“A room for two, please,” Jon said, putting the MasterCharge and the drivers license with his picture—a straight-on shot of his head that Jon thought might have been taken from Dr. Bernhard’s TV when Jon had been watching Star Trek or Dr. Strangelove, but perhaps just faked entirely—down on the counter. “Uh. With two beds.”
“Where’s your parents, sport?” the man behind the counter asked, looking out under the awning at a young couple arguing about the trunk of their car. “They have to get your room.”
“Those aren’t my parents,” Jon said. “It’s just me. I know I look young for my age, but—”
“Ha, ha, very funny, go on home. I can’t rent rooms to little kids.”
Jon put the silver cigarette case on the counter. “I’m old enough to get a room. Look at my ID.”
“’Look at my ID’,” the man behind the counter mimicked. “I used better fake ID’s to get into strip joints when I was in junior high school. And that was twenty years ago. Go on, I’ve got actual customers coming in.”
And he did—the arguing couple had apparently made their peace about the trunk of their car, and were coming inside the small, spare lobby. No time to waste, then. Jon held the silver cigarette case up, holding the mirrored side out to the motel clerk.
“Hey, look at this,” he said, and pressed the button.
There was a blue flash, a high-pitched sound, sort of like a cassette tape being rewound very, very fast. He felt both excited and nervous—he hadn’t tested it, and had no idea if, when it came down to it, the thing would actually work.
“I’m old enough to check in, obviously,” Jon said. “Give us a room, use the credit card thing, and don’t bother us, and stop harassing good customers like me or you’re probably going to get fired.”
Blankly, the man took Jon’s credit card, ran it through the machine. “Do you want smoking or non-smoking?” the man asked, his voice almost a monotone.
“Smoking or non-smoking what?” Jon asked.
“A smoking or non-smoking room,” the man said.
“They make them different now? Wow. Uh, smoking,” he said. Megan hadn’t smoked the entire drive, but he knew she liked to smoke sometimes. So better safe than sorry.
“I have two single kings, three single queens and two double twins, that are smoking. The king rooms have handicapped access,” the man said.
“Um. Double means there are two beds, right?”
“The double rooms have two beds,” the man said.
“I’ll take that room.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and then handed Jon a piece of paper on the clipboard. “Please sign the receipt and fill this out.”
Jon scribbled a abstract mark on the signature line. He wondered if Howard Kaufmann, the name on his license and credit cards, was a real person, or if it had all been manufactured, down to perhaps actual accounts with charge card companies and banks, by Dr. Bernhard. He referred to his license for his address—Howard Kaufmann hailed from Thomasville, Indiana—and made up the car license and make and model, since there wouldn’t be any reason to put down information for the car they were actually driving in. Damn, motels sure wanted to know a lot of stuff just to rent somebody a room.
“Here are your keys,” the man said, handing Jon two keys. “Room 233.”
“Thanks,” he said. He glanced behind him, and the couple that had just come in were still engaged in their own lively discussion and not paying any attention to him. “And give these guys behind me their room for half-price. Okay?”
“Half-price,” the man said, nodding.
Jon walked out the door, whistling. It took him a moment to locate the 1981 Dodge Aries they were driving, and when he did, he thought again that they were driving too nice a car, but maybe they could pick another one to leave in. He knocked on the door, and Megan flipped the locks—power locks; so cool—and he got in.
“So you got a room?” she asked.
Jon nodded. “The little silver hypno-thing really seems to work.”
“Good thing, since you never thought to test it first,” Megan said with a grin, starting the Aries and putting it in reverse. “I wonder if we could make somebody think they were a chicken.”
“I don’t know about that. I think—it’s room 233. We’ll be on the second floor. It starts at 201 on this side, so I think we’ll be on the other side of the building.”
“Gotcha covered,” Megan agreed, and peeled out of the parking space with a jerk. “Ooops. Not quite used to driving this, um, model car,” she explained. “I’ll give it a little less gas.”
“Good thinking.”
She managed to get the car around to the backside of the motel without crashing into anything, and pulled into the space closest to the stairs.
“We are here,” Megan said brightly, pulling the key out of the ignition and unsnapping her seatbelt in one deft movement. “Lets go see our room!”
Megan jumped out of the car, grabbed her duffel bag from the back, and then bounded up the stairs. Jon grabbed the briefcase and his own suitcase and did his best to follow.
“Open it, open it,” she said excitedly as Jon fumbled with the key.
“Hang on,” he mumbled, and then the door swung open. She pushed him aside and practically leapt into the room.
“Where’s your parents, sport?” the man behind the counter asked, looking out under the awning at a young couple arguing about the trunk of their car. “They have to get your room.”
“Those aren’t my parents,” Jon said. “It’s just me. I know I look young for my age, but—”
“Ha, ha, very funny, go on home. I can’t rent rooms to little kids.”
Jon put the silver cigarette case on the counter. “I’m old enough to get a room. Look at my ID.”
“’Look at my ID’,” the man behind the counter mimicked. “I used better fake ID’s to get into strip joints when I was in junior high school. And that was twenty years ago. Go on, I’ve got actual customers coming in.”
And he did—the arguing couple had apparently made their peace about the trunk of their car, and were coming inside the small, spare lobby. No time to waste, then. Jon held the silver cigarette case up, holding the mirrored side out to the motel clerk.
“Hey, look at this,” he said, and pressed the button.
There was a blue flash, a high-pitched sound, sort of like a cassette tape being rewound very, very fast. He felt both excited and nervous—he hadn’t tested it, and had no idea if, when it came down to it, the thing would actually work.
“I’m old enough to check in, obviously,” Jon said. “Give us a room, use the credit card thing, and don’t bother us, and stop harassing good customers like me or you’re probably going to get fired.”
Blankly, the man took Jon’s credit card, ran it through the machine. “Do you want smoking or non-smoking?” the man asked, his voice almost a monotone.
“Smoking or non-smoking what?” Jon asked.
“A smoking or non-smoking room,” the man said.
“They make them different now? Wow. Uh, smoking,” he said. Megan hadn’t smoked the entire drive, but he knew she liked to smoke sometimes. So better safe than sorry.
“I have two single kings, three single queens and two double twins, that are smoking. The king rooms have handicapped access,” the man said.
“Um. Double means there are two beds, right?”
“The double rooms have two beds,” the man said.
“I’ll take that room.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and then handed Jon a piece of paper on the clipboard. “Please sign the receipt and fill this out.”
