Chocolate Chocolate Moons (4 page)

“Where are the twins?” Billings asks. “We can’t wait to meet them.”

I point to two tall, thin girls in the distance sauntering loopy and lackadaisical through the terminal. Everyone squints.

Billings elbows Cortland and points to the luggage pickup. “Let’s get your stuff,” he says.

Becky and Lois stroll closer. “What’s everyone looking at?” Becky asks.

Each of the twins has colored one side of her body one color and the other side a different color. To confuse everyone as to which twin is which, they used the same colors but in reverse order. Lois runs her green hand through bright pink-and-green hair like breaking cobwebs. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of fluorescent sunglasses and puts them on, making her look indistinguishable from her sister, who donned glasses the minute they left the Moon.

Flo’s eyes grow wide. She breathes over my head, “They’re lovely. So tall and thin.”

“Of course. What did you expect? After all, they were conceived and grown on low-gravity Luna. Bet you were afraid they would look like me, weren’t you?”

She raises her chin higher. Her scarf slaps me in the face. “Sorry,” she says, ignoring my question.

I wave and boom, “Over here, girls.”

We wait. Neither of us tries to fill the silence.

Finally they arrive. Flo and the girls study each other for a moment longer than I think necessary. I make introductions. They give a shy smile.

Cortland and Billings return with the luggage, which floats on a tray next to them.

We trudge toward the parking area. Becky’s brow wrinkles as she reads the New English subtitles beneath ads for vacations on Uranus and Pluto written in Uranium and Plutonian. “I can’t understand why anyone would ever want to go to Uranus or Pluto. Can you imagine what fashion week is like in such a place?”

Then we hear an announcement. Everyone cocks their heads, cups their ears and strains to understand what is being said. Except me.

Billings slows his pace and turns. “Anyone understand that?” he says.

“It’s the official language of public announcements, Garble,” I pipe, grateful to show intelligence if not style. “It’s an ad for a book,
Pig Latin for Latin Pigs,
by Louie and his associate, Louie.”

“Sorry I asked,” Billings says. “Some things are better misunderstood.”

Everyone plods on. I am so tired. I lag farther behind. Suddenly I hear a familiar voice coming from my left. It sounds like Drew!

I rotate violently, pulling my shoulder. I turn a whiter shade of pale. Drew is standing in the center of a life-size hologram that advertises Freedom Plan foods. He is thin, buff, and gorgeous.

Above him, I read: “This man was once a 385-pound weakling.” And below: “Buy Freedom Plan foods. Low-to-no-calorie food alternatives. Available in your local supermarket.”

“Oh my God!” I scream forgetting where I am and why I’m there. When I inhale, the Chocolate Moon I needed to eat or I wouldn’t get through this day goes down the wrong way. I cry out as loud as I can.

Cortland and the twins turn and run back. Cortland put his arms around me and squeezes. The candy zooms from my mouth and flies through Drew’s holographic chest. “It’s Drew!” I pant, pointing to the holograph.

“Who’s Drew?” Lois drools.

“Yeah, who’s the media star?” Becky asks, arching an eyebrow. “Is he wearing a Dolce and Banana Latte?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say.

Cortland narrows his eyes and examines the image more closely. “He was your mother’s boyfriend before she met me.”

“And he didn’t look like that. He was fat. He had circles under his eyes. His clothes came from the Gulp.”

“No way!” Becky and Lois singsong in chorus.

“Why don’t you wear clothes like that, Dad?” Lois asks.

“He doesn’t have to,” I snarl.

“I never knew what happened to Drew. I guess he left Colorful Copies and then came to Mars.”

“Who’s Colorful Copies?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?” they chorus again, realizing that I actually had a life before they were born. “Really?”

Flo approaches, head bobbing like a sunflower on a celery stalk. For the first time, I am happy to see her. “Well,” she says, overhearing the end of the conversation. “I’m afraid you’re going to see his picture everywhere. He’s a celebrity! Everyone eats Congress Drugs’ Freedom Plan foods, and everyone wants to know Drew Barron.”

“A celebrity?” I feel faint.

Billings shouts, “Are you guys coming or not?” He points. “We’re going over here.”

Cortland shoves me toward Billings. He stands in front of a floor-to-ceiling wall of water complete with darting fish. A sign next to the wall says “Coming Soon: Hellas Planitia Ocean.” I cautiously extend my arm into it and feel nothing but air. Billings grabs my hand before I can pull back.
Yank!
I’m through. The others follow like children behind the Pied Piper.

Billings drives his rover to a clear domed slideway, a transparent covered highway that allows cars to park on it as the road moves. He keys our destination, activates a prepay with his finger, and waits while the rover slides into an empty slot. The motor turns off. He rotates his seat so he faces us.

Lois peers at the petite bracelets that circle Flo’s bird-like wrists. “Are you a fashion model?”

“Hardly,” smiles Flo, flattered. She adjusts a jade-and-gold earring and straightens her back. “I work for Tasters and Spitters Inc., an independent food-rating company. I take one bite, give it a rating, and then spit it out. I never swallow. I’ve a doctorate from Lite on the Mayo Clinic.”

I turn my head away and stick out my tongue.

“I’m so glad I was able to come to the spaceport today,” Flo says. “I tasted a Tootsie Target yesterday and I didn’t feel right for hours.”

“I heard that story on the transport news before we arrived. I can’t imagine how the people who ate them felt,” I say.

“Tootsie Targets, Vanilla Craters, Chocolate Moons, they’re all the same to me: little bombs of empty calories.”

“Ever tempted to swallow?”

“Swallow?” Flo pales, coughs, puts her hand to her throat. “Never.” Then she brightens. “You know, those people might have a legal case against the Culinary Institute’s Candy Universe.”

