Ice Shock (2 page)

He's dreaming. A flying craft the size of a fighter plane just dropped me off in a public park! The story has to be bigger than that.

But Benicio seems pretty confident. “Trust me, cuz. I've done this many times. And I'm guessing so have our friends in the NRO.”

As the window closes, Benicio takes one last look around. “You're a lucky guy to live here. I sure hope you realize what you've got.”

“Ek Naab isn't exactly a dump.”

“Small horizons, my friend. Sometimes I think it would be nice to live in the outside world.”

With that, the window seals. Benicio grins, does a mock salute, then raises the Muwan slowly over the trees.

And with a sudden whoosh of air being sucked upward, he's gone.

I tighten the scarf, zip my jacket, check my watch. It's only six a.m. Still buzzing from the rush, I walk out of the park.

Practically floating.

I've had the dream every night this week. By now I'm pretty exhausted. Here's how it goes
.

On a hot, sunny day, I'm taking a stroll. I don't recognize the street, but something tells me that I should. Then I realize something strange: there are no cars. I'm walking, then I notice I'm barefoot. The asphalt is warm, feels good on the soles of my feet. The sky is a deep powder blue. Not a cloud in sight. Every yard I pass is filled with rosemary and lavender—the air is thick with the smell. I notice grapevines and fig trees, all with plump green leaves. I'm just beginning to wonder where I'm going when I see my house. That's when it hits me that I'm on my own street
.

The door to my house is open, swinging gently on the hinges. There's no one in sight. It feels eerie; there's always someone hanging around in this neighborhood. Today it's just me
.

The door blows open, inviting me in. I hear music playing faintly. Miles Davis—a tune from
Kind of Blue
.

And my heart picks up a beat
.

I wander into the kitchen. It's all been cleared, no food in sight. The fridge door too—none of the usual papers or my fading artwork from third grade. There's just one postcard
.

There's a noise behind me. I spin around and nearly faint. He walks through the kitchen door. It's him—my dad
.

He's so tall, so alive. Tan, a picture of health, wearing his usual checked shirt and cords, dark hair slicked back with gel. Watching him standing casually in our kitchen, as though he'd just dropped in from the college, I can hardly breathe
.

Dad doesn't look at me, just reaches for the fridge door
.

“Hey, son. Do you ever feel like you forgot something? A little thing? I do it all the time—overlook things. Detail, that's the name of the game. But then, you've already begun.”

That's all he says. He pours himself a glass of milk
.

Maybe I finally manage to mumble something, I can't remember. Whatever I say, he gives me a quizzical look. “Where've I been? Well, yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about that.”

He takes my arm. “Listen, son, your mother and I, we've had some problems. This is how it goes between grown-ups sometimes. You know?”

I shake his hand away. “I don't know.” Mouth dry, I tell him, “I thought you were dead.”

Dad looks disappointed. “It wasn't my idea.”

“What?!”

“The whole death thing. Not my idea.”

He shakes his head now, looking annoyed
.

“Then whose?”

“Your mother's.”

“And you agreed?”

He pauses, hands on hips. “Yeah.”

I stagger, lean back on the kitchen counter for support
.

“You and Mom … decided to make me think you were dead?”

“She decided.”

“What?!”

He says nothing for a while, just stares at me as though wondering what to do next. “I guess so, son. Like I said, I'm sorry. I was in Mexico.”

Now I'm starting to feel furious, betrayed
.

“You were in Mexico? Why didn't you call? One lousy phone call? You left me thinking you died?”

His eyes fill with sorrow. I'm totally confused, not to mention upset. What kind of parents would deceive their child like that? And how the heck did he engineer that plane crash?

Then (always then), the dream ends; I wake up
.

The first few times, it feels so real that I wake up in actual tears, sobbing
.

Then in some weird way, I start to enjoy it. Somehow, it's like seeing my dad alive again. Even though we keep playing out the same little scene, it feels real. I sense his presence again. That's way better than nothing. I go to sleep and I'm hoping the dream is going to happen again
.

My recurring dream is something I don't want to think about. Just remembering that Montoyo and Benicio know about it makes me cringe.

Get some therapy?

It's the last thing I want to talk about. That's why I was blogging … so much easier when there's no face-to-face reaction.

And the dream is definitely not something I can discuss with Mom.

Things were better between Mom and me when we came back from Mexico, but only for a while. It didn't take long to figure out that she'd been taking extra-special care not to upset me. I really scared everyone, going missing in Mexico like that. Every so often I can almost see the question forming itself on her lips.

What on earth happened to you?

And yet Mom never, never dares to ask. Not seriously—not in a way that might mean I'd actually tell her the truth.

Mom recovered a bit when she found out that Camila was Dad's long-lost daughter, that Dad's murder wasn't connected to any funny business with a woman. We had some nice conversations about Camila and the afternoon that I spent with her. (Unbelievable to think it was only that …) A couple of times, I got a bit down and Mom would comfort me.

But deep down we both know that we're still in the dark about what happened to Dad.

Maybe Mom made a secret pact, a vow or something, because ever since I came back from Mexico, she's started going to church regularly. Every Sunday, and at least once during the week. I've caught her with rosary beads too. She's asked me to go with her, many times. I always make excuses.

We're coming up to our first Christmas without Dad. I can sense the stress piling on.