Jon scribbled a abstract mark on the signature line. He wondered if Howard Kaufmann, the name on his license and credit cards, was a real person, or if it had all been manufactured, down to perhaps actual accounts with charge card companies and banks, by Dr. Bernhard. He referred to his license for his address—Howard Kaufmann hailed from Thomasville, Indiana—and made up the car license and make and model, since there wouldn’t be any reason to put down information for the car they were actually driving in. Damn, motels sure wanted to know a lot of stuff just to rent somebody a room.
“Here are your keys,” the man said, handing Jon two keys. “Room 233.”
“Thanks,” he said. He glanced behind him, and the couple that had just come in were still engaged in their own lively discussion and not paying any attention to him. “And give these guys behind me their room for half-price. Okay?”
“Half-price,” the man said, nodding.
Jon walked out the door, whistling. It took him a moment to locate the 1981 Dodge Aries they were driving, and when he did, he thought again that they were driving too nice a car, but maybe they could pick another one to leave in. He knocked on the door, and Megan flipped the locks—power locks; so cool—and he got in.
“So you got a room?” she asked.
Jon nodded. “The little silver hypno-thing really seems to work.”
“Good thing, since you never thought to test it first,” Megan said with a grin, starting the Aries and putting it in reverse. “I wonder if we could make somebody think they were a chicken.”
“I don’t know about that. I think—it’s room 233. We’ll be on the second floor. It starts at 201 on this side, so I think we’ll be on the other side of the building.”
“Gotcha covered,” Megan agreed, and peeled out of the parking space with a jerk. “Ooops. Not quite used to driving this, um, model car,” she explained. “I’ll give it a little less gas.”
“Good thinking.”
She managed to get the car around to the backside of the motel without crashing into anything, and pulled into the space closest to the stairs.
“We are here,” Megan said brightly, pulling the key out of the ignition and unsnapping her seatbelt in one deft movement. “Lets go see our room!”
Megan jumped out of the car, grabbed her duffel bag from the back, and then bounded up the stairs. Jon grabbed the briefcase and his own suitcase and did his best to follow.
“Open it, open it,” she said excitedly as Jon fumbled with the key.
“Hang on,” he mumbled, and then the door swung open. She pushed him aside and practically leapt into the room.
“It’s a motel. We’re at a motel! We’re really doing it!” Megan dropped her duffel bag on the first bed and smiled so big Jon thought he could see every last one of her completely white teeth. She had big, beautiful teeth. “You and me, we’re at a mot-eelllll,” she sang. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
It was amazing, Jon thought, putting his own nylon suitcase, and the briefcase, down on the floor. Irrational, yes, but it was amazing. She was completely elated. The warm, squishy feeling it gave him was wonderfully satisfying, wonderfully invigorating—in a way, better than the kissing or even the mind-blowing and impossibly amazing moment when, out of nowhere, she had taken his hand and smashed it up against her boob. Because that stuff, as great as it was and as much as he wouldn’t trade it for anything, always left him wanting more.
This, though—this was a feeling that was wonderfully complete and whole unto itself. It was such deep satisfaction, just to stand there in the small Econolodge motel room, basking in Megan’s elation, that he could find very few things in his life to compare it to. Not getting straight A’s, not getting that $100 for his twelfth birthday, not even getting released from the oppressive yoke of his sister as she went off to college. Not even the great news that Stacey was staying in Memphis for the summer while, at the same time, he got the Atari 5200. Nothing.
It was amazing, Jon thought, putting his own nylon suitcase, and the briefcase, down on the floor. Irrational, yes, but it was amazing. She was completely elated. The warm, squishy feeling it gave him was wonderfully satisfying, wonderfully invigorating—in a way, better than the kissing or even the mind-blowing and impossibly amazing moment when, out of nowhere, she had taken his hand and smashed it up against her boob. Because that stuff, as great as it was and as much as he wouldn’t trade it for anything, always left him wanting more.
This, though—this was a feeling that was wonderfully complete and whole unto itself. It was such deep satisfaction, just to stand there in the small Econolodge motel room, basking in Megan’s elation, that he could find very few things in his life to compare it to. Not getting straight A’s, not getting that $100 for his twelfth birthday, not even getting released from the oppressive yoke of his sister as she went off to college. Not even the great news that Stacey was staying in Memphis for the summer while, at the same time, he got the Atari 5200. Nothing.
Completely gone was the Megan who, cool as she had been, and as much as Jon had dug her, was so often morose, dark, and hopeless. In her place was a glowing, radiant woman that, in her complete and genuine pleasure, gave Jon a satisfaction he had never imagined possible.
Plus, in the tight jeans, white tank top, and flip-flops, she looked amazingly hot.
She rushed up and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, hugging him so hard he heard, and felt, something pop in his back. “You are—you are—you’re you. Thank you.”
“I—uh—sure,” Jon stammered. “You’re welcome. For what?”
She released him, looking straight at him, her eyes so wide and bright they almost seemed to glow. “For this. For doing this. With me. For making this possible. A couple of days ago, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my summer—hell, the rest of my life—getting shit on by Mom and Larry and Carla. And now—“ She spun around. “—here we are!”
She sat down on the bed, kicking her flip flops off so they ricocheted against the wall, then laid back. Jon couldn’t help but notice how the thin white tank top pulled up, revealing her navel. She apparently noticed, too, but there was no cautionary tale about how she wasn’t a juicy steak this time. She just stretched, making a sound almost like a cat, purring as she did it. Which pulled her tank top up another few inches, to where he could see almost all of her ribs. And even as Jon had to pull his eyes off her torso and point them back at her head with an almost physical effort, she made no effort to take corrective measures. She just smiled at him.
Plus, in the tight jeans, white tank top, and flip-flops, she looked amazingly hot.
She rushed up and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, hugging him so hard he heard, and felt, something pop in his back. “You are—you are—you’re you. Thank you.”
“I—uh—sure,” Jon stammered. “You’re welcome. For what?”
She released him, looking straight at him, her eyes so wide and bright they almost seemed to glow. “For this. For doing this. With me. For making this possible. A couple of days ago, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my summer—hell, the rest of my life—getting shit on by Mom and Larry and Carla. And now—“ She spun around. “—here we are!”
