Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) (8 page)

My first stop is the foster house, not so much for info, but for resources. I move fast, retracing the route the truck guy took on Friday until, after a long walk, I finally find the correct street. I know the house by the half-dead evergreen with its brown, thistly branches, the garbage can that lies tipped on its side, and the bits of trash littering the front yard.

I lift the latch on the gate and skulk around the back of the house, hoping no one's home. The window where “my” room is doesn't have a screen. I jimmy it until it slides open.

The place is disgusting. Junk all over the floor. Walls covered in strange flags and disturbing posters. A stop sign nailed to the ceiling over the door.

I can totally see the guy who lives in this room torturing that Warren kid.

The guy who lives in this room is tortured himself.

I listen for voices, but the house is still. Perfect. I find a duffel bag and ransack the place. Stuff some clothes in it. They're all rocker junk. Skinny jeans and flannels. In the back of the closet I find a pair of Vans and an old skateboard. Nice. I grab a watch and some other odds and ends. Under the mattress I find some trashy magazines and rolled-up bills. I leave the zines, stuff the money in my pocket, then stop to look around. I gotta be smart about this. Make it look like nothing's out of the ordinary. So I slide the window shut. Grab the board and walk through the house. Leave a note on the kitchen table.

Gone for a couple of days.

–Danny

I leave through the front door, knowing the easy part of today's plan is behind me.

The board
cla-clacks
down the sidewalk. The deck sags pretty bad, but at least the wheels aren't too soft. The directions are still in my pocket, but I have the route pretty much memorized. West on Greenway Road, north on 67th, east on Juniper.

After I get there comes the hard part.

For now, though, it's push off and ride, push off and ride. The rumble of the wheels keeps me grounded. I ease into a turn, pop an ollie, and biff. Get up, brush myself off. The guy who owns this body is totally not a skater. I have to fight just to keep steady. At least, when I'm moving, The Hair stays out of my face.

It made me nervous, walking into that library on Saturday. I thought for sure the woman at the information desk was going to kick me out when I asked for help. But she just smiled over her glasses and walked me over to the computers.

“Anyone can use them?”

“Yes, of course.”

“For free?”

She nodded. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.” She started to walk away, but I stopped her. I don't know if it was the look on my face or what it was I told her I was looking for, but she pulled up a chair beside me and helped me search.

I'm just glad I found out about my parents after she'd been called away to another task.

She'd directed me to the County Recorder's Office. I typed Dad's name into the search field, selected Death Certificate from the menu, and there it was. Official seal, signatures, everything.

Parker Ogden. Cause of death: blunt trauma as result of traffic accident. Place of disposition: Sonoran Valley Cemetery.

I did the same search for Mom.

Rebecca Ogden. Cause of death: blunt trauma as result of traffic accident. Place of disposition: Sonoran Valley Cemetery.

As I printed out the information, the pieces fell into place. Dead parents. Foster home. The date of death on the screen said it happened when I was eleven, so I guess that explains why I changed districts and enrolled in Eevee's school.

But.

Friday morning I said goodbye to Mom before heading over to Germ's. Before the last gig with Red December. Before the explosion.

Dad and I were going to take the boat out on Saturday. We heard they'd lifted restrictions on the marina, and it'd been a long time since we'd done anything fun like that.

My wheel catches a rock and the board stops dead, flinging me forward. I try to keep from falling, but my banged-up knee is useless. I kick the board across the sidewalk. It lands upside down. I kick it again and again, yelling for no reason. When it skids to a stop, I watch the wheels spin.

If I'm here, who's there? Who went boating with Dad?

And who is in the ground at Sonoran Valley Cemetery?

I set the board right side up again and take off, dodging the rocks, pushing myself faster, faster.

I've never been to a cemetery before. Don't know what I expected, but it's not this. The gravestones are flat on the ground, not standing upright like you see in movies. Most are decorated with faded silk flowers and pinwheels. The place is massive. There's no way I'm going to find them.

I read as many names as I can as I walk along the drive, my board in my hands. Schwartz. Hernandez. Blake. Mullins. An old guy in a straw hat drives up in a golf cart.

“Can I help you, son?” He squints, even with his eyes shaded.

“I'm looking for someone. Two people, actually. Ogden?”

He makes a thinking face, closing one eye and puckering his mouth. Then he motions with his head. “Come on.”

I take the passenger seat and lay the board across my lap. The golf cart starts with a jolt. “Recent?” he asks, steering the cart and peering out over the lawns.

“2008.”

We pull up to a building the size of a large toolshed. He steps inside and returns with a notebook. Flips through the pages, muttering my last name under his breath. “Parker and Rebecca?”

My stomach caves.

“Bit of a walk. I'll take you.”

