How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,30
the unconfessable. Lie to a priest.
I did the thing I do best. I ran away.
I ran to the boys’ room and gripped the sink like I’m gripping the sink in the Sunseeker now, blasting cold water and dousing my whole head. It feels fantastic and horrible. When I can’t take it anymore, I shut the water off and stand there like the world’s biggest idiot, my hair dripping puddles on the kitchenette floor.
Outside, in the near distance, gravel crunching under feet.
Here they come.
It’s not Abel. I know his footfall, like a trick-or-treater bounding up a walkway. These steps are heavy, joyless. Sinister.
Four clomps. Five. Six. Coming closer.
A pause.
Then a creak, and the Sunseeker shudders.
They’re on the steps.
We have an Atlanta spy. Plots are thickening.
Someone sits on the step with a thud and I hear a metallic clink that could be lots of things, none of them good. I see the Hell Bells post in my head, that weird “BFC” thing. Bullets From Crazies? Beat Fags Cheerfully?
My hands scrabble for weapons. Not a mop—stupid. Frying pan—no. I’ll go bold. There’s no choice.
My heart chugs wildly. I tiptoe close to the door and put my mouth right on the crack. Ragged breathing on the other side. I tighten my throat and set my jaw, shift my feet apart like tough guys in movies who say stuff like this, in exactly this booming rat-a-tat voice: “I’VE GOT A GUN!”
“Auuugh!”
The scream scares me so much I lose my logic, fling the door wide open. Abel’s stumbling away from the Sunseeker, clutching his chest. On the pavement by the steps: his keys and a replica of Cadmus’s ray gun, still spinning where he dropped it.
He gulps in a breath. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“I didn’t know it was you!”
“Who’d you think I was?”
“I don’t know!” The door starts closing on me; I punch it back. “Where were you?”
“Out! Walking! Is that allowed?”
“Yeah, I just—”
“Oh my God. My heart.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Forget it. Forget it.” He snatches his stuff up and clomps into the Sunseeker, squeezing past me in the doorway. I haven’t felt this dumb since the Timbrewolves concert when I screwed up the solo on “My Girl.” His eyes are all red and I want to ask him about it, but he catches me searching his face and looks away fast. He yanks the fridge open and stares inside for a long minute. Then he slams the door.
“Why is your hair wet?” he sighs.
“Dumb story.”
“I’m sure. You want to go somewhere?”
“Where?”
He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a bright yellow flyer. “Some coffeehouse, they’re having a Castaway marathon.”
“Maybe.”
I take the flyer from him and scan it. I wait for Father Mike to weigh in, but there’s nothing much in my head right now, just an ache and a dull gray hum.
“So Kade dumped me.”
I look up. Abel’s wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at me.
“When?”
“Forty-five minutes ago.” He pumps some gel into his hand and starts punking his hair up. “On Twitter.”
“Oh my God.”
“Whatever. At least he DMed me.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rotten.”
Abel shrugs.
“Why’d he—”
“Zzt!” He holds up a hand. “Completely expected. Not a huge deal. No questions, no sympathetic looks. Them’s the rules. Okay?”
“I guess, but…”
“You call a cab. I’ll pay.”
“I saw the spies.”
He stops attacking his hair. “…What?”
“The Hell Bells spies. I think I saw them.”
“What’d they look like?”
“You know. Menacing.”
“Menacing how? Like—” He makes a bucktoothed monster face.
“Not exactly.”
“Were they goons?”
“I don’t know what a goon looks like.”
“You’d know one if you saw one.”
“I guess they were.”
“Big dudes?”
“Big enough.”
“They follow you?”
“For a while.”
Abel shakes his head. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Wow.” He leans against the fridge and shudders. “Creepy.”
“I’m not sure we should go out. Maybe it’s too—”
“No. No, I’m calling the cab right now.”
“But they could be anywhere.”
“I’m not living in fear, Brandon. Screw it. That’s so 1952.”
“Why 1952?”
“I don’t know. Like, Rock Hudson or whatever.” He holds up his phone. “Are you coming or not?”
I fiddle with the zipper pull on my vest.
“We should stick together,” I say. “Stay in crowds.”
He smiles a little.
“Roger that,” he Cadmuses.
“We shouldn’t sit by a window.”
“Heavens no.”
“And also—”
“—you should take this off.”
He unzips my SAFE-U vest with the tip of one finger, like Cadmus undid Nigh’s jacket in the Season 1 finale. Then he crosses his thick arms in front of him and pulls his tight black t-shirt up over his head. Crap, crap, crap. My whole body heats up. I’ve never seen a naked torso