She sat down on the bed, kicking her flip flops off so they ricocheted against the wall, then laid back. Jon couldn’t help but notice how the thin white tank top pulled up, revealing her navel. She apparently noticed, too, but there was no cautionary tale about how she wasn’t a juicy steak this time. She just stretched, making a sound almost like a cat, purring as she did it. Which pulled her tank top up another few inches, to where he could see almost all of her ribs. And even as Jon had to pull his eyes off her torso and point them back at her head with an almost physical effort, she made no effort to take corrective measures. She just smiled at him.
“Wow,” she murmured. “On the run. In a motel. With cable! HBO, even.”
“And a Pizza Hut across the street,” Jon added.
Megan laughed, the soft, cream-colored flesh of her abdomen undulating provocatively as she did so. “That’s right! Easy access to pizza. It doesn’t get better than that.” Then, almost like a five year old, she kicked her legs and pounded the bed with her hands, apparently unable to contain herself. As she did it, everything undulated provocatively. Then urge to just grab her, right there and then, almost overwhelmed him.
Hormones! his brain shouted at him. Just hormones. Think of the old stinky grandma with the weepy eye.
“It’s just so cool!”
“Yes,” Jon agreed, nodding. “Yes, it is.”
She sat up. “So, hey, what do you wanna do first?”
“I—do? Do what?” Other than ravishing Megan’s naked body, which was an amazingly easy thing to visualize, the only other things he could think of really wanting to do was eat and sleep. He wouldn’t have thought riding around in a car all day could be that exhausting—and he had even napped a little, as Megan had driven the entire way—but his energy level was nowhere near Megan’s manic excitement.
“Go see the scenic vistas of—” She rolled over and looked at the card on the phone. “—Shelbyville, Kentucky! Go get pizza. Hey, look, they have a bowling alley. Want to go bowling?” Then she laid back, practically pulling the tank-top up to bra level. With one purple fingernail, she distractedly traced a figure-eight on her bare midriff. “Or we could just stay here and play tonsil hockey.” The finger traced a line up her solar plexus, then back down, over her abdomen, along the line of her too-tight jeans. “I did promise. After all.”
Jon blinked. Too much. Much too much. Nearing overload.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“Uh-uh. I drove all day. I’m done working. You make the call.” The fingernail traced a circle around her belly-button. “We’ll do whatever you want to do.”
“Pizza,” Jon said. “I could—I’m hungry. You want pizza?”
Megan grinned. “Pizza sounds great. But pizza over making out? Alone in a hotel room. I must be losing my touch.”
Jon shook his head. “No, no. I just. It’s just too much. I—you’re making my head spin. You’re too much woman for me.”
She frowned. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No!” Jon shouted. What was wrong with women? Did they do this stuff all the time? Did they do it on purpose? “No, you’re not fat. I’m saying you—you’re so great you’re going to make my head explode. I—and—I want to get pizza. With you. That sounds, you know, like a date. We haven’t really gone on a date, like that. Just you and me. I mean, on purpose, when it wasn’t just you and me because Johnny Two didn’t show up.”
Megan nodded, smiling again and looking down, her cheeks turning a touch crimson. Was she embarrassed? That he wanted to go out to eat with her, like they were on a date? She wasn’t embarrassed about fondling her abdomen and talking about swapping spit with him, but she was blushing because he wanted to go out and eat pizza with her? Girls were so strange.
“Okay,” she said, standing up. “I’m starving, anyway. Let’s go!”
“Uh, one thing, though,” Jon said. “Could you do something for me?”
She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him, seeming a little punch-drunk. Certainly, she wasn’t really drunk—he had been with her all day and she had only had one beer, which was nothing for Megan. “Anything for my man. Lay it on me.”
“Well, could you put some other clothes on? You look really great. But—uh—really, really great.”
She leaned forward. “Mmm-hmmm?”
“Could you, you know, maybe wear something a little less—revealing?”
“Revealing?” she asked, standing back and pointing at her thin, white cotton tank top and too-tight jeans. “This is revealing?”
“Um, yeah. I mean—from a completely objective, scientific, disinterested perspective, you are mind-bendingly gorgeous and when you—uh—advertise your assets—well, I remember last summer, and we couldn’t go anywhere without most of the guys staring at you or coming up and acting like me and Johnny Two weren’t even there—”
“You sound jealous,” she said, clearly amused. “I had to flirt. It was fun making you guys squirm.”
“Anyway, point being if we’re trying to, you know, hide out. All the guys shouldn’t be looking at you. People shouldn’t be looking at us and going, ‘What’s that incredibly gorgeous girl doing with the skinny, goofy-looking dweeb?’”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “You’re not goofy looking. And there’s nothing wrong with being a dweeb. Where would the world be now, without the noble dweeb?”
“Anyway—”
“If I gotta,” she consented, and unzipped her duffel bag, pulling out another pair of jeans and a worn denim shirt. “If you’re worried some guy is going to come up and try and sweep me off my feet.”
“I’m worried because you are unforgettable,” Jon blurted. “If someone sees you or talks to you they won’t ever be able to get you out of their mind, no matter how hard they try, and if someone ever asks them did you see this girl, they’ll remember you, and then they’ll remember us—”
“Okay, okay,” she said, retreating to the bathroom. “I’m going to go change.” She paused at the bathroom door. “Unforgettable, huh? You really think I’m unforgettable?”
“I’ve got first hand experience. Come on, I’m hungry.”
“’kay,” she murmured, and disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later, she reappeared, hair down and face scrubbed clean of makeup, earrings off, blue denim shirt on over her tank top and buttoned almost to the top, her jeans now loose and long, halfway over her bare feet. “How’s this? Can you forget me now?”
“Me?” Jon asked. “No. Ain’t ever going to happen.”
She spun around. “No noticeable curves. No skin. I think it’s pretty generic.”
Jon frowned. “You’re still gorgeous. But I guess that’s as good as its going to get.”
“Can I still wear my flip-flops, or are my toes too hot and sexy?” she said, smiling.
“Too hot and sexy. Did you pack shoes?”
Megan’s smiled faded. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack,” Jon said. “No unnecessary risks.”
Megan shook her head, and then rummaged around in her duffel bag until she pulled out some dirty, plain, formerly white tennis shoes.
“I think you’re paranoid,” she murmured as she tied her shoes. “Nobody is going to remember me.”
“Other than me, I hope not,” Jon said. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Jon agreed, nodding. “Yes, it is.”
She sat up. “So, hey, what do you wanna do first?”
