Nowhere Near You Page 6

  The unimaginative prompt: “What can you contribute to Myriad Academy’s rich heritage?”

  Did I answer with creativity? Not at all.

  But I wrote as if I were writing you.

  As for the rain check—a gentleman would not say.

  Suffice it to say Fieke was not home. Suffice it to say we did not talk after all. Suffice it to say when I arrived on his doorstep leaking guilt, Owen’s gaze scraped me head to toe like a sunburn before he took my hand and pulled me inside.

  Suffice it to say I never knew that tapping fingers on the skin beneath clothing could leave one feverish. Suffice it to say the dingy apartment grew stuffy despite autumn’s cold outside. Suffice it to say I have rarely been so eager to miss a few heartbeats.

  When Owen reached for my goggles, letting my lips free at last, I regained senses enough to grab his wrists, lower them to my shoulders instead.

  Suffice it to say.

  Afterward, lying against him in the dark of the dank basement apartment, the walls felt paper-thin. The dilapidated couch beneath us. Could it give way?

  How delicate were these new branches?

  His fine hair brushing the boxy lump of my pacemaker, his breath against my ribs: these things, something nearer than near life.

  “Owen,” I told his sleeping form, “I haven’t apologized.”

  Air whistled through his nostrils, a soft, keening sound. Musical even when sleeping.

  “Owen. The orchid smelled like cinnamon.”

  Is cinnamon also a damned color, Oliver?

  Perhaps I thought this aloud; Owen’s eyes snapped open. He pulled me closer.

  This December morning I received an acceptance letter from Myriad Academy. Next month I’ll begin attending classes alongside the girl who tried to drown me.

  Yes, Ollie. Things are going well here. And yes. I am panicking. Emolocating fluttering moths of uncertainty that make my peers swat at their ears.

  Perhaps uncertainty is wise.

  The German word for “delayed gratification” is Belohnungsaufschub. It is not a word I care for. You are not the only one who struggles with patience. Two years until I hold you.

  Yours always,

  Moritz

  chapter seven

  THE DRONE

  Suffice it to say:

  MORITZ, THAT WAS NOT VERY GENTLEMANLY.

  Honestly, just because I’m wearing a catsuit nowadays doesn’t mean I want to read about your, your—lusty indiscretions.

  But this is so Moritz. Of course you waited THREE LETTERS after doing the do to tell me you’d done the do. You know if I ever did something like that, I’d write it in ALL CAPS.

  Um. Actually, while we’re on this weird subject.

  You write about you and Owen, and how you’re getting really close, and I’m glad you trust me enough to share your business. I trust you, too. And you know I hate secrets. So I’m going to tell you something honest at the end of this letter, and I hope it doesn’t upset you. Because it’s awkward, even by our standards.

  But first! Speaking of awkward—meet Arthur.

  The first Blunderkid I ever met lives a few miles away from all the skyscrapers, closer to buildings that felt more lived-in. Stoops you could sit on, trees you might be allowed to climb along the sidewalks, in a place called Logan Square. (Another superhero omen—Wolverine’s real name is Logan!)

  Arthur and his caretaker rent the top floor of a duplex, in a row of houses someone chopped in half with imaginary lines. When Auburn-Stache turned onto their narrow street, we passed some sort of purple church perched on the corner. People in teal robes sat outside eating cake, watching children chase one another in circles. I’d have loved to sit with them. We could compare our odd outfits. (Oddfits.)

  If I’d grown up in the city, I’d sit on all the stoops, talking to all sorts of people, doing smack-talk. Stoop-Sitter Supreme: that’s what they’d have called me, Moritz.

  We parked farther down. To our right, another stoop spread behind a locked metal gate. I scrambled out of the Impala, grateful for the air even if it bit me (Chicago in November feels like getting slapped with freezer-burned meat), grateful for the smell of cement and smoke.

  “Wait a moment, Ollie. I’ve messaged Professor Takahiro, for what good it’ll do. I’ve heard her call phones confounded—”

  “Auburn-Stache, look!”