No one says anything.

Then Lois removes her sunglasses and cranes her neck to get a better look at the sky. “Does the sky have to be pink? The Moon’s dome came in every color.”

“But it was artificial,” Billings says. “Now you’re seeing the real sky. Didn’t you girls learn any science on the Moon?”

“We’re not into atmospheres, are we Becky?”

Becky nods. “You know, atmosphere’s not important when you live in a place that doesn’t have one.”

For a long time, we are all silent as we whiz past miles of pocked, dried red ground with patches of sprouting green moss. Billings watches the road. Flo inserts an earpiece. The twins study a periodic chart of nail polish colors. Cortland falls asleep. My eyes droop. I wonder if Drew and I had stayed together would we have divorced.

Billings directs the rover to an exit that says “New Chicago.” Finally he says, “We’re here! Biggest city on Mars, right at the base of Olympic Mons Mountain, largest volcanic cone in the solar system.” He points to a blue building. “We live over there, on the east side of Baba Ganoush Plaza. Your furnished condo is on the other side. But don’t get too comfortable. I have big plans.”

5

D
REW MORTGAGES HIS
soul and gets a low subprime mortgage for a condo in New Chicago’s most expensive region, River Area. Hotel Cap Antibodies is across the street. Its St. Trophy Bar attracts a fast crowd who likes to buy expensive distractions. It’s a favorite of Roderick Packarod, a.k.a. “Rocket,” bookie to the stars and pharmaceutical wholesaler known for having a pinky in every pill.

The St. Trophy is dark, noisy and crowded. Drew finds a seat at the end of the long polished bar next to a man with slicked back hair wearing a shiny purple jacket, striped pink shirt and black trousers. He watches him rip a red package that says “Nutrition Plus” and add it to his drink. The drink fizzes over the rim of the glass leaving an unpleasant smell.

Drew wriggles his nose. “How can you drink that stuff?”

Rocket looks him in the eye then drains his glass. “It’s my special Metamucil Collins.” He extends a hand. “Rocket Packarod. First time here?”

Drew takes Rocket’s hand. “Yes, first time. I’m Drew Barron.”

“Not Drew Barron of Congress Drugs’ Freedom Plan who I see in all those flashy ads?”

Drew smiles. Rocket raises his arm and catches the bartender’s eye. “A double for me and one for my new friend.”

“No thanks, man. Not my style.”

Rocket pretends not to hear. He clicks his teeth and thumbs the bartender, who mixes two drinks and serves. The bartender changes the holo’s channel to the robo-dog races, basically keyboards with legs that run around a track. “Ya know, we’re both in the same drug business but at different ends. I’m a wholesale pharmacist.” Rocket reaches into his pocket. “Here, take my card.”

Drew reads “Roderick Packarod” in large letters. And under it, in smaller letters: “Druggist to the Stars, free delivery from Mercury to Pluto on orders over ten thousand solars.” He turns the card over: “I can get it for you wholesale. No questions asked.”

“Classy card, isn’t it?” Rocket says admiring one before he slips the rest back into his pocket. “Font’s in Good Times Roman.”

The bartender puts two drinks in front of them. Rocket adds red packs to each drink. Then he puts his hand on Drew’s arm and leans closer. “Dare you to finish it. If you finish it, I’ll place a hundred-solar bet on Canis Major, the long shot in those robo-dog races. If he wins, I’ll give you the money. If he loses, I’ll just drink another Metamucil Collins. Whaddaya say? You have nothing to lose!”

Drew takes a deep breath, raises his glass, and gulps it downs. Then their eyes follow the race projected in 3-D around the room.

“And by a nose-key, the winner is Canis Major!” the announcer says.

Rocket reaches into his pocket, hands him a hundred solars, and winks. “How about double or nothing on the next one?”

The drink is more potent than Drew thought and the effects immediate. Two blond girls, dressed in black lace cut down to their navels, overhear the conversation and slither next to him. “Come on. Go for it,” says one. She smiles at Rocket, who whistles, looking at her cleavage.

Drew nods yes. He wins again. Rocket slaps the bar. “I knew you could do it,” he says. “I wanna stay, but I have a hot date. Let’s meet here again tomorrow?”

Bottom line: In time Drew becomes a regular at the St. Trophy and in time owes Rocket lots of money.

Drew meets Kandy Kane, a former Miss Universe, at an art gallery in OhNo, a neighborhood known for trendy art. A nanosecond later she moves into his new condo. She is tall, thin, has blue eyes fringed with long eyelashes, and long, dark, shining hair. Her skin is as smooth as Venusian suede. Although beauty and intelligence can be surgically and genetically enhanced, how far you go depends on the starting point. With the average IQ score now at 160, Kandy’s modest 120 doesn’t quite cut it. But who cares? Visually, Kandy is the real thing—not, as they say, “a Freedom Plan knockoff”—and a sweetheart in every sense of the word. If Kandy’s IQ were one point higher, she would realize how moody and self-absorbed Drew is and pack her bags.

“My friends say I love you for what you aren’t, sweetheart. What could they mean?”

“Beats me,” Drew says, peering at his reflection in a mirror.

Kandy crosses her long legs, encased in skintight silver leggings, and opens the newspaper.

“Your picture is on Page Six again,” she says, referring to River Area’s society column.

Drew peeks over her shoulder, breathes in Chanel Number 555, and scans the article.

“That’s all for business, baby,” he says, in a voice reserved for small children and pets. His hand slides down the back of her pink cashmere sweater. He glances at the opposite page and stiffens.

“Is something wrong?” asks Kandy, sensing tension.

“Someone I knew on Earth’s moon is coming to Mars to interview Sandy Andreas. Her father just bought Mars Media and has put his daughter CC in charge of special reports.”