“I—do? Do what?” Other than ravishing Megan’s naked body, which was an amazingly easy thing to visualize, the only other things he could think of really wanting to do was eat and sleep. He wouldn’t have thought riding around in a car all day could be that exhausting—and he had even napped a little, as Megan had driven the entire way—but his energy level was nowhere near Megan’s manic excitement.
“Go see the scenic vistas of—” She rolled over and looked at the card on the phone. “—Shelbyville, Kentucky! Go get pizza. Hey, look, they have a bowling alley. Want to go bowling?” Then she laid back, practically pulling the tank-top up to bra level. With one purple fingernail, she distractedly traced a figure-eight on her bare midriff. “Or we could just stay here and play tonsil hockey.” The finger traced a line up her solar plexus, then back down, over her abdomen, along the line of her too-tight jeans. “I did promise. After all.”
Jon blinked. Too much. Much too much. Nearing overload.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“Uh-uh. I drove all day. I’m done working. You make the call.” The fingernail traced a circle around her belly-button. “We’ll do whatever you want to do.”
“Pizza,” Jon said. “I could—I’m hungry. You want pizza?”
Megan grinned. “Pizza sounds great. But pizza over making out? Alone in a hotel room. I must be losing my touch.”
Jon shook his head. “No, no. I just. It’s just too much. I—you’re making my head spin. You’re too much woman for me.”
She frowned. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No!” Jon shouted. What was wrong with women? Did they do this stuff all the time? Did they do it on purpose? “No, you’re not fat. I’m saying you—you’re so great you’re going to make my head explode. I—and—I want to get pizza. With you. That sounds, you know, like a date. We haven’t really gone on a date, like that. Just you and me. I mean, on purpose, when it wasn’t just you and me because Johnny Two didn’t show up.”
Megan nodded, smiling again and looking down, her cheeks turning a touch crimson. Was she embarrassed? That he wanted to go out to eat with her, like they were on a date? She wasn’t embarrassed about fondling her abdomen and talking about swapping spit with him, but she was blushing because he wanted to go out and eat pizza with her? Girls were so strange.
“Okay,” she said, standing up. “I’m starving, anyway. Let’s go!”
“Uh, one thing, though,” Jon said. “Could you do something for me?”
She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him, seeming a little punch-drunk. Certainly, she wasn’t really drunk—he had been with her all day and she had only had one beer, which was nothing for Megan. “Anything for my man. Lay it on me.”
“Well, could you put some other clothes on? You look really great. But—uh—really, really great.”
She leaned forward. “Mmm-hmmm?”
“Could you, you know, maybe wear something a little less—revealing?”
“Revealing?” she asked, standing back and pointing at her thin, white cotton tank top and too-tight jeans. “This is revealing?”
“Um, yeah. I mean—from a completely objective, scientific, disinterested perspective, you are mind-bendingly gorgeous and when you—uh—advertise your assets—well, I remember last summer, and we couldn’t go anywhere without most of the guys staring at you or coming up and acting like me and Johnny Two weren’t even there—”
“You sound jealous,” she said, clearly amused. “I had to flirt. It was fun making you guys squirm.”
“Anyway, point being if we’re trying to, you know, hide out. All the guys shouldn’t be looking at you. People shouldn’t be looking at us and going, ‘What’s that incredibly gorgeous girl doing with the skinny, goofy-looking dweeb?’”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “You’re not goofy looking. And there’s nothing wrong with being a dweeb. Where would the world be now, without the noble dweeb?”
“Anyway—”
“If I gotta,” she consented, and unzipped her duffel bag, pulling out another pair of jeans and a worn denim shirt. “If you’re worried some guy is going to come up and try and sweep me off my feet.”
“I’m worried because you are unforgettable,” Jon blurted. “If someone sees you or talks to you they won’t ever be able to get you out of their mind, no matter how hard they try, and if someone ever asks them did you see this girl, they’ll remember you, and then they’ll remember us—”
“Okay, okay,” she said, retreating to the bathroom. “I’m going to go change.” She paused at the bathroom door. “Unforgettable, huh? You really think I’m unforgettable?”
“I’ve got first hand experience. Come on, I’m hungry.”
“’kay,” she murmured, and disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later, she reappeared, hair down and face scrubbed clean of makeup, earrings off, blue denim shirt on over her tank top and buttoned almost to the top, her jeans now loose and long, halfway over her bare feet. “How’s this? Can you forget me now?”
“Me?” Jon asked. “No. Ain’t ever going to happen.”
She spun around. “No noticeable curves. No skin. I think it’s pretty generic.”
Jon frowned. “You’re still gorgeous. But I guess that’s as good as its going to get.”
“Can I still wear my flip-flops, or are my toes too hot and sexy?” she said, smiling.
“Too hot and sexy. Did you pack shoes?”
Megan’s smiled faded. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack,” Jon said. “No unnecessary risks.”
Megan shook her head, and then rummaged around in her duffel bag until she pulled out some dirty, plain, formerly white tennis shoes.
“I think you’re paranoid,” she murmured as she tied her shoes. “Nobody is going to remember me.”
“Other than me, I hope not,” Jon said. “Ready?”
“You sure I’m not too unspeakably hot in my old ratty jeans and shirt here?”
“You are, actually, but that’s obviously as plain as we can get you. I’m hungry.”
“’kay,” she consented, and started following him towards the door. He was holding the door open for her when she stopped short. “Hey, what about the book? And the briefcase? What should we do with that stuff? We should do something with it, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, we should. Hang on, I’ve got something for the book.” Jon walked over to the closet, opened the briefcase and pulled out a small, square metal box.
“What’s that?” Megan asked.
“I’ll show you. Watch. Actually, come here.”
“Huh?”
“Come here, I want to key it to you, too, in case I fall in a ditch or something and you need to get it.” Jon tapped out shave-and-a-haircut on the back of the cube, and then one of the sides lit up, turning from silver to a bright green.
“Touch it there,” Jon said. “That way, you can turn it on and off, too.”
Megan chuckled, and reached out obligingly, pressing the small green panel with her pointer finger. The green light immediately dimmed.
Jon nodded. “There. Now you can use it, if you want.” Jon touched one side of the cube with two fingers, and then pulled his hand back, and the cube stretched out in that direction.
“Oh, hell, cool!” Megan said. “Whoah!”
Jon smiled. “Hang on,” he said, putting a third finger down, and the cube stopped stretching. Then he put two fingers against the other side, and started pulling back.
“Holy shit!” Megan swore. “It’s a magic box! How big will it get?”
