Steampunk!: An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories (40 page)

Some writers write to escape reality. Others write to understand it. But the best writers write in order to take possession of reality, and so transform it.

I copy it down and think about what it means. I get the first part about escaping reality — that makes perfect sense. And I suppose it makes sense to try to understand the world, too. But the last part makes me uneasy. Taking possession of reality sounds like something Steam Girl's mother would say. I don't know. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to get it.

But then Mrs. Hendricks tells us to spend the rest of the period working on our stories, and for the first time in days I start writing again. I write a whole new chapter in the next half hour, where Rocket Boy leaves the princess with the heaving breasts and flies off to explore one of Saturn's moons. He finds an abandoned art gallery beside a frozen lake, with paintings hung on every wall. There's one picture he can't stop looking at: a strange portrait of an oddly dressed girl — a little chubby and kind of weird, but somehow very beautiful. Faded blue dress, scruffy leather jacket, long lace-up boots, and black-rimmed glasses. And, of course, flying helmet and goggles.

She shone like a bright strange star shining in those empty lifeless halls,
I write. Cheesy, I know, but that's how I feel.

Anyway, in my story, the moment Rocket Boy reaches out and touches the painting of Steam Girl, she comes to life and appears beside him, freed from the magical picture. She thanks Rocket Boy with a kiss (I manage to avoid the whole "heaving breasts" thing this time), and she explains how she was tricked into posing for a portrait by an evil artist-magician, who trapped her in the frame and kidnapped her father. Then they climb on board the
Silver Arrow
and fly off to rescue Professor Swift—but that will have to wait for chapter three.

When the bell rings, I put away my story and walk to her desk, where she's curled over her notebook, working furiously.

"The next installment?" I say. But she barely glances up. She closes the book and goes to put it in her bag.

"Oops!" As he goes past, Michael Carmichael gives me a shove from behind so I fall against her, and we both tumble to the floor.

Laughter ripples through the room, and I feel my face turn red. But she just calmly climbs to her feet and turns to face Michael.

"You know the problem with you, Michael Carmichael?" she says. "You're reality incarnate."

The whole class goes quiet. Michael makes a face. "What does that even
mean?"

"If you
imagine
a dog," she goes on, "it's always loyal and fluffy and cute. But in real life, dogs bite your hand and pee on the carpet and have sex with the sofa."

That gets more laughs. But she keeps going. "That's what you are, Michael Carmichael. You're dog pee on the carpet."

In the silence that follows, Michael's mouth moves but no sound comes out.

While Mrs. Hendricks chews them both out I pick up the notebook where it's fallen on the floor. It's open on the last page, which is filled with a single detailed drawing.

"What's this?" I say, once we're out in the hallway.

She glances at the page I'm holding up.

"It's Steam Girl's last gadget," she says, not meeting my eyes.

"It's a gun," I say slowly. My throat feels dry.

She looks at the floor but says nothing.

"I thought Steam Girl hated guns. I thought she never used them. It
is
a gun, isn't it?" I ask.

"It's the Reality Gun," she says quietly. "What the hell is a Reality Gun?" I say. "It kills reality."

And then she takes the notebook from my hand and puts it in her bag.

After school, she's waiting at the gate, just like that first time. She looks very alone as the crowd flows by. Kids point and laugh.

We walk together to the first intersection. She seems tired.

"I have one more thing to tell you," she says.

"OK," I say.

"You know how I told you Steam Girl and her father went through the door?" she says.

I nod.

"Well, it took them to Earth," she says, "just like her mother told them it would. But it wasn't
their
Earth — it was a different world, a different universe. The
wrong
universe. This world was . . . grayer. Sadder. And the rules were different. Her gadgets didn't work the same. Technology wasn't magic anymore. Even people were different there. Less courageous, less beautiful and clever. And so
they
changed, too . . ."

She sounds so sad, I look to see if she's crying. Her face is pale, like DYLAN chalk. 
^H
°
^RR
°

"Couldn't they go back?" I say. "Back through the door?"

"No," she says. "Because after they went through, the door disappeared. It was a trap, you see — the whole thing had been a trap. Steam Girl's mother had planned it all along—to trick them into going through the wormhole to this totally different universe, where they could no longer mess up her plans. She wanted them out of her life completely."

"So . . . what happened next?"

"That's it," she says. "That's all there is."

"You mean that's the end of the story?" I can't believe it.

She says nothing. We wait at the lights till the red man turns green.

"Bye," she says, and she crosses the road.

She's not in English on Friday.

Michael's not there either. But Amanda is, and she smiles at me. A warm, genuine smile.

When I hand in my story, Mrs. Hendricks seems impressed. "Looks like you were quite inspired," she says.

"I
was
inspired," I say. "By Steam Girl."

Mrs. Hendricks looks confused; of course she won't know about Steam Girl. "I mean — the new girl. Wears a flying helmet and goggles?"

"Oh!" she says, surprised. "You mean Shanaia Swift? I didn't know you were friends."

"Um — kind of," I say. "She's a little weird, but the thing is she tells the most amazing stories—all about this really smart inventor called Steam Girl, who travels the universe in an airship, having adventures with her father and . . ." I realize I'm blushing and stop talking.

Mrs. Hendricks frowns, flicking through my story. "I had no idea," she says. "She's always so quiet in class. And she hasn't handed in a single piece of work. Listen, Redmond, if you talk to her over the weekend, could you ask her to come see me first thing on Monday? I'd really like to give her a chance to hand something in for this assignment, even if it's late. Sounds like it would be worth the wait . . . ."

"I will," I say.

