She pauses halfway back to the van. “Hey, you run, right?”

“I used to.”

“Yeah, with the dead guy. Well, since he won’t be doing much running any more, you ever want some company, let me know. You know where to find me.”

I’m not sure whether her callousness is upsetting or refreshing. Truth hurts, like knives twisting through flesh, like fire stripping away skin. Danny and I will never go running along the old Indian trails again, not in this reality or any other.

Chapter Four

Shira’s dead

Working at Black Paw has put me off Tex-Mex forever. I don’t think I ever want to see another burrito or tortilla. The sight of enchilada makes me nauseated. I dump my apron, log my hours, and escape the greasy confines of the kitchen and Hector’s hectoring.

I’m headed to my pickup when a girl saunters toward me.

“It’s only nine fifty-five,” she says. Thursday, June 28.

“Kitchen closed twenty-five minutes ago.” I’m not sure how to talk to this version of Mya.

“Oh come on. Couldn’t you whip me up a burrito?” She bats her lashes at me, but the hazel eyes are hard where other Mya’s are kind.

“Nope, sorry. I don’t get paid overtime.”

“How’s the retard?” she asks with a grin.

“You always this obnoxious?”

“Some guys find it attractive.”

I snort and climb into the truck, but she leans in through the open window, her breasts straining the yellow cotton of her sundress.

“Guess I shouldn’t have expected it to work on you.” She’s chewing gum and snaps a bubble at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keys are in the ignition, but I wait for her answer, afraid of what it’s going to be.

“Nothing, just saw the way you and that retard look at each other. Can he even get it up?”

It takes all my self-control not to slap the sneer off her face. My fingers twitch on the steering wheel. If she were a guy, she’d be crying in the dust with broken ribs by now.

“Don’t worry, homo-boy. Make me a burrito and I won’t tell.” She backs away from the door, runs her index finger and thumb across her lips to lock them.

“You’re a piece of work, Mya.” I slam my truck door and realize I just made the biggest mistake.

“Hah, I knew it!” She claps her hands.

I should’ve just smiled and passed some stupid remark about her rack before driving away. Blood rushes to my cheeks and I hope she doesn’t notice.

Grudgingly, I open up the shop and head back to the kitchen. “You’re getting leftovers.”

“Just make it tasty,” she says, swinging around on a bar stool. The tattoo on her shoulder is an otter. A weasel would’ve suited her personality a hell of a lot better. “If quality’s lacking I might not be able to keep your dirty little secret after all.”

Not the smartest thing to say to a guy brandishing a kitchen knife. I level the blade at her. “Best you watch your mouth.”

“Or what, you gonna kill me? Start another fire?”

My hands are shaking as I throw the burrito together. I push the plate across the counter to her, saying nothing.

“Urgh, you’re one of
those
kids.” She points at the polka-dot burns on my arm. “So pathetic. Or maybe you just like pain.” Mya waggles her eyebrows at me. My tongue’s clamped firmly between my teeth. This isn’t real. In another life, I’m starting to be friends with this girl. She’s candid and confusing, but not cruel.

“Sorry,” she says, looking genuinely apologetic and poking at the mess of meat on her plate.

For a moment I think she’ll redeem herself, but her next words are disappointing.

“I can’t eat this. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Get the hell out now, or I promise to God, I’m going to drive this knife right through your heart.” The knife’s in my hands, the blade’s shaking. Guess I must’ve looked like I meant it, and maybe I do. I take a step toward her and Mya’s tan face turns ashen. She scrambles off the stool and out the door, hurling curses at me.

“
Pendejo!
” She spits into the dust and disappears.

* * *

Mom left a plate of dinner for me. A neat serving of enchilada. I stick it in the fridge and pocket a beer instead.

“Hey, sweetheart. Not hungry?” She kisses me on the head before picking up her keys.

“I ate at work,” I lie.

“Sorry I haven’t been around much. Only a few nights left, then back to normal hours.” She squeezes my shoulder, and there’s a tenderness beneath her fingers that shouldn’t be part of this reality.

“Good luck with the bedpans,” I say as Mom waves good-bye, off to tend the sick and dying at the community hospital down the road.

I join Dad in the living room and crack open the beer. Mom doesn’t like me drinking, but I don’t think Dad could give a crap. He’s trying to watch baseball, yelling at the players, yelling at the TV every time Obscura showers the image with snow. He’s been managing his anger, but then he got laid off last month and hit the booze harder than usual. I guess it’s better my dad never knows I’m sleeping with his ex-boss’s son.

“Isn’t this the game from last week?”

“Yeah.” Dad bashes the side of the TV. More snow.

“Don’t you already know who won?”

“Yeah.” The image clears and Dad returns to the sofa to slurp from his can.

“So why are you watching?”

He glares at me and misses the winning catch.

“Night Dad.” I head for the stairs with my beer.

“You could’ve played, you know. Gone to college, hell, even gone pro. Only you’re too soft.” Dad’s been drinking; the cans are stacking up beside the sofa. His dinner’s only half eaten.

“I am going to college.” In this life. Since I didn’t get roasted, I actually graduated.

“Not to play ball, you’re not.”

Dad seems ignorant of the fact that I got a full ride to Rice thanks to my GPA. I’m all set for art history and English lit. I haven’t played baseball since I was eight and in Little League. Dad never came to a single game anyway.

“Good night, Dad.”

“Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you.”