“I dunno,” Jon said. “It’ll get big enough to hide the book in, I know that.”
Megan grinned. “That’s good thinking. Nobody would think there was anything weird about a big silver box.”
Jon finished stretching out the box, and then tapped the top three times. The top panel slid away, as if disappearing into nothing, leaving an opening more than large enough to fit the book in. “Hand me the book—it’s in my bag.” Jon said.
Megan rifled through Jon’s bag for a moment and then came back with the heavy, leather-bound tome. “Here you go. So is that the deal? It just doesn’t open up unless it’s you or me?”
“Not quite,” Jon murmured, putting the book in and then tapping the side three times, the little silver panel sliding back out of nowhere. “Now watch this.” Jon grabbed the chair from the small table by the window, and moved it back over to where the sink was. Then he stood on the chair, and placed the silver box against the ceiling. Then he let go, and the box hung in place.
“Wow,” Megan said. “It just sticks there. That’s cool.”
“Finally,” Jon said, tapping once on the left and right sides and then twice on the center, “I make it disappear.” The metal box seemed to ripple, then faded. Then it was just the ceiling again. “See?”
“Cool as shit!” Megan said. “How do you get it back?”
“See where it looks like there’s a little smudge on the ceiling—that lets you know about where to press. Just press in that area, and it’ll reappear and you can just pull it off the ceiling, then tap three times to get it to open so you can get the book.”
“Wow. What about the briefcase?”
“It’ll take care of itself. Watch. Actually, I probably ought to activate that for you, too. It wasn’t the locker that zapped you at the bus station. I think it was the briefcase.”
Megan’s face paled. “Then maybe I shouldn’t touch it.”
“I want to activate it for you, so you can get into it, too—if I make it hide itself, you can’t make it show itself, unless we make it so it will.”
He went through the same process, tapping out shave-and-a-haircut and when a glowing green oval appeared on the top of the briefcase, Jon instructed her to put her finger there. She did, and the dot faded.
“Now it’ll be ready for you—all you’ll have to do is touch it, to turn off the—illusion. The mirage. Whatever it is.”
Jon took the briefcase to the closet beside the sink, and put it in the back. Then, he tapped on the sides and front. With a shimmer, a ripple that seemed to spread from the center out over the rest of the briefcase, almost like somebody was pouring liquid mercury on it from the side, the surface at first turned mirrored, reflecting Jon and Megan back at themselves, and then vanished.
“Wow,” Jon and Megan said at the same time. “That’s something else,” Jon finished.
“Uh-huh,” Megan said. “We can turn stuff invisible. We can build super sonic jet skis. We can hide forever.” She gave him a big wet kiss on the cheek. Then, apparently liking to go for the unexpected, she licked his ear. Which was kind of gross. But sort of cool, too. “Super-powered-invisible-flying-jet-skis get me hot,” she breathed to him. “Mmmmmmm. Let’s get pizza! I want something with a whole lot of meat on it. Deep dish.”
Jon nodded. She was weird, wonderful, perfect. Almost too much of all three. “Deep dish it is.”
The Pizza Hut wasn’t too crowded, and the other patrons were engaged in their own conversations, and nobody paid much attention to Jon or Megan, which made Jon think again that maybe this really would work. Staying on the run. Going from town to town. Eating pizza. Bowling.
They ordered a deep dish pepperoni, sausage and hamburger, with double-everything and a deep dish barbecue pizza. Jon got a regular Pepsi, Megan got a diet. Jon just shook his head. Girls and diet drinks, what the hell? Stacey and Doreen were the same way. Skinny, looked fine, could—and did—eat almost anything. But always made sure to get a Diet Pepsi or a Tab. Hell, he had seen Stacey get a slab of ribs with a side order of fried everything and get a ice cream, cake, and chocolate sauce desert-thing that could kill a cow. And a Tab, please.
“So how do you think your mom is taking it?” Megan asked after they sat down. “You think she’s found the note?”
Jon shrugged. “Probably. I mean, I know she’s not going to like it. She’s going to be upset. I know she will be. But—can’t be helped. I did what I could for her. I didn’t tell her anything about why, really, just—just not to worry. And that we were running away together, and were thinking of going to Mexico, to get married.”
“You did not,” Megan said.
“No,” Jon said, and laughed. “I thought about it, though. Just told her I couldn’t tell her what it was all about and here’s $3000. But if people come around asking questions, she may not have the sense to hold on to it.”
“I hope Mom and Larry are having a conniption fit. I left them a note, too. I told them I was running away with you and never going to see any of them again and that was it. And that Carla keeps her pot taped up under her underwear drawer. And that she’s got a diaphragm in her purse. And that Larry has a dozen porno tapes behind the furnace—weird crap. She-males and hermaphrodites and stuff. I didn’t say that part, in the note, but that’s what he has. And they have price tags on them that are, like, fifty dollars! For some stupid gross video tape. No, there’s no money so I can get some new clothes. No, there’s no money so I can get a new pair of shoes. No, there’s no money so I can go on the school trip. But there’s money for fifty-dollar pervert tapes!”
“Jeeze,” Jon mumbled. “Dropped some bombs on your way out the door, huh?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, shit, I’ve never, like, run away before. I had to do something big. Something that had some weight to it. Just disappearing—Carla’s done that a dozen times. I wanted them to know that I’m serious. That this permanent. I want to make sure it’s permanent. If you decided you’re sick of me and ditch me—“
“Are you nuts? I wouldn’t ditch you.”
“—but if you did, I’d get a job somewhere, doing something. You know? I’m not going back. There’s a reason for all this. Happening like this. I’m not going back.”
Jon sighed. “I don’t think either of us are. I don’t want to abandon my mom forever. Or never see her again. But this—I don’t know how we can go back. How it would be safe to do it. For us or for my mom or anybody else.”
Megan smiled. “Can’t back out now. I sure can’t. And I didn’t want to tell them to say ‘Hi!’ to the FBI or CIA for me when they dropped by—well, I did, but I didn’t want them starting some shit. Calling the FBI or something. I was tempted to tell them, ‘By the way, we’ve stolen something from the government and they’ll be coming to see you soon,’. But I figgered that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Jon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s back-bacon?”
John blinked. “Back-bacon?”
“Back-bacon. Don’t they eat that all the time in Canada? I know they’ll have beer, so I’m not worried about that.”
“I—you know, I don’t really know anything about Canada.”
“Ah, we’ll figure it out. Oh, hey, I love this song.”