  Across the street from Arthur’s duplex stretched another park, because Chicago is littered with litter but also little parks. A handful of people wandered around in scarves with dogs in scarves, too. An old woman sat on a bench, holding a steaming beverage in mittened hands.

  But I was all about the human cornstalk. This tall, tall guy wearing a green flannel shirt with his sleeves rolled back and a goofy yellow earflapped hunting cap. I’m talking unnaturally tall, like someone had stretched him on a good old-fashioned medieval rack.

  His elbows were large, thicker than his straw-thin arms. And the only forearm in sight was crazy long. If his legs hadn’t been just as crazy long, his fingers might have hung past his knees.

  But what really got me about Arthur (obviously, this is Arthur, Moritz—I didn’t write this suspenseful buildup for some stranger!): tall as he was, he was trying to be taller.

  He stood on his tiptoes.

  Leaning back, facing the white sky with something electric turquoise in his right hand.

  And there in the sky—not a bird! Not a freaking plane! But a flying, erm, thing! That flew! In matching turquoise electricity! A UFO? His ship from Krypton?

  “What is that?”

  “That’s—that’s Arthur, Ollie. Don’t be rude. He has, among other things, a disease that affects the connectivity of his tissue. Elongates his limbs, bends his spine with a slight scoliosis—”

  “Tch. Not ‘What’s that thing that’s obviously a person.’” I rolled my eyes as slowly as possible. “I meant, ‘What’s that magical flying thing?’ Come on, ’Stache.”

  Moritz—you can’t see blushing. Let’s just say our doctor burned like a candle.

  “Oh. A drone. A flying, ah, toy.”

  “He builds them himself. Useless things, but he does enjoy them.” The voice came from behind us, raspy and tired. I turned away from the drone; a small woman with wrinkled, tawny skin sat on the stoop. She pulled a cigar from between her teeth, twisted it out against the steps, and stood. “Instead of doing his work, he’s busy building robots. I hope you’re not like that, too.”

  “Um, I can’t—”

  “I was talking to Gregory, actually.” She adjusted her jean jacket, jerked her chin at Auburn-Stache. “I hope Gregory’s been doing his work.”

  Basically, all of Auburn-Stache’s blood was stuck in his face at this point.

  “Professor—it’s . . . it’s lovely to see you.”

  “Call me Beau. You haven’t been my student for years. So, this is your favorite disaster?”

  She stepped closer and reached for my shoulders with careful hands. Her touch was gentle, settling like feathers, like she thought she’d break me.

  Her dark eyes stared right into me, Moritz. I wanted to look away into forever and beyond.

  “Condolences about your mother, Oliver.”

  I did look away then. Because . . .

  . . . Because the drone was really cool, okay! And so turquoise! If turquoise had a sound, Moritz, it might sound like water splashing against ceramic.

  Beau Takahiro’s fingers fluttered, pulled me back. “And that’s all I’ll say about it, unless you want to talk more. When my father died, I was younger than you. The worst thing anyone could do was bring him up without warning. None of their business, and this is none of mine.”

  “So why’d you say anything?” Great first impression I was making, squawking like that. And not looking at her, watching the drone hover. Its propellers shook off light like a cat drying itself.

  “Because I’m not younger than you. I’m a whole lot older now. You’ll need practice for all the othe
r idiots who won’t think twice about what they’re saying.”

  Her fingers left my shoulders, and she flung one arm around Auburn-Stache’s neck, not even close to careful. Man, did he hunker down to accommodate her. “Let’s get you inside. Englishmen are hardly men at all until they’ve had some leaf juice. I’ll point you to the teapot and you can do the work. Consider it your makeup assignment. Oliver—”

  “Call me Ollie, Professor?”

  She nodded. “Ollie, then. You call me Beau. I’m not teaching anymore. Retirement does exist, if you don’t mind being broke. Go say hello to Arthur.”

  “Ah, how’s he doing?” Auburn-Stache, speaking from under her wing.

  “Bored silly. Naturally. Misbehaving. Also naturally. Looks like he’s out and about without his chair again. So he’s also an idiot. Ollie, catch him if he falls, will you?” Beau steered Auburn-Stache away, and suddenly the street seemed wider and I—

  “Can’t you call him over?”

