How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,11
cheek.
Careful, says Father Mike.
Then I see Bec.
She’s standing by the DVD display, holding up her phone and giving me The Look—the same one she gave me the night her sister and mine got in a parking lot catfight at the DQ. Teeth clenched together, eyebrows bunched. Our standard code for something’s really wrong.
Chapter Four
Bec pulls us down a quiet aisle. My insides rumble. What if Dad looked up Castaway Planet and found our vlog? He’d know Abel was here. He’d know I lied, and he’d flip in that scary-calm way I can’t handle at all. Bec’s dad used to roar like a chainsaw; mine makes tiny snips that bleed you so slowly you don’t notice until you’re weak.
I picture him on the deck he and Mom built together, adjusting his brown plastic eyeglass frames and depositing guilt in my voicemail. Lying, huh? You know, you might not believe this anymore, but there’s actually this crazy thing called ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’”
“Okay.” Bec holds up the phone. “So I was reading the Cadsim fanjournal—”
We huddle on either side of her. The little screen shows a post with two words: HELL BELLS in red all-caps. She taps it and a blurry picture of Abel pops up. Not a regular photo. A screencap from the post we put up on our vlog this morning. He’s holding our action figures up to the camera and whoever capped it took a lot of care to catch him in an ugly moment, with his open mouth looming over the head of Plastic Sim.
Abel lets out a cartoon gasp and clutches my arm. I yank away and lean closer.
Under the Abel picture is a comment from the person who posted it. I don’t recognize the username. hey_mamacita. Her icon freaks me out: a statue of an angel with a halo made of knives.
She says:
tick…tick…
*BOOM.*
brandon & abel: we see you boys.
operation hell bells has begun.
any Cadsim girls wanna get nasty?
YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND US.
“Whaa—?” Abel shakes his head.
“You don’t know her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Read the comments.” Bec scrolls down.
cavegrrl94: JFC NOT AGAIN.
illumina: OMG batshit hell bell creepers. someone should warn A&B, for real
simbeline: mamacita u guys are out of ur minds. u crossed the line like a hundred miles back. it’s not cool when it gets so personal
mrs.j.cadmus: whatever its what they deserve!!!
murklurk: Maxie, do your job. Ban her already.
Miss Maxima: hey_mamacita, this is your FINAL warning. Not to defend the horror that is Brandon and Abel, but this Hell Bells thing is hella creepy and you know it. I know where you live and if you and your minions don’t stop cluttering my community with your utter psychosis I swear I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.
“Oh my fucking goodness,” says Abel.
A shiver slides up my spine.
“What is this?” says Bec.
Abel explains the reference. The ring of silver bells Xaarg rattles when he’s launching a new nightmare for the castaways doesn’t technically have a name, but most fandom geeks call them the Hell Bells. “I don’t know what it has to do with us, though,” he says.
“You’ve never seen them talk about it?” I scan the comments again.
“Nope. Why would I?”
“You’re on here more than I am.”
“Just to laugh at the fic. Never seen word one about this.” Abel taps his lip and studies the screen. A slow smile stretches across his face. “I don’t want to alarm you guys, but this might be awesome.”
“I don’t like it,” I say.
“Why not? I bet it’s a secret snark community with some hilarious vendetta against us.”
“God, no.”
“Virtual voodoo dolls. Desperate plans to overthrow us. ‘We’ll blow up the RV! Assassinate them at the ball!’”
“Don’t say that.”
“Relax. It’s a joke.”
“Then how come they’re freaking out?”
“They’re being drama queens, I guarantee you. It’s fandom, Bran. Getting butthurt over nothing is practically a sacrament.”
It’s a sign, says Father Mike. God’s telling you something.
“It’s probably nothing.” Bec touches my arm.
“Yeah, I mean who cares if they’re talking shit about us?” Abel pops more cinnamon jellybeans. “Least we got ‘em talking.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“We should get in on the trivia game or something.”
Pearl is over; a new album starts. The Beatles. The party’s loud and the music wafts in and out of my consciousness, like in the morning when the song on your alarm clock drifts into your dream.
“Bran,” Abel says. “You want to be on my team?”
The aisle feels hot and narrow. Rubber Soul. I’m ten again, riding home from Disney in the Sunseeker,