Someone had dropped a quarter into the brightly lit jukebox near the counter, and the heavy beat and synthesized strings of the Eurythmic’s “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” started up, easily four times louder than the generic background music that had been playing before.
“She’s so hot,” Megan said. “Have you seen the video?”
“You are, actually, but that’s obviously as plain as we can get you. I’m hungry.”
“’kay,” she consented, and started following him towards the door. He was holding the door open for her when she stopped short. “Hey, what about the book? And the briefcase? What should we do with that stuff? We should do something with it, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, we should. Hang on, I’ve got something for the book.” Jon walked over to the closet, opened the briefcase and pulled out a small, square metal box.
“What’s that?” Megan asked.
“I’ll show you. Watch. Actually, come here.”
“Huh?”
“Come here, I want to key it to you, too, in case I fall in a ditch or something and you need to get it.” Jon tapped out shave-and-a-haircut on the back of the cube, and then one of the sides lit up, turning from silver to a bright green.
“Touch it there,” Jon said. “That way, you can turn it on and off, too.”
Megan chuckled, and reached out obligingly, pressing the small green panel with her pointer finger. The green light immediately dimmed.
Jon nodded. “There. Now you can use it, if you want.” Jon touched one side of the cube with two fingers, and then pulled his hand back, and the cube stretched out in that direction.
“Oh, hell, cool!” Megan said. “Whoah!”
Jon smiled. “Hang on,” he said, putting a third finger down, and the cube stopped stretching. Then he put two fingers against the other side, and started pulling back.
“Holy shit!” Megan swore. “It’s a magic box! How big will it get?”
“I dunno,” Jon said. “It’ll get big enough to hide the book in, I know that.”
Megan grinned. “That’s good thinking. Nobody would think there was anything weird about a big silver box.”
Jon finished stretching out the box, and then tapped the top three times. The top panel slid away, as if disappearing into nothing, leaving an opening more than large enough to fit the book in. “Hand me the book—it’s in my bag.” Jon said.
Megan rifled through Jon’s bag for a moment and then came back with the heavy, leather-bound tome. “Here you go. So is that the deal? It just doesn’t open up unless it’s you or me?”
“Not quite,” Jon murmured, putting the book in and then tapping the side three times, the little silver panel sliding back out of nowhere. “Now watch this.” Jon grabbed the chair from the small table by the window, and moved it back over to where the sink was. Then he stood on the chair, and placed the silver box against the ceiling. Then he let go, and the box hung in place.
“Wow,” Megan said. “It just sticks there. That’s cool.”
“Finally,” Jon said, tapping once on the left and right sides and then twice on the center, “I make it disappear.” The metal box seemed to ripple, then faded. Then it was just the ceiling again. “See?”
“Cool as shit!” Megan said. “How do you get it back?”
“See where it looks like there’s a little smudge on the ceiling—that lets you know about where to press. Just press in that area, and it’ll reappear and you can just pull it off the ceiling, then tap three times to get it to open so you can get the book.”
“Wow. What about the briefcase?”
“It’ll take care of itself. Watch. Actually, I probably ought to activate that for you, too. It wasn’t the locker that zapped you at the bus station. I think it was the briefcase.”
Megan’s face paled. “Then maybe I shouldn’t touch it.”
“I want to activate it for you, so you can get into it, too—if I make it hide itself, you can’t make it show itself, unless we make it so it will.”
He went through the same process, tapping out shave-and-a-haircut and when a glowing green oval appeared on the top of the briefcase, Jon instructed her to put her finger there. She did, and the dot faded.
“Now it’ll be ready for you—all you’ll have to do is touch it, to turn off the—illusion. The mirage. Whatever it is.”
Jon took the briefcase to the closet beside the sink, and put it in the back. Then, he tapped on the sides and front. With a shimmer, a ripple that seemed to spread from the center out over the rest of the briefcase, almost like somebody was pouring liquid mercury on it from the side, the surface at first turned mirrored, reflecting Jon and Megan back at themselves, and then vanished.
“Wow,” Jon and Megan said at the same time. “That’s something else,” Jon finished.
“Uh-huh,” Megan said. “We can turn stuff invisible. We can build super sonic jet skis. We can hide forever.” She gave him a big wet kiss on the cheek. Then, apparently liking to go for the unexpected, she licked his ear. Which was kind of gross. But sort of cool, too. “Super-powered-invisible-flying-jet-skis get me hot,” she breathed to him. “Mmmmmmm. Let’s get pizza! I want something with a whole lot of meat on it. Deep dish.”
Jon nodded. She was weird, wonderful, perfect. Almost too much of all three. “Deep dish it is.”
The Pizza Hut wasn’t too crowded, and the other patrons were engaged in their own conversations, and nobody paid much attention to Jon or Megan, which made Jon think again that maybe this really would work. Staying on the run. Going from town to town. Eating pizza. Bowling.
They ordered a deep dish pepperoni, sausage and hamburger, with double-everything and a deep dish barbecue pizza. Jon got a regular Pepsi, Megan got a diet. Jon just shook his head. Girls and diet drinks, what the hell? Stacey and Doreen were the same way. Skinny, looked fine, could—and did—eat almost anything. But always made sure to get a Diet Pepsi or a Tab. Hell, he had seen Stacey get a slab of ribs with a side order of fried everything and get a ice cream, cake, and chocolate sauce desert-thing that could kill a cow. And a Tab, please.
“So how do you think your mom is taking it?” Megan asked after they sat down. “You think she’s found the note?”
Jon shrugged. “Probably. I mean, I know she’s not going to like it. She’s going to be upset. I know she will be. But—can’t be helped. I did what I could for her. I didn’t tell her anything about why, really, just—just not to worry. And that we were running away together, and were thinking of going to Mexico, to get married.”
“You did not,” Megan said.
“No,” Jon said, and laughed. “I thought about it, though. Just told her I couldn’t tell her what it was all about and here’s $3000. But if people come around asking questions, she may not have the sense to hold on to it.”
“I hope Mom and Larry are having a conniption fit. I left them a note, too. I told them I was running away with you and never going to see any of them again and that was it. And that Carla keeps her pot taped up under her underwear drawer. And that she’s got a diaphragm in her purse. And that Larry has a dozen porno tapes behind the furnace—weird crap. She-males and hermaphrodites and stuff. I didn’t say that part, in the note, but that’s what he has. And they have price tags on them that are, like, fifty dollars! For some stupid gross video tape. No, there’s no money so I can get some new clothes. No, there’s no money so I can get a new pair of shoes. No, there’s no money so I can go on the school trip. But there’s money for fifty-dollar pervert tapes!”
