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“So what were we talking about?” says Abel. “Back in the cab?”
I tug off a small neat piece of cotton candy, the color of Sim’s hair. “If they were on Earth. Their jobs.”
“Right, right.” Abel helps himself to a big bite of fluff; a fleck of it melts on his nose. “Sim would make a perfect priest.”
“Nooo. No no no. Absolutely not.”
“How come? The self-denial thing would be cake.”
“I don’t see him like that.”
“So what do you see?”
“Cadmus. As a bartender.”
“Pardon me.”
“Mmm, like some super-cheesy creeper from the seventies. He’d unbutton his shirt and make—you know. What’s like, an old drink no one drinks anymore?”
“Harvey Wallbangers.”
“You made that up.”
“I did not. You need to come to my theme parties.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to wake up in your bathtub with my eyebrow shaved off.”
“That only happened once, and Alex deserved it.”
We stop in front of the Tilt-a-Whirl. A light summer breeze unsettles our t-shirts and lifts all the hair on my arms. The cotton candy’s left this cute little blue spot on his nose. I can’t help myself. I lick the tip of my index finger and rub at it: gently, like he’ll crumble if I touch him too hard.
He giggles. “What’re you doing, freako?”
“Sorry, it’s driving me nuts.”
Be careful, says Father Mike.
Abel catches my hand and twirls me around. “Let’s get on.”
“What?”
“The Tilt-a-Whirl.”
“Nah.”
“Why?” He cocks his head at me. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“No! No, I love rides,” I lie. “It’s just—I just ate, you know?”
“Oh, come on. Pretend it’s the Starsetter. We can write our very own horrible Cadsim fic.” He’s edging us close to the Tilt-a-Whirl line. “I’m a rogue captain on the run…I steal a starship and kidnap you, the hot navigation android programmed to do the right thing…or are you?” Couples step up on the creaky platform, settle into identical half-shell cars. “How should our fic start? We get stuck in an elevator—”
“No no. We meet in your bar,” I break in, ducking away from the line. “It’s an alternate-universe earthfic.”
“Bold choice,” Abel follows me, gri
“Noooo.”
“Why not? Stretch yourself.”
“No way.”
“Okay, fine.” Abel slips on his Cadmus shades and makes wiping motions above a picnic table. “Hey there, customer. What can I pour you this fine evening?”
“Oh, ah, I am unsure.” My ears get hot. Why did I start this? “I am an android, and as such I have no need to imbibe.”
“So how come you’re at my bar?”
“I ca
Abel narrows his eyes, like Cadmus does when he’s negotiating with Xaarg. “I smell a lie,” he says. “You came to get laid, didn’t you?”
Two nuns stroll by. My face burns. “Negative,” I murmur.
“Aw, why not? Makes you feel like a real boy.”
“I am uninterested.”
“Uninterested? You smooth like a Ken doll down there?”
“On the contrary. While I have had many, ah, high-quality partners, the simple fact is—”
Flirting can seem like harmless fun—Chapter 8, Put on the Brakes!—But that person you’re teasing is a vessel of the Holy Spirit. Should you really be treating them like a carnival ride?
“Ye-es?” Abel’s gri
I clear my throat, scramble for Sim words.
They’re gone.
“I can’t do this.”
“Why not? You’re good.”
“No, it’s just—you know.”
“What?”
I gallop my fingers on the picnic bench. Think. Think. Lie. “Um, well, Zander and I used to joke around like this all the time, so—”
“Oh my God!” Abel slams his hand on the picnic table. An abandoned paper boat of French fries tips off the edge, splatters ketchup in the grass. “Will you shut it about Zander already!”
“But it’s true.”
“I don’t care!”
“It’s just part of who I am. I can’t change it.”
“Christ.” He shoves both hands in his hair. “You know what, Brandon? You know what? That is IT!”
His hot hand locks around my wrist and before I can open my mouth again he’s yanking me through the crowd, past the Tilt-a-Whirl and the candy-striped tents and a bunch of kids playing that balloon-dart game that rattled my nerves as a kid. Pop pop pop. My insides crackle. He could do anything with me now, take me anywhere.
We stop behind the funhouse.
He slams me up against it.
I turn my face fast, fix my eyes on the funhouse mural. Creepy clowns, sword-swallowers, Mardi Gras masks.
“Look at me,” he hisses.
“Why?”
He grabs my face and turns my head slowly. My eyes press shut.
“Look at me,” he says.
I hear my dad: Never ever stare directly at the sun.
“Fine, then. Don’t. Just listen. Listen to every single word, okay?” He grips my shoulders. “Zander. Is. Gone. G-O-N-E. No more!—I’m serious, Brandon!” He shakes me. “This is total insanity and I want you to repeat after me: I. Am. Damaged.” Screams from the funhouse. “Say it!”
I whisper, “I am damaged.”
“I am acting like a pathetic irrational loonytunes in direct opposition to my actual awesomeness.”
“I’m pathetic,” I admit.
“I need to be punched in the face repeatedly and then kissed until my lips hurt.”
I open my eyes. Across from the funhouse, a mini-freefall jerks a carful of kids off the ground. They shudder to the top, right under a clown’s gruesome red mouth. The car stops a second, just for torture, and then drops them down with a mechanical whoosh like when Cadmus stole Sim, the door of his charging dock sighing open in a white breath of steam.
“Go ahead!” Abel prods. “Say it.”
“I need to be…”
“Say it! You know it’s true.”
“Punched…”
“In the face.”
“In the face.”
“Repeatedly.”
“And then—”
He kisses me.
It’s not gentle, the way I picture it with Sim. It’s rough and hard but in a fu
Status: All systems suspended.
Then it starts again. The thing that happened after Ryan Dervitz, in the Dairy Queen bathroom with my head between my knees. A rush of memories—Mom’s eyes welling up when I told her, Dad alone in the backyard staring up at my old treehouse, his hands stuffed in his pockets. And then Father Mike calmly crashing through my consciousness, like some movie hero busting down the door to a burning house. His face fills up the whole screen in my head. It isn’t an angry face. He never needs to be angry, not really, because he’s so sure he’s right.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I shove Abel away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—just—”
I have to walk. Which way is the hotel parking lot? I don’t even know. I just start moving my feet. I dart across the street on a green light; a red car swerves and honks. My eyes flick over a sea of cars and lock onto the Sunseeker’s roof in the near distance. I pick up the pace. Abel’s big boots clap the blacktop behind me.
“What, you’re mad again?”
“No.”
“You are!”
“Stop talking, okay?”
“Brandon, look.” He swings in front of me. “I just—I was trying to help. I thought I could snap you out of it. Hey!”
He grabs my arm. The Sunseeker’s three rows away. His breath warms the side of my face.
“It’s not a big deal,” he whispers. “Okay?”
It’s not such a great exchange, is it? A few moments of pleasure, in exchange for—