He climbs back into the golf cart and we wind around another turn, past a wall of names and a quote carved into the granite.
O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?

“Family?”

“My friend's parents,” I lie. He stops the cart under a huge tree, near a stone bench. “About twenty paces that way.” He points. “Take your time.”

“Thanks.”

The cart's wheels crunch the gravel as he drives away. Then I'm standing there by myself and I can't move.

I look up into the sky. Clouds breeze by. Leaves wave in the sunlight. It's a perfect day. A perfect, horrible, awful, terrible day. Why won't the ground open up and swallow me now?

“You come all this way for nothing?” My voice sounds small, not brave. I force one leg to move. Then the other. The sun glints off a gazing ball, and wind chimes ring nearby. I read the names out loud as I go.

“Rollins. Perkins. Dominguez.”

Then I see them and my legs turn to liquid. I crouch down to keep from falling to my knees.

Their grave is simple. No flowers or pinwheels. Just a single bronze plaque edged by green grass, their names side by side with an infinity symbol between. I stare at it a long, long time. Like I'm waiting for the
Twilight Zone
music to start, or Germ to step out from behind a tree and tell me this is some kind of joke.

But he doesn't. And it's not.

Danny's not around when I get home from school. And he's not around for dinner either, which annoys Dad. I keep checking my phone, thinking maybe he's lost and I missed his call.

But no.

I sit on the tree stump in the strip of yard between Mom's and Dad's. Bugs circle under the streetlight, growing bright and then dim as they move into and away from the bulb. Every now and again one flies too close and smashes into the plastic or the pole. From down here, it's just a tapping sound. Up there, though, it must be cataclysmic. Movement beyond the bugs catches my eye. I peer through the light to Warren's rooftop across the street, where a figure sits alone.

It's got to be after seven. Where is Missy?

Despite my better judgment, I decide to find out.

He doesn't hear me ascend the ladder, but when I make the awkward transition to the roof, he turns around.

“Oh,” he says, “it's you.” Disappointed.

He's wearing the special-task-forces night-vision goggles he got for his thirteenth birthday, and a leather fighter-pilot jacket, despite the fact that it's 80° out. Also, his hair is combed.

He must really like her.

I'm not supposed to know about the note, so I need to proceed with caution. On a wooden tray nestled between the telescopes are Oreos, strawberries,
Star Wars
special-edition mugs and a bottle of white grape juice. “That's quite a spread for a solo rooftop spectacle.”

“Clearly I was expecting someone.” He sounds miserable, and looks it, too, sitting with his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his feet dangling off the edge of the roof.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

I scrape the toe of my shoe along the sandpaper shingles. “Do you want me to leave?”

He shrugs, but as I turn to go back to the ladder, he says, “You can stay if you want.”

Walking along the rooftop can be tricky, especially when it's congested with all of Warren's observation equipment. Warren can walk the roof with the agility of a mountain goat, but me, I'm not so goat-footed.

“What's the show tonight?” I find a spot near the tray, beside a duffel bag.

“Lyrids meteor shower. Here.” He hands me a pair of night-vision goggles. “You don't want to have these on for the show, but they're kind of fun for now.”

I slip them over my head and the world is bathed in sea green. The rooftops and trees snap into clear focus. A man takes out the garbage. Another guy scoots around on a skateboard. The dog next door barks to be let inside.

Warren rummages through the duffel bag and pulls out what looks like a gun. For a fraction of a second, I panic. I know Warren is mad at me, but he can't be
that
kind of mad.

“Check this out.” His voice sounds a little brighter. “It's a vintage Skywatch 3000 Instant Star and Constellation Identifier. I traded up with one of my raiding friends. Still works perfectly.”

“You mean it's not a laser weapon?”

“I wish. Here.” He hands it to me. “Just point and shoot.”

I hold the gun up at the sky and he presses a button on the back. The thing bleeps and a woman's voice says, “Alkaid. Constellation: Ursa Major. Visual magnitude: 1-point-86. Right ascension: 10 hours, 67 minutes, 46 seconds.”

“Cool.” I carefully hand it back to him.

“Can you believe he traded the pop-top Death Star for it? Amateurs.”

His smile drops and he goes back to sad Warren. Silence settles between us until, finally, he clears his throat. “I invited Missy Bivins over.”

I can't say I know, so I don't say anything.

“She backed out at the last minute.”

“So she was going to make it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's good, right?”

“Guess so.”

We sit in our silence and our goggles and this awkward distance between us. He eats an Oreo, so I follow suit. Next, a strawberry, and I do, too. We sip grape juice. Look around. Sigh. Listen to the sounds of the neighborhood and wait for the meteors. It's like tiptoeing through land mines in foreign territory. I have no idea where to step next. When I can't stand it any longer, I clear my throat. “We need to talk about…stuff.”

He doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't understand what I meant. “About the thing with Danny.”

“Do we have to do it now?”

“You'd rather just pretend it's not happening?”

“What
is
happening, Eevee?”

“Not what you think.”

“Stoner-face bully staying at your dad's house isn't what I think?” He picks up an Oreo and chucks it over the side of the house. I watch it with the night vision until it falls out of sight.

“No. It's not what you think. And you just wasted a perfectly good Oreo.”

He stands and paces the six feet of roof not occupied by astronomy equipment or food.

“Will you sit down and hear me out, please?”

He crosses his arms. He's stubborn like a goat, too.

“Fine. Don't sit. Just listen. Either Danny is having a mental breakdown, or he's from somewhere else.”

“What does that mean?”

“Friday in English he woke up and ran out of class. I didn't think much about it. But then he showed up at my house that night saying he needed my help.”

“Why you? Why not one of his loser friends?”

I choose my words with care. “He said I was the only person he knew.”

“You? He doesn't know you. Not really.”

“Right. Then he asked why there aren't security checkpoints and stuff here.”

“What?”

“Wherever he's from, it's way different than here. He was really freaked out.” I look at my hands. “He said he'd met me at a museum…and that I'd kissed him.”

“Him?!” Now his wheels are turning. He sits down, facing me.

“I
know.
He's not who we think he is.”

He considers this a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. He's still Danny Ogden, resident cretin.”

I shift my weight. The shingles get uncomfortable after a while. “You have to believe me, Warren. It's only been a couple of days, but he's definitely not the same guy who…” I don't have to finish the sentence.

He looks away. “Where's he from, then?”

“Well, my first thought was he's from the future.”

He scoffs. “That's a pretty big leap.”

“I know. That theory doesn't work, but he still isn't who we think he is.”

“What did you tell your parents? Why is your dad letting him stay there?”

“That's another weird thing.” I pick up a strawberry and take a bite. “The Danny we know lives with a foster family, but this Danny says he lives with his parents. Only he can't find them. Anyway, my parents took pity on him and let him stay.”

“Pity on
him
? Why would anyone take pity on him?”

I think about how scared Danny looked when he showed up at my door. “If I found myself lost and afraid, I'd want someone to help me.”

“I can't see him fitting in at your dad's.”

I shrug. “So far so good.”

“So far? How long is he going to stay?”

“Until we figure out what happened to him.”

“We? If you think I'm getting involved in this, think again, Solomon. This is your trip into Loserville, not mine.”

He turns away, but I know how to win this game. “Suit yourself.” I keep my voice cool. “But when it turns out to really be time travel or body snatchers or
whatever
awesome thing, I'll be the one getting the credit.”

“You're totally out of your league.”

“And you're totally in for a surprise.” I eat an Oreo and watch him simmer.

“What if he's just having a bad drug trip?”

“I don't think so. My gut tells me he's clean.”

He snorts. “Your gut. The compass of all scientific reason.”

“Excuse me? Whose idea for cricket cryogenics won us a trip to the National Science Foundation youth conference? My gut's done us a lot of good.”

He rolls his eyes. “So what am
I
supposed to do to help
your
stoner freak?”

“Talk to him. See if there's anything that sparks ideas or connections with that big brain of yours.”

Want to win with Warren? Compliment his intelligence.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, fine. But if he thinks he's going to push me around again…”

“He won't.”

“Better not.” He picks up the star gun and points it at the sky. The woman croons out the coordinates and particulars of the constellation Gemini, then silence settles again between us, only it's not the awkward kind this time.

“Warren,” I say after a while. “I'm sorry your evening didn't go as planned, but thanks for talking to me about all this. No one gets me like you do.” I hold out my fist. “Grok?”

“Grok.” He bumps my fist with his own, then takes off his goggles. “About time to start.”

It's been a while since I've seen his whole face. I pull my goggles off, too, and our shapes blur as my eyes adjust again to the dark.

We sit in silence, waiting for the light show. Two strangers in a strange new land.

Fifteen meteors later, I walk back across the street. The guy on the skateboard I'd seen from Warren's roof rolls toward me.

It's Danny.

“Wow, what happened to you?” I point at his long shorts and retro robot shirt. “You almost look normal.”

“I almost feel normal.” He stops the board with one foot on the ground. “Though I keep expecting patrols to come bust me for being out past curfew.”

“We don't have curfew around here. Well, my dad does, but that's different. So, where did you get all this?”

“Raided the foster house,” he says, skating away. “And went shopping.”

“What about your parents?”

He flips the board and lands, skates a half circle around me and flips the board again. Either he didn't hear the question or he doesn't want to answer. “I talked to Warren,” I say, louder.