The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,27

he is now?”

Chucho looks at his watch. “No, but come back again tomorrow. I tell him to wait for you here, Señorita—?” he asks, waiting for my name.

“No need, Chucho! Gracias!” I say, showing off one of the few Spanish vocab words I can remember at the moment. “Adios!” I add, to further impress him with my fluency.

I wave to Ernesto and Spencer and head through the front door. I’m shocked to realize it’s nighttime, and I wonder if this MEEP’s time zone has been synced to real world time. If so, I’ve been gone longer than I thought.

I’m at the corner of an intersection, where streetlights and headlights and neon signs light up the tall, balconied buildings lining the streets. The cars are big and wide and old-timey, with giant chrome fenders and hood ornaments, and painted with pretty pastel colors. Meeple stroll the streets, smiling and laughing, like they’re all off to a party and not just strings of code. The air is warm, but a cool breeze blows, smelling of the sea. Again, I am astounded. I can smell things in this MEEP, feel and taste things. I’m also confused. I have no idea where to go, or how this world has been mapped. Also, given the dozens of Meeple walking around, Wyn could easily hide himself among them.

I start following a group of young Meeple up the street. The young men are dressed in lightweight suits and ties, while the girls wear smoking hot dresses that cling to their curves. Maybe they’ll lead me to Wyn. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about levelling teenage boys, it’s this: when in doubt, follow the hot girls.

We turn down a few more streets and now I can hear music throbbing from several clubs—bongo drums, maracas, and pianos all at once. I wonder if one of these clubs might be the Tropicana place that Chucho mentioned.

“Don’t turn around,” says a gruff voice from behind me as I feel cold metal on the back of my neck. “Keep walking and keep quiet.”

“Oh please,” I mutter under my breath. I was almost enjoying this custom MEEP world, but now I’m being mugged by some virtual Cuban thug. Oh well, it’s better than a shark tank, and maybe this will lead me to Wyn. He’s probably made himself mob boss or something.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as he pushes me down a narrow alley. “And do they serve daiquiris there?” I joke, more for my own amusement than his. Most Meeple have a limited capacity to understand sarcasm.

“In there,” the voice says, directing me toward a door at the end of the alley. I open the door and the thug pushes me through a dark hallway and into another room. It appears to be a dressing room, and by the looks of the clothing strewn about, the woman who dresses here wears a lot of sequins, feathers, and . . . not much else.

“This must be your mother’s room,” I remark, wondering how the MEEP thug will reply.

“My mother’s dead, but she preferred cottons while she was alive.”

I twirl around then, not caring about the gun on my neck. Meeple don’t talk like that. I recognize him immediately and fury overwhelms me.

“Wyn Salvador, you little pantywaist,” I say, and charge him, despite the gun aimed directly at my head.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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SURPRISE IS ON MY SIDE, FORTUNATELY, BECAUSE WYN SALVADOR isn’t quite the pantywaist I just called him. I’m tall, but he’s still got several inches of height on me, and seems pretty athletic.

I’ve got speed, though, and I know where to land a kick.

I kick hard.

The blow makes him drop the gun, which I snatch up and aim at his head this time.

“Your twisted game is over now,” I say, as he slumps back against the wall and contemplates me. “I suggest you activate your return frequency this minute before I shoot you back home.”

“Who are you?” he asks in a demanding tone, his face unreadable.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, waving the gun at him. “You’re wanted home immediately. Your family’s been worried sick about you while you run around in your playground like a little brat.”

His face changes now and I see anger in his brown eyes. He has the same chocolaty eyes as Mama Beti and Chucho. “What do you know about my family? Who sent you here?” he demands, straightening and taking a step forward.

“Your father hired me,” I sigh, exasperated by the time we’re wasting. “And