At lunchtime I go to the incinerator, just in case.

After five minutes, I'm getting ready to go when Michael Carmichael appears. "Where is she?" he says. "Who?" I say.

"Your freakish girlfriend," he says. "Obviously." I pick up my bag and try to walk to the safety of the library. But Michael puts a hand on my chest to stop me.

"I want you to give her a message," he says. "From me to her." "Let me go," I say as clearly as I can. My voice is shaking. "Tell her this is from me," he says, his hand still on my shirt. "For yesterday."

And then he hits me in the face.

I stay on my hands and knees till he's gone, watching blood drip from my face onto the dusty asphalt. Then I sit on the ground by the concrete wall with a wad of tissues pressed against the cut in my mouth.

I can feel it swelling up. I should go to the nurse and get some ice. But I don't. 

When the bell rings, I get up and head for class. The bleeding has stopped, but my whole face is throbbing with pain. As I enter the science block, someone steps out of the shadows and grabs my arm.

It's her.
Shanaia.
"I've got something to show you," she says, guiding me out into the thin sunlight. She seems nervous, distracted. "I finished it. It's ready."

"Why weren't you in English?" I say. My voice is muffled. It hurts to talk. "Mrs. Hendricks wants to see you. . . ."

"Never mind that," she says, reaching for her bag. "I brought the —"

And then she sees my face and stops. "Oh!" she says. "What happened?"

"What do you
think
happened?" I'm annoyed all of a sudden. I don't want to be, but I am. "It's a message for you. From Michael Carmichael. For yesterday."

She lifts a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. . . ."

"That's OK," I say, sounding more sarcastic than I mean to. "Everyone thinks you're my girlfriend anyway. It's not the first time I've been pushed around because I hang out with you."

She takes a step back, both hands held up as if I might hit her. Her neck is turning red, but this time it doesn't make me feel good.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, shaking my head. "I just . . ."

But she's already gone, half walking, half running across the asphalt, and I'm too tired and sore to go after her. Maybe I don't want to. I don't know what I want anymore. I just stand there, heavy and alone, until the next bell tells me I'm late for class. My head hurts. I take a deep breath and go back to school.

The world feels cheap this afternoon. The sky is pale and empty; colors are faded. Everything's dirty and ugly and falling apart. I sit in science class with my head on my desk. The teacher is talking about vacuums, which pretty much sums up how I feel. After a while I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I imagine I'm lying on a warm sand dune, beside a girl. Stroking her soft white neck.

Not her, this time. Just a girl. An imaginary girl.

By home time, I'm sleepy and numb. I head for the main gate, staring at the ground in front of my feet. But there's something going on — a crowd in the way. Then I hear her voice and I start pushing my way to the front so I can see.

Her face is red, with tears in her eyes. Michael Carmichael looks angrier than ever before. At first I think he's wearing some kind of makeup, but then I realize he's bleeding from his lip, and his T-shirt is torn at the neck. He steps forward and pushes her shoulder, sending her back against the circle of onlookers, who spread out like a school of fish.

"You stupid fat freak," Michael says in a shaky voice. "Stupid fat little bitch!"

He backhands her across the face, so hard she spins around, glasses flying, ending up on one knee a few feet from me. The crowd almost moans.

Michael is still advancing on her. Without thinking, I step forward and raise my hand.

"Leave her alone," I say. It comes out as a kind of squeak.

Next thing I know I'm on the ground and Michael's looming over me, shouting something I can't hear.

Behind him, I can see Shanaia pulling something out of her bag, something awkward and heavy, metallic and long. Then she stands up, pointing it straight at him, holding tightly with both hands.

It's a gun. Covered in her usual gears and rusting dials and stuff, but still unmistakably a gun. The Reality Gun. I can't tell if it's a toy gun underneath or the real thing — and from the look on his face, neither can Michael. He freezes and then starts slowly backing away.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell is
that?"
He tries to laugh, but the sound he makes is broken and small.

No one speaks or moves for what seems like a really long time. Then she reaches up with one hand and pulls her goggles down over her eyes. There's shouting back near the administration block; teachers are coming.

And then she pulls the trigger. There's a bang and a flash and smoke and sparks. No, not smoke: steam. The air is full of steam, like a thick billowing cloud of warm wet fog. Kids scream and people start running and someone knocks me flat. When I manage to get up again, the steam is slowly clearing and the crowd has scattered. Shanaia is gone. Her flying helmet and goggles lie abandoned on the ground. The Reality Gun is there, too, still steaming, broken and split. Michael stands in the center of it all, hands at his side, mouth open, eyes wide.

"Are . . . are you OK?" I say, moving closer.

Michael turns and looks at me like he doesn't know who I am.

"Shit," he breathes out slowly, and then he shakes himself and looks down at his hands.
"Shit."

He's fine. I grab Steam Girl's helmet and goggles and shove them in my bag; then I run through the school gates and down the road before anyone can stop me.

I run most of the way home. When I open the door, my hands are shaking so much I almost drop the keys.

Inside, it's dark and quiet. I throw my bag into my room and hit the light switch, but nothing happens. I find Mom in the garden, reading a book.

"There's been a power cut," she says. "No computer or TV, I'm afraid—"

"When — I mean, how long has it been out?"

"About fifteen minutes, I guess." She closes her book and covers a yawn. "Do you want me to get you a sandwich?"

I shake my head and run back out to the street. No lights are on anywhere. The air is eerily quiet: no cars driving past or planes flying overhead. No one's mowing the lawn or listening to music. Nothing. I start to run again, along the empty road, listening to the buzzing in my head.