“Jeeze,” Jon mumbled. “Dropped some bombs on your way out the door, huh?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, shit, I’ve never, like, run away before. I had to do something big. Something that had some weight to it. Just disappearing—Carla’s done that a dozen times. I wanted them to know that I’m serious. That this permanent. I want to make sure it’s permanent. If you decided you’re sick of me and ditch me—“
“Are you nuts? I wouldn’t ditch you.”
“—but if you did, I’d get a job somewhere, doing something. You know? I’m not going back. There’s a reason for all this. Happening like this. I’m not going back.”
Jon sighed. “I don’t think either of us are. I don’t want to abandon my mom forever. Or never see her again. But this—I don’t know how we can go back. How it would be safe to do it. For us or for my mom or anybody else.”
Megan smiled. “Can’t back out now. I sure can’t. And I didn’t want to tell them to say ‘Hi!’ to the FBI or CIA for me when they dropped by—well, I did, but I didn’t want them starting some shit. Calling the FBI or something. I was tempted to tell them, ‘By the way, we’ve stolen something from the government and they’ll be coming to see you soon,’. But I figgered that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Jon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s back-bacon?”
John blinked. “Back-bacon?”
“Back-bacon. Don’t they eat that all the time in Canada? I know they’ll have beer, so I’m not worried about that.”
“I—you know, I don’t really know anything about Canada.”
“Ah, we’ll figure it out. Oh, hey, I love this song.”
Someone had dropped a quarter into the brightly lit jukebox near the counter, and the heavy beat and synthesized strings of the Eurythmic’s “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” started up, easily four times louder than the generic background music that had been playing before.
“She’s so hot,” Megan said. “Have you seen the video?”
“We all saw it over at Johnny’s. She looks like a boy.”
“Her hair is orange! And the business suit. And the leather gloves, hitting the desk. I want to be her. She rocks.”
“I—she looks like a boy. But I like the song.”
Megan hummed along with the base line for a moment and then started singing. “’Some of them want to use you, some of them want to be used by you, some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused . . .’“ She grabbed Jon’s hands and squeezed. “It’s just so deep, you know? Like it really means something. Not all this stupid blah-blah-blah I love you, blah-blah-blah Mickey, you’re so fine—”
“I kind of like that song, too,” Jon mumbled.
“Her hair is orange! And the business suit. And the leather gloves, hitting the desk. I want to be her. She rocks.”
“I—she looks like a boy. But I like the song.”
Megan hummed along with the base line for a moment and then started singing. “’Some of them want to use you, some of them want to be used by you, some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused . . .’“ She grabbed Jon’s hands and squeezed. “It’s just so deep, you know? Like it really means something. Not all this stupid blah-blah-blah I love you, blah-blah-blah Mickey, you’re so fine—”
“I kind of like that song, too,” Jon mumbled.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean anything. This—“ she gestured out at the jukebox. “It means something. It’s about how people really are. Everybody is really looking for something. I mean, that’s us. We’re looking for something.”
“What?”
“What? What? I don’t know. That’s the point. We don’t know what the something is. We just know we’re looking for it. If I knew what I was looking for, what it was all about, if all I wanted in life was a cheese danish, I’d get it and then I wouldn’t really be looking for it. In the song—is she looking for love? Happiness? Meaning? A new car? If she knew, if we knew, it would say: everybody is looking for a new car. Right?”
“Or a cheese danish?” Jon asked.
“Exactly! But it’s something. Because we’re looking for something. We just have to be out actually looking for it. That’s the point.”
Jon nodded. “Who am I to disagree?”
Megan laughed. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Oh, hey, our pizza is here.”
John liked the barbecue pizza a lot more than the double-meat-laden monstrosity that Megan was gorging herself on, and stuck to his few slices of that. Megan shoved cheesy slices of pizza in her mouth, each stacked high with pepperoni, sausage, and hamburger, all so greasy that it glistened. And sipped on her Diet Pepsi.
“You’re such a wuss,” Megan said, a string of mozzarella hanging down from her chin that suddenly reminded Jon of the dream, the thin line of spit stretching from her mouth to his finger. Jon shook his head, trying to clear it.
“I mean,” Megan said. “You’ve only eaten three pieces of pizza. I’ve eaten what—six? Seven? It’s more than half a pizza! And a piece of yours. No wonder you’re so skinny. Wuss.”
“I just—I can’t quite eat like that.”
Megan arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I eat like a pig?”
“I—no! No way! I wouldn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Then eat some pizza. Just one more piece. Come on, a big, oily, greasy, meaty, drippy, cheesy piece of my pizza. Come on! Eat it!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jon said, picking the smallest piece of her pizza left and taking a bite. “There,” he said, chewing energetically. “How’s that?”
“It’ll do. You’re still too skinny, though.”
After they finished their pizzas, Megan excused herself to the bathroom, and Jon waited. When she came out, she stopped at the cigarette machine by the door. “Sorry, I can’t wait any more. I’ve got to have a smoke.”
“Hey,” Jon said. “That’s fine with me. Go ahead.”
Megan fed the machine seven quarters and then pulled on a knob. A pack fell down, and she grabbed it. “Flip-top box,” Megan said approvingly, turning the red and white package of Marlboro’s over in her hand.
As soon as they got outside, she peeled off the cellophane and made a show of smacking the box against her thigh.
“What’s that all about?” Jon asked.
“It’s supposed to pack the tobacco down. Everybody does it.” Then she flipped open the top with her thumb, and with a flick of her wrist, one cigarette slid up above all the rest, and she brought it to her mouth.
“What?”
“What? What? I don’t know. That’s the point. We don’t know what the something is. We just know we’re looking for it. If I knew what I was looking for, what it was all about, if all I wanted in life was a cheese danish, I’d get it and then I wouldn’t really be looking for it. In the song—is she looking for love? Happiness? Meaning? A new car? If she knew, if we knew, it would say: everybody is looking for a new car. Right?”
“Or a cheese danish?” Jon asked.
“Exactly! But it’s something. Because we’re looking for something. We just have to be out actually looking for it. That’s the point.”
Jon nodded. “Who am I to disagree?”
Megan laughed. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Oh, hey, our pizza is here.”
John liked the barbecue pizza a lot more than the double-meat-laden monstrosity that Megan was gorging herself on, and stuck to his few slices of that. Megan shoved cheesy slices of pizza in her mouth, each stacked high with pepperoni, sausage, and hamburger, all so greasy that it glistened. And sipped on her Diet Pepsi.
“You’re such a wuss,” Megan said, a string of mozzarella hanging down from her chin that suddenly reminded Jon of the dream, the thin line of spit stretching from her mouth to his finger. Jon shook his head, trying to clear it.
“I mean,” Megan said. “You’ve only eaten three pieces of pizza. I’ve eaten what—six? Seven? It’s more than half a pizza! And a piece of yours. No wonder you’re so skinny. Wuss.”
“I just—I can’t quite eat like that.”
Megan arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I eat like a pig?”
“I—no! No way! I wouldn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Then eat some pizza. Just one more piece. Come on, a big, oily, greasy, meaty, drippy, cheesy piece of my pizza. Come on! Eat it!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jon said, picking the smallest piece of her pizza left and taking a bite. “There,” he said, chewing energetically. “How’s that?”
“It’ll do. You’re still too skinny, though.”
After they finished their pizzas, Megan excused herself to the bathroom, and Jon waited. When she came out, she stopped at the cigarette machine by the door. “Sorry, I can’t wait any more. I’ve got to have a smoke.”
“Hey,” Jon said. “That’s fine with me. Go ahead.”
Megan fed the machine seven quarters and then pulled on a knob. A pack fell down, and she grabbed it. “Flip-top box,” Megan said approvingly, turning the red and white package of Marlboro’s over in her hand.
As soon as they got outside, she peeled off the cellophane and made a show of smacking the box against her thigh.
“What’s that all about?” Jon asked.
“It’s supposed to pack the tobacco down. Everybody does it.” Then she flipped open the top with her thumb, and with a flick of her wrist, one cigarette slid up above all the rest, and she brought it to her mouth.
“That’s pretty slick,” Jon murmured, impressed.
Megan smiled. “Practice makes perfect,” she said, and pulled out a book of matches, lit one and then, cupping her hand around the cigarette, puffed vigorously until her head was surrounded by a cloud of steel gray smoke.
Dusk had been coming when they had left for the Pizza Hut. Now, it was almost dark outside. “So, we’ve had pizza. What do we do now?”
“Wanna walk? Around?”
She smiled. “Walk? Why, that sounds like after-the-date stuff. You keep this up, you’re going to have to buy me a ring and let me wear your varsity sweater.”
“I think I see a Baskin & Robbin’s down the block,” Jon said. “Want to go get some ice cream?”
“Sound delicious,” she said, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “Mmmm. I needed that.” She exhaled slowly, plumes of white smoke swirling lazily from her nose and mouth. Again, Jon thought of the dream, the blue ball of fire burning in the back of her throat, and slow, languid undulation of her hair in the emptiness, like the smoke that curled from her nostrils now.
Megan smiled. “Practice makes perfect,” she said, and pulled out a book of matches, lit one and then, cupping her hand around the cigarette, puffed vigorously until her head was surrounded by a cloud of steel gray smoke.
Dusk had been coming when they had left for the Pizza Hut. Now, it was almost dark outside. “So, we’ve had pizza. What do we do now?”
“Wanna walk? Around?”
She smiled. “Walk? Why, that sounds like after-the-date stuff. You keep this up, you’re going to have to buy me a ring and let me wear your varsity sweater.”
“I think I see a Baskin & Robbin’s down the block,” Jon said. “Want to go get some ice cream?”
“Sound delicious,” she said, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “Mmmm. I needed that.” She exhaled slowly, plumes of white smoke swirling lazily from her nose and mouth. Again, Jon thought of the dream, the blue ball of fire burning in the back of her throat, and slow, languid undulation of her hair in the emptiness, like the smoke that curled from her nostrils now.
“Something wrong?”
Jon shook his head. “Ah. No. Just, you know, thinking. Sweet dreams. Are made. Of this.”
They started walking down the sidewalk towards the little strip mall with the pink and white sign of the Baskin & Robbin’s in front of it. Megan looped her arm around Jon’s. “Made of what?” she asked.
“This,” he said. “You. Me. Us. Here. Now. Full of pizza and going for ice cream. Coming back to the EconoLodge.” He pointed at the slow eddies of smoke swirling from her mouth and nose. “Your expertise in French-style erotic cigarette smoking.”
“Oh, that,” she murmured, blowing the rest of the smoke out all at once. “I know we’re, technically, like on the run from the government and everything. But this is kind of nice. Isn’t it?”
“It is. I hope—I hope we just kind of disappear. Nobody finds us. We just keep moving. You and me. Together.”
“Yeah,” she murmured, leaning her head down on top of his as they walked—she was just too tall to lean on his shoulder. “You’ll get tired of me. This is your gig, when it comes down to it. Your book of magic.”
Jon shook his head. “It’s ours. I wouldn’t be doing this, if it weren’t for you. I don’t think I’d want to do it, if it weren’t for you. Hell, I wouldn’t have ever even in my wildest dreams considered doing it—except for you. I might get tired of some stuff—heck, I’m already tired of driving. Might get tired of the hotels or Canada or something. But I’m not going to get tired of you.”
“Maybe,” Megan murmured. “But what if you get tired of Canada. And I don’t? Or you get tired of hotels? And I’m not. What about that?”
Jon nodded thoughtfully. “Then, I guess, we each pick our side on the issue. Right? Then we fill up a giant vat full of pudding and wrestle for it.”
“Uh huh,” Megan murmured skeptically. “And how do you tell who wins?”
“I win, because I’m wrestling with you naked in pudding!”
“Naked? Wait a second, you didn’t say anything about naked. You pervert!” She unlooped her arm and then hit the back of his head with the flat of her hand.
“Ow!”
“Just for that, you have to buy me a banana split.”
“I would have bought you a banana split, anyway.”
“Then you’ll owe me another one after this one.”
By the time they got to the Baskin & Robbin’s, and had had an extended discussion on the relative merits of The Greatest American Hero and The Fall Guy and Knight Rider—Megan would not believe, no matter how adamant Jon was, that the car had had a different voice during the first season--dusk had turned to dark. By the time they had finished the banana split and made their way back the hotel, Jon thought he would have to go straight to bed. He was exhausted. It wasn’t like he had actually done anything all day, except get chauffeured down the interstate