That’s exactly what I do. I sprint up the stairs, rush to my room, and lock the door behind me. Dad’s still yelling at the TV and cursing the son who’s more interested in books than playing ball.

I like the other dad better, even if he can’t look at me. At least the other one’s sober these days. Sliding down the wall between my bed and the bathroom door, I wrap my arms around my knees. The fabric of my jeans chafes the skin; my knees smart. Rolling up the legs, I inspect for damage. Sure enough, my knees are grazed from where I fell in the
other
reality
.

My heart’s walloping against my ribs as I stagger into the bathroom. Scars. The shouting has stopped downstairs. The house is quiet. The time blinking lurid green on my alarm clock is 23:45. An hour later than I thought it was. I check my watch, still Thursday.

The shifts only happen when I’m asleep.

I must’ve fallen asleep, right? I just don’t remember.

Bent over the sink, splashing my scarred face with water, there’s a surge of dizziness that has me spluttering up beer and bile. I barely make it over to the toilet in time. All I can smell is gasoline, and the chemical fumes tantalize my nostrils, making me dizzy. Blistering heat and the taste of blood.

I fill the basin, submerge my face, swallow mouthfuls of water trying to wash away the taste, but I can still hear the flames ripping through the dry beams.

The water leaves the basin with a gurgle.

In the mirror, my scars are gone.

22:46 on my alarm clock, and Dad’s still hurling abuse at the TV.

With shaking hands, I reach for the drawing book under my bed. I don’t bother with a ruler. The lines are jagged around my text box as I scrawl the details.

Shivering despite the heat, I call Danny. I don’t care if I wake him; I can’t keep this to myself any more. I’m losing my mind. And it’s not some mysterious orb hanging in the sky; it’s my own fractured psyche. A psychotic break.

“Yeah?” Danny groans sleepily.

“We really need to talk, man.” My voice quavers.

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Dad’s at it again. Can I stay at your place?”

Ceramic shatters on kitchen tiles. I’ll have to duck out the window to avoid a confrontation.

“Yeah, of course,
cielo
. I’ll be waiting. Be careful, Kyle.”

It’s been a while since I lingered long enough during one of Dad’s rages to catch an angry fist. I know better than to venture anywhere near him when he’s drunk.

Shoving the terrarium out of my way, I clamber over my desk and out the window. My dad’s footsteps thud erratically up the stairs as I reach for the branches of the oak tree. Guess I must’ve miscalculated my swing, or maybe the drought’s made the branches brittle, or maybe Obscura decided to a put a glitch in my escape plan just for shits and giggles. Whatever the reason, I’m left groping for branches before I free-fall to the empty flower beds beneath my window. I look up as I go, straight at the bright blue unblinking dot that languishes in our sky. Then I’m out, consciousness snuffed quick as a candle flame.

Chapter Five

Danny’s dead

There’s a snatch of dream. Orange, the color of flames, wraps around my body. The smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. My vision slices into horizontal strips. Voices, like the sound of a distant television. Incessant chatter garbled by static. I think I hear my name, but I don’t recognize the voice.

I’m lying on my back. The bed’s hard and narrow; it can’t be mine. Tucked into the springs of the bunk above me are drawings done in black, white, and red. I recognize my handiwork, the symmetry and flow of flames. My fingers fondle the corner of the page. Circular blisters lie scattered along my arm, and I remember. Staring at the drawing of flames, the memory bursts supernova in my brain. For a moment, I’m snatching at the real, not floating between unrealities but anchored in what is.

Pain blossoms at the back of my head—forcing my eyes open, extinguishing the dream, the real and all recollection.

“Holy crow. Sorry, Kyle. You all right?” Shira stops grinding my groin and cups my head. I must’ve cracked it against the headboard. I should be lying with broken limbs outside my bedroom window, not naked under Shira.

“What time is it?” I ask, pushing her off me.

“Ah, like after two.” She gathers the sheet around her.

I check my watch. Friday, June 29.

Early morning darkness lies outside her window. In the half-moonlight, skinny dust devils whirl between the cacti.
Ch’iindi,
unfortunate
spirits that never made it to the Dance Hall of the Dead, according to Shira and Navajo tradition. These are spinning counterclockwise. I can’t remember if that’s good or bad.

“How long have I been here?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. You don’t remember?” Her eyes are wide in the glow from the fairy lights.

I shake my head. “I just get confused sometimes.”

She chews on a fingernail. “Are you seeing someone?”

“What?” The last thing I need is Shira being a jealous girlfriend sort. Maybe that’s why she wanted to talk about “us.” Girls are so complicated. My thoughts immediately turn to Mya…then right back to Danny.

“I mean, there’s a counselor down at the center. I go chat to her once a week.”

I sigh with relief. “Is it helping?”

“A bit. I don’t know.” Her fingers form knots in the sheet.

“Is this counselor the one who suggested getting involved with the memorial?” The pain at the back of my head radiates through my shoulders and down my spine.

Shira averts her gaze and shrugs. “She thought it would be a way of getting closure.”

“Daniel’s under six feet of dirt; how much more closure do you need?” I’m expecting her to cry, but she doesn’t.

Fixing me with this intense stare, she says, “I loved him too, you know. You’re not the only one who’s missing him. Don’t see why you have to have a problem with me wanting to say good-bye.”

“You were at his funeral, weren’t you?”

She takes a deep breath. “Maybe your problem, Kyle, is that
you
didn’t go to his funeral. You haven’t really said good-bye.”