“Damn you.” My fist hits the glass, cracking the mirror and my own dreadful reflection.
I spew up tequila and pills into the toilet bowl. Stick a finger down my throat and spew up even more until I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left inside me. I’m hollow. Empty.
Scarface presses his hand against the glass as I rinse my mouth. What does he expect? Some movie scene where I echo the gesture pressing mine against his and pretend to make nice, sharing some profound moment of realization?
I don’t want to be my father. That’s all. No great epiphany there.
The walk from my bedroom to the front door never felt so long. I’ve never been so aware of the textured wallpaper or carpet weave, of the ever-present fragrance of my mom’s perfume, or the ticking clock.
Sheriff Riggs doesn’t look smug as he claps me in handcuffs—if anything, he seems full of regret. This guy’s been on my case for years. He should be happy he finally got me for something that’ll go on my permanent record.
They’re reading off my Miranda rights when Gabriela’s car comes hurtling down the street, screeching to a stop behind a police car. The siren’s off now, just the red and blue swirl playing over Danny’s face as he stares at me, dumbfounded.
I imagine that if he could, he’d run over and crush me in an embrace, kissing me, promising me everything will be OK. Instead, he just watches as a uniformed officer folds me into the back of a car.
Hope you’re happy, Scarface.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Danny’s dead
July 4. The day dawns hot and septic.
In about sixteen hours this’ll all be over. I hope.
Cursing my other self for being a hotheaded asshole isn’t going to solve the problem of getting Danny’s necklace. Rubbing my wrists, I can’t shake off the ghost awareness of handcuffs.
Can I blame my other self? If anyone tried to hurt Mya or Shira in this reality, I would’ve probably done the same thing.
The bracelet on my wrist has left dark indentations in my skin that itch in the heat despite the AC being on max. Mom and Dad are fast asleep, their snores a constant rumble.
I’ve spent the last two hours scrounging through my closet and desk, trying to find anything that belonged to Danny, something more personal than the CDs he made for me. Maybe it’ll work and Shira’ll find the medal slipped through her bedroom window by Daniel’s ghost. But having a Plan B’s probably a good idea.
Thirsty, I head to the kitchen.
Between swigs of orange juice, my gaze inadvertently strays to Jesus. He’s back on the nail in the wall and I’m pretty sure there’s no splintered glass in the living room, and that there hasn’t been tequila in my dad’s cabinet for years.
Looking at Jesus sparks a memory. Daniel’s rosaries. They’d been strung across his tombstone as if it’d been November 2.
“Thanks,
Hay-soos.
” I nod in his direction before stowing the juice in the fridge and heading out the door.
It’s a long, brutally hot walk out to the cemetery. My T-shirt is slick against my body, sweat staining my chest and armpits. Sweat’s running rivulets down the backs of my legs and the insides of my arms. My face is scorched by the sun, and even my ear tips are burning despite my mop of hair. Dust kicked up from my shoes cakes my skin. I can taste it, taste how thirsty the land is, stretched out dry and cracking beneath the sun. Closing my eyes, I imagine New Mexico burning, can almost smell it, the pungent pine, fireball mesquite, and smoldering cacti. I should be worried about the damage the UV’s doing to my scars, but after tonight, none of that will matter.
Just when you think it can’t possibly get any hotter or the mercury will explode, the temperature rises just a few more degrees. Today, Coyote’s Luck lies in a simmering mirage, hotter than any hell imaginable.
The crush of mesquite huddling between the tombstones offers little respite from the sun. Sticking to the dappled shade, I thread my way toward Danny’s grave. I’m not alone.
She looks like a ghost with the white sundress fanning around her legs, her long black hair teased by the warm breeze. For a moment, I think it’s one of the
ch’iindi
made flesh, until she turns at the sound of my step.
Gabriela, her face a teary-eyed frown. She folds her arms and returns her gaze to the grave. When did she get so thin? She was always so voluptuous, a shorter, less saggy version of her mother. Now she looks more like a sixteen-year-old kid, barely there in layers of cotton.
We stand in silence, both just staring at the grave. The rosaries dangle over the stone, tied in knots around the stems of already dead flowers. There’s a white and blue beaded one, the one that was attached to Danny’s bed, the one he’d kiss at night before going to sleep.
“I miss him so much,” Gabriela says eventually.
“So do I.”
“I blame you, you know.” She casts me a sidelong glance.
“Maybe you should.”
She nods and sniffs and fingers one of the blooms turned brown by the heat.
“Dead, all of it.” She tears the petals from the stalk. “Little Maria, now Daniel.” She turns her dark eyes on me, searching for something I wish I could give her.
“This is killing my parents. Daniel was their only son. They’ll never have more children. Once, I had a brother. Now I’m alone. Sister to dead siblings.”
That’s the most Gabriela’s ever said, to me at least. I’m stunned into uncomfortable silence. There’s nothing I can say that’ll make it right. But tonight, maybe there’ll be something I can do.
“I wish I could make it right.” My words sound so pathetic.
She harrumphs and digs her sandaled toe into the dirt. “Nothing can make Daniel dying
right.
”
“I’m sorry.” There is nothing else I can say without trying to explain the whole confusing story and Gabriela’s not the type to believe in rifts in reality.
“Tell Daniel you’re sorry. He’s the one who died because of you.” She takes a deliberate step away from me, crosses herself, offering prayers in Spanish to the ether.
“I loved him, you know.” Maybe I am to blame, but she makes it sound like I don’t give a crap that he’s dead.
“Obviously not enough.” She throws Daniel’s words in my face. They cut me to the bone. She leaves, looking back only once, her gaze on her family’s graves, completely dismissing my existence.
Not wanting to linger, I loosen the knots in the rosary, reducing the shriveled petals that were once roses to dust. I slip the beads over my head, and tuck the crucifix into my shirt.
“Good-bye, Danny,” I whisper to the dirt and stone, to the bones disintegrating below. The rosary weighs me down; the metal cross jabs the puckered flesh of my chest with every step, never letting me forget why it’s there.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shira’s dead
The holding cell is as uncomfortable as I imagined it would be. There’s a drunk guy huddled in the corner, too far gone to even notice me. He smells like piss and gin, and the stench permeates the cell. The AC’s not doing much to combat the heat or odor.
It’s been two hours since processing. I’m being held overnight, apparently at the request of my father. Wonder what Mom’ll think of that loving gesture? Questioning’s scheduled for the morning, as if my side of the story is going to make any difference.
Being in a cage makes me feel like an animal. There could be a whole future of this, of orange pajamas and steel bars, chains and somber faces. There’s a rush of panic that leaves me dizzy. There’s no way this reality will exist after July 4. There’s no reason Scarface Kyle would choose this life. Anything but this.
But what is
this,
that jailbird reality? Some spin-off dimension of that other life where I’m lying in the hospital with pneumonia? Maybe the fabric of the universe itself is getting shredded by Obscura.
“Kyle Wolfe.” A voice tugs me from my thoughts. An officer appears at the gate. “You’ve got a visitor.” He sets a chair down beyond the bars and ushers in a girl.
“Shira?” Idiot, she’s dead in this world. Besides, this girl is blonde.
“Hi,” Mya says in a tiny voice.
“Why the hell are you here?”
She looks up and tucks loose hair behind her ear, revealing a bruised eye.
“Did Nicholas…?”
“Shh.” She looks nervously over her shoulder toward the officers standing a little way down the corridor.
“Did he do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Because of me?”
She just nods.
“Why are you here?” I ask again as the blood starts bubbling in my veins. Not sure when I turned into such an angry guy.
“Nicholas made me tell the cops that you did it.”
“What the fuck?”
“Story’s that you found us, hit Nicholas over the head with the bottle, and then tried to attack me.” She unfolds her arms. Bruises left by squeezing fingers dot her skin.
“And you’re just going along with that?”
“What else can I do?” She looks up at me, her eyes rimmed red and bloodshot.
“Tell the truth.”
“I’m sorry.” Mya shakes her head, letting her hair fall over her face again.
“Yeah? How about ten years from now when I’m rotting in PNM, will you still be sorry then?” Not that that’ll ever happen, thanks to Obscura.
“I should go.” She wipes her face. One last moment of eye contact. “You brought this on yourself, Kyle. No one asked you to get involved.”
“You’re right. It’s my fault. Next time, I’ll just stroll on past while some guy tries to rape you.”
“It wasn’t like that.” She’s in denial.
“You keep telling yourself that.” I turn my back to her, resting against the cool bars. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m not budging until she’s gone.
“I am sorry,” she says. “Wish there was something I could do to get you out of here.”
“Tell. The. Truth.”
“Something else.”
“I’m pretty sure PNM has visiting hours. It’ll be great seeing you once a week.” My words drip vitriol.
A long moment followed by the scrape of her chair and receding sneakered footsteps.
Exhaling, I shift back to the wall, dragging my fingers across the bars. In a few days, the world will end. All the people I love will get blown into oblivion. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to care. As long as this whole reality-shifting fiasco ends, it’ll be fine by me. Orange pajamas are better than switching back and forth between fuck-ups.
The bars turn sticky, sucking at my fingertips, malleable as slime that bend and warp in my hands. It feels like smearing paint across a canvas as I deconstruct my world, leaving a gaping hole in the bars.
There’s a different world, another life waiting for me beyond the confines of this cell. Without hesitation, I step through the portal and stumble into the holiday celebrations on Main Street.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Danny’s dead
Tonight, I’m going to change the world, armed with Shira’s turquoise bracelet and Danny’s rosary, and with a rainbow sombrero perched on my head. Not quite the comic book superhero I’d have imagined.
The shift was painless this time, no mind-searing headache or hemorrhaging eyes. It’s a little disconcerting, not knowing why things have changed.
Mya said she’d meet me here, up on the ridge overlooking the basketball courts. Coyote’s Luck is mad with Independence Day fever. The thunder of fireworks ricochets up the street, bursting technicolor across the sky. Obscura’s there too, sparkling blue, taunting me with her sapphire gaze.
Mya isn’t among the throngs milling around the food stands. The aroma of scorched green chile fills the air, wafting from the roasters, mingling with the smell of Indian fry bread and sizzling barbecue. A ranchera band’s in full swing, bodies swaying and gyrating to the rhythm. Welcome to the end of the world; party till you disappear.
Mya emerges from a nearby cluster of bodies. A dozen guys turn to watch her walk away, her hips swaying in a flimsy red dress that hugs her body in all the right places. She’s twisted her hair up off her neck. She looks stunning. I feel ridiculous.
“Love the hat, Scarface.” Her eyes dance when she smiles. God, I’d give anything to be straight, to actually want her, to not look at her wishing it was Danny with his arm in mine.
“You look amazing,” I say, because she needs to know.
“Thanks.” Her grin tells me I needn’t have said anything. She’s perfectly aware of her looks.
“We need to get to Ghost Town.”
“I’ve got my dad’s keys. I’m the designated driver tonight, so we can take the car.”
“Okay, that makes it easier.”
“It also means we actually have time for a dance.” She nibbles her bottom lip and drags me down the street toward the makeshift stage, toward a crush of writhing bodies.
“I don’t really dance.”
“Of course you do.” She spins herself under my arm and slips into the rhythm, her hips pulsing side to side with the beat.
I’m trapped in a sea of eyes all turned on me as Mya dances around me, her dress flicking up her thighs as she pivots on her toes.
“Come on, Kyle. Move your hips.” She puts her hands on my waist and jerks me side to side. Last year, dancing with Shira, I felt safe. Invisible. Now I feel like someone wearing a neon yellow jumpsuit to a funeral.
“I’ll show you how it’s done.” Nicholas cuts in, pulling Mya into his arms before spinning her away again. She squeals with surprise, but doesn’t seem to mind the change of partners as much as me. Anger blooms red-hot and my hands ball into ready fists. But this isn’t the same guy who left bruises on my friend. Count back from ten. Deep breaths. My fingers unclench.
Nicholas is shirtless and his limbs, so lanky on the court, now flow and twist with astonishing grace. He winks at me and I close my gaping mouth.
This is the guy I almost killed with a tequila bottle, the guy who tried to rape other Mya. I want nothing more than to punch him and snatch Mya away to safety; I want nothing more than to watch his lithe figure cut spirals on the dance floor. Mya looks like an accessory at the end of his hand, like a scarf he’s flicking in a breeze. The music changes gear, driving rhythms slow to a rumba. Nicholas pulls Mya close and bodies shut me out, pushing me out of the way.