The Rebel

"I wondered what you were able to find out from Trevor last night," Max told him.

"I wasn't trying to find out anything," Michael shot back. He picked up one of the Bunsen burner strikers and flicked it, producing a few sparks. "I wasn't with him to do some kind of undercover work for you."

"I didn't mean it that way." Max slumped down on one of the tall stools across from Michael. "Look, according to the consciousness, Trevor could be a threat to all of us. You should have felt the fury coming off the beings when I sent out an image of him."

Max saw Michael stiffen, and he rushed on before Michael could interrupt him. "I didn't get any sense that Trevor is a killer, but that's what Alex felt from him in the wormhole. I just want to know if there's anything you and Trevor talked about that will help me get all this straight."

Michael flicked the striker a few more times, then tossed it behind him. "Have you ever considered the possibility that the consciousness could be lying to you?"

It was as if Michael had sucker punched him. Max actually felt a little dizzy, a little wobbly perched on the stool. He stuck one foot down to steady himself.

Max had linked himself to the consciousness for life. He was a part of it. It was a part of him. If it could lie… if it could have some kind of evil intent…

No. Impossible. His parents were part of the consciousness. Ray was part of the consciousness.

"The consciousness isn't a single entity," Max explained, talking to himself as much as Michael. "It's an immense collection of beings-the number of them is practically unfathomable. I don't get how something of that size and structure could lie."

"Well, how do you explain the fact that Trevor went through his akino and lived?" Michael asked. "I mean, according to the consciousness, you don't join, you die."

Wait, did that mean Max hadn't had to join? Did that mean-

Max shook his head. He realized there was a very obvious answer to Michael's question. But it didn't seem that Michael had given it a thought.

"Have you ever considered the possibility that Trevor could be lying to you?" Max asked, trying very hard to keep his tone nonconfrontational.

"He's my brother," Michael answered, as if that said it all.

Max stood up so fast, he knocked the stool over. "So am I," he insisted. "In every way that matters, I'm your brother, too."

Didn't Michael get it? Didn't he understand that the bond between them was deeper than the one created by being born of the same parents? He and Michael had shared every important experience of their lives. Michael and Trevor were practically strangers.

"If that's true, if you're my brother, then why don't you trust me?" Michael exploded. He shoved himself away from the counter. "I'm out of here."

Max watched him leave. He wanted to call Michael back, but what was the point? Michael had made his choice.

Max stood up and turned on the faucet next to him. He stuck his face under and let the water pour over him until his skin turned numb with cold. Then he snapped off the faucet and dried himself off with one of the rough brown paper towels.

Then he heard a little squeaking behind him.

"You're not going to give me grief, too, are you, Fred?" he asked. He walked over to the cage of white mice and pulled out the ski

Fred squeaked again. Max pretended he could understand him. "Yeah, I know." Max sighed. "They've saved my life at least once each. So I should go try and work things out with them before someone wanders by and sees me going all Doctor Doolittle."

He put Fred back in the cage, then felt a tingle of curiosity from the consciousness. No. No way. There are some things I won't do, he thought.

The tingle grew to an insistent electric sizzle.

"Okay, fine," Max muttered. He picked up one of the food pellets from the mice's dish and popped it into his mouth.

The blend of flavors was more complex than he'd expected. He closed his eyes and chewed slowly, sharing the experience with the other beings.

TEN

Liz pulled out her key and then stood there on the porch, staring at her front door. Adam is right, she told herself. You have to do this. You have to at least try.

She slid her key into the lock, but before she could turn it, the door flew open and she was in her mothers arms.

"Mija, we were so worried. Where were you?" She pulled away and gave Liz's shoulders a little shake, then hugged her again.

"I stayed with friends," Liz said when her mama finally let her go. "I couldn't be in the same house with Papa. I just couldn't."

Her mother was wearing the same overalls she'd had on last night. She looked as if she hadn't slept at all. "Liz, your father loves you more than life. You know that, don't you?"

"He doesn't even know me. I know that you don't think I'm like… I shouldn't have said that to you. But Papa does," Liz said softly. "He thinks I'm this person who needs to be under a twenty-four/seven drug overdose prevention watch." Liz felt tears sting her eyes, and she blinked them away.

"He just wants you to be safe," her mother answered. She turned Liz around and gave her a gentle push down the hall. "He's in the backyard. Go talk to him."

Liz hesitated. Isn't this what you came here for? she asked herself. Then she strode directly to the big glass door, slid it open, and stepped outside. Her father was lying on the grass with his eyes shut.

Automatically she listened for the music that would give her a clue to how her papa was feeling. But the backyard was silent. It was so weird. Her father even had one of those waterproof radios. He couldn't stand to be without his tunes long enough to take a shower.

Liz took a step forward, then glanced back toward the house. Maybe she should go get her mother. Maybe it would be better to do this as a three-way talk. Maybe-

"Did she call yet?" Liz's papa asked, without opening his eyes.

"Aren't you cold?" Liz said. He wasn't even wearing a jacket.

Her father sat up slowly and shoved himself around to face her. She waited for him to start yelling or to at least say something, but he didn't. What was he thinking? Was he waiting for her to apologize, or-

Just say what you've got to say, she told herself. "I have a question," she a

Liz had almost half a lifetime of examples, but her throat had gotten too tight for any more words of her logical argument to squeak through. I'm going to cry, she thought, horrified. She never cried in front of her parents. Never. It was part of being the daughter who made up for the daughter who died.

And suddenly she was sobbing, sobbing as hard as she had in the museum. But now no one's arms were around her. Now she was standing all alone, with her father miles and miles away, just looking at her.

"I tried… everything perfect," she choked out. "Grades… at the Crashdown… room clean. God, everything." Liz swiped her arm across her eyes, but the tears kept coming. She rushed on. "Can't do anything to make Mama and Papa worry. Can't do anything that might scare them… and make them think that I… that I was going to turn out like Rosa. Have to be perfect, perfect, perfect."

"Well, you're not perfect," her father said. He pushed himself to his feet with a little grunt but didn't move toward her. "You always hog all your abuela's green sauce."