“Let's do Christmas in a restaurant this year,” she says one morning, just a little too brightly.

“Nah … doesn't seem right.”

“Then let's make a thing of it. Go to a hotel, splurge a bit.”

“A hotel? Where?”

“The Cotswolds somewhere. You pick.”

“Okay,” I say. “Bibury. That hotel where we had lunch that time.”

Mom's face drops. “Not Bibury.”

Of course she doesn't want to go back to that hotel in Bibury; it was Dad's favorite. If the point of going away for Christmas is to avoid thinking about Dad, then Bibury is sure to spoil her plan.

But I don't want to avoid thinking about Dad. So, I put my foot down. “If it's not that hotel in Bibury, then I'm not going. I'd rather stay here—at least we've got good TV.”

Mom just blanches. A few months ago I'd have gotten yelled at for talking to her like that. Somehow, not now. What's changed? Is it Mom, or me?

I can see this argument coming back to haunt me one of these days.

In the meantime, Mom tries again to get me interested in “culture.” Culture! I'm still trying to get a grip on what happened in Ek Naab and all this Mayan heritage it turns out I have—now Mom wants me to go to museums and concerts. She's terrified of going anywhere alone, that's what it is. How can I refuse?

Today, however, Mom hits upon a winning strategy, a way to ensure I'm not just dragged along in a sulk. She invites Ollie to join us.

Mom's put her finger right on my weak spot.

Ollie had to go away with her family for a few weeks after we returned from Mexico. And I didn't see too much of Tyler either. So I've been hanging out with a girl from school
named Emmy. We have one of those on-again-off-again friendships. Good friends in elementary school, then her folks split up. She moved away from Oxford to live with her dad, but now this semester she's back. Guess things didn't work out so well with her father. She's one of those girls who like to watch boys at the skate park. And like all girls, she talks a lot. Which suits me fine—saves me the trouble.

Tyler, though—that's a tricky issue. We were never what you'd call close friends; we only really met at capoeira. Mexico didn't help. Tyler is still mad at me for the fact that he and Ollie wound up being interrogated by those NRO guys. He's even angrier that weeks and even months later, I'm still tight as a clam on the subject of what really happened.

I stick with the UFO abduction story, even though I think he sees right through that.

I need Tyler, though, that's the thing. He's the best capoeira player in our age range, and I need the practice. We've even had our official “baptisms” now: ceremonies where you get a
corda
and an
apelido
—a color-coded belt and a capoeira nickname.

Tyler's
apelido
is “Eddy G,” after the capoeira fighter from the video game
Tekken
. And I'm “Mariposa”—butterfly, after my favorite capoeira move,
mariposa
, the “butterfly twist.” I'm always practicing. It's pretty darn tricky.

I'd never have guessed that capoeira could get me out of so much trouble. Even better, I'm beginning to see a real
potential for learning to protect myself. For that, I have to practice it as a contact sport and not just acrobatics. At my capoeira school, they'll never allow that.

So, Tyler and I get together once in a while, and we agree—for a few minutes only—to really go for it.

That's how I can tell he's mad at me; I have the bruises to prove it.

Mom called Ollie about this concert Mom's excited about. Of course, Ollie said yes.

I haven't gone out of my way to avoid Tyler, but Ollie? I've been avoiding her.

She's a girl, so she doesn't like having her questions ignored or dodged. And the girl is gorgeous. Obviously, if she wants me to talk, then I'm going to have a hard time resisting. The only solution I've come up with is to seem very, very busy.

It was working, too, until Mom booked us all to go to this concert.

The performer, a Chilean tenor named Rodrigo del Pozo, is an old friend of Dad's from college or something. I remember him from when I was a little kid. His daughter and I used to play together before they moved back to Chile. I never heard his singing, though, which Mom and Dad always said was really special. Mom insists that we go to his concert. He's a friend of Dad's, so I guess that's fair.

We meet in Turl Street outside the college. People in scarves scamper between the music, art, and gift shops, getting in
some Christmas shopping. Hefty, wrought-iron streetlights cast an orange glow. The sandstone college buildings look even more golden by night. I love Oxford like this.

Ollie wears the North Oxford preppy fashion. Don't ask me where they find out the rules, but somehow these girls all dress the same. Ruffled short skirts, cute little tops, tailored velveteen jackets, and pashminas—that sort of thing.

She gives me a big haven't-seen-you-in-forever-and-I've-missed-you hug.

Inside the college chapel, burning candles give the room a solemn, wintry feel. Ollie and I sit a little way behind Mom. The band—there's only three of them—play old instruments: lutes and those cellolike things. I guess I was about ten years old last time Rodrigo was here. Now I realize that he's only a few inches taller than me. There are a few flecks of gray in his hair; apart from that he doesn't seem much older, but then he's got a sort of youthful face.

Rodrigo and a pretty, raven-haired soprano sing these romantic-sounding songs in Spanish and Italian. Not my scene at all, but after a few songs I'm actually starting to like it.

In fact, I realize that the music is having a strange effect on me. The songs sound medieval, and before long I'm reminded of banquets in castles, horseback quests through forests, and beautiful elves. I steal a glance at Ollie, and I'm more than a little surprised to find her staring straight back. We hold each
other's gaze for a full ten seconds—it feels like eternity. She takes hold of my hand. I freeze; I simply have no idea what to do.