  I had jitters, Moritz. Unless Clark Kent had been put through a taffy puller, this wasn’t Clark Kent. I had no clue how to start interviewing him. Auburn-Stache could probably hear my panic, but Beau spoke first.

  “I’m sick of pulling him down from the clouds. Besides, we old people have to talk without young ears around. Have Art take you for coffee or vinyl shopping. Something young and pointless like that. Go on.”

  Auburn-Stache’s face said, Blazes, no! Don’t let Ollie wander alone. But, Moritz, the whole time we were in Chicago, he never disagreed with Beau. I think they have what people call history.

  “Tell him to bring his chair.” The gate clacked shut behind them.

  The trilling pressure of the drone grew louder, bluer. When I turned around, it floated at eye level right behind me, turquoise droplets basically sizzling my cheeks. I swatted with my arm on electro-phobic instinct. The drone swooped up and out of the way with a disgruntled buzz. (Machines seem alive to me, Moritz.)

  “Whoa, beanie guy. Ahuhuh.” Arthur let out a clunky guffaw, laughing on his inhales. He’d crossed half the distance while my back was turned.

  “‘Beanie guy’?”

  “Well, you’re wearing a beanie? On your head, there.” He pointed to his hat with his remote. The drone dipped when he bumped a button with his forehead. “Did you know? Or did it just creep up there and take a nap when you weren’t looking? Beanies, man. They’re always up to something shady. Ahuh.”

  Arthur was probably weird-looking. His long neck sort of thrust forward, and his head bobbed loosely on his shoulders like a vulture’s. Adam’s apple? More like Adam’s grapefruit. And his mouth hung slightly ajar at all times, crammed with teeth.

  But when he laughed like burping, I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  “So you made that?” I pointed at his machine, spoke in an awed whisper. (The drone was basically a dragon. Always whisper around dragons, Mo.) “By yourself?”

  He shook his bangs out of his face and squinted at me from behind tinted bifocals. “Yeah, I made it. Why?”

  “I’m collecting data. And that’s awesome! You created life!”

  He looked at me for a moment, then grinned very slowly, opening curtains on his uneven teeth. “Heck yeah. It is fluffing awesome. Wait.” He blinked three times in quick succession, then pointed the remote at me. “Wait. Beanie guy. Are you UpandFree? Electro-boy? Hey, man! Hey! I’ve been dying to meet you!”

  Arthur of Krypton put the remote between his teeth. The drone plummeted from the sky, and my heart jumped into my throat—no, wee dragon!—

  But Arthur’s free right hand caught it.

  I used to have flipbooks because I couldn’t have television, flipbooks showing all sorts of animals in motion (that’s how I knew I wanted to see dolphins, because I saw them leap out of the water like gravity can’t touch this). Arthur loped like a giraffe, all knees and elbows. Up close he wasn’t just taller, but maybe also a year or two older than me. Your age, Moritz?

  He held out the drone in his long-fingered right hand. His left arm rested in a canvas sling.

  “Hold Vince for a sec.”

  “Who?”

  “Vince Noir. This drone guy.”

  I put my electromagnetic hands up, Mo. “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Dude. I wanna shake your hand, and my left hand is totally out of commission, so hold Vince. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

  “It’s just—me and electric things don’t really get along. I don’t wanna accidentally—”

  “Get over yourself, guy. Ass said you’d be wearing protection.” Before I knew it, he’d shoved the device into my rubber-gloved left hand and grabbed my right, in a loopy sort of soft shake like he was trying to sketch sound waves with my arm.

  “You call ’Stache Ass?”

  “Yup.”

  I put my finger on something unspoken and spoke it: “Arthur, are you . . . cool?”

  “What?” He kept shaking my hand, but this slowed the wave right down to a ripple. “Yeah. I am cool. I try, you know? Not everyone gets that, man. Ahuhuh. Wanna do some tourist shit? Is that what we’re doing?”

  “Consider me the ultra tourist. But they said not to go far. . . .”

  “Bah. Fluff ’em. Let’s go.”

  “Um, Beau told me to tell you to bring ‘your chair’?”

  A wave of his hand. “It’s a bitch rattling that thing down the stairs. Last time, I dropped it from the balcony, and I nearly hit the neighbor’s pug. Broke off the kickstand.”

  Kickstand. I told Mom I’d be her kickstand and look where that got—

  Arthur caught the drone-gon as it slipped from my fingers.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry! I almost—”

  “Nah, it’s cool. Even if you wrecked it, I’d make a new one from the pieces.”

  I stared at my feet. “You can’t replace things so easily.”

  “Sure you can, guy.” He spoke like he didn’t notice me freaking out. “That pug I didn’t flatten with my wheelchair? It’s the neighbor’s, like, sixth pug. And the third one named Hector. Twisted shit, to put that kind of pressure on a pug.”

  I snorted, then one of his words snagged. “Wheelchair?”

  Arthur side-eyed me. “Hasn’t Ass ever told you about me?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Oh. I’m the guy made of chalk.”

  Chalk?

  Arthur reached one long arm over the fence, tucked Vince in the bushes. “Let’s take the ‘L’ to Union. We can walk down Adams from there. The art institute’s got lots of shit in it.”

  “Shit, huh.”

  “Good shit.” Arthur has a favorite word, Moritz. (Is Fieke single?)

  “The ‘L’? The . . . the flying trains?”

  “Don’t shit yourself, guy.”

  “I’m—I just—don’t we have to tell them—”

  “I’ve got my phone.” He patted a glowing green pocket.

  So me and my new super(shit)hero walked past bars and restaurants and grungy corners under construction to the train station and then onto the Blue Line train, and from there up and down and underground, back to the middle of the winding Windy City.

  On the train, I closed my eyes and asked Arthur if he knew about you. Because Moritz, Arthur knew who I was. Guess Auburn-Stache didn’t mind talking about Blunderkids, so long as he wasn’t talking to me?

  “More-its? Oh, the echolocation boy? Heard about him, but nah, never met him.” He went on to say casually that he’s met a couple of Blunderkids, and the ones he’s never met he’s heard about from Beau.

  The train rattled around us. I told Arthur my quest to write about Blunderkids.

  Arthur gave me a thumbs-up. “Neat. But, like, I was little when I left that place. I don’t remember it. Most of us are just living life, doing our own shit. Like anybody else.”

  I pressed my forehead against the cool window. “Exactly.”

  Arthur couldn’t really know that I’ve never lived my life. I laugh it off sometimes, saying everybody ha
s problems, but, Moritz, you know me. You know my biggest problem wasn’t being electro-sensitive or having epilepsy.

  My problem was being alone.

  If Auburn-Stache had told me about the others from the start, I might not have been.

  I opened my eyes and looked at reddish buildings and electricity the texture of splinters and felt like people treat the world like it’s no biggie.

  When we were getting off at the bustling Union Station, me clinging close to Arthur like some barnacle because I thought the crowd was an ocean that could pull me anywhere, I caught girls by the door staring at him, whispering and giggling. Not nice giggling.

  Arthur noticed, too, and just waved at them. The giggling stopped.

  I am getting something out of this. I’m learning from awkward.

  So now our awkward part, Moritz.

  If this is bad timing, what with your emolocation boomeranging, I’m sorry. But gird your loins:

  Could you possibly tone down your romantic overtures?

  It’s not like I have a problem with you loving me. I love you, too, you know. But I don’t know how to respond when you talk like you’re . . . in love with me. Like when you told me you, um, programmed Owen’s voice to sound like me? You get how that sounds . . . I don’t want to say creepy. But if he’s so great (and he really seems like he is!), that’s not okay!

  I’m not asking you to change. I feel lame when you write “the boy I love” and I feel like it would be polite to reciprocate, but I don’t feel the same way, exactly.

  So I appreciate your feelings . . . but maybe keep them to yourself? A little?

  God, this sounds terrible, like I’m trying to shove you into a closet or something. That’s not what I’m going for, by the Hammer of Thor!

  It just feels like we’re losing our even footing, you know?

  UpandFree (Not DownandOut)

  P.S. How much did you know about me before we became friends? When you got that first letter from me, did you already know my story? Was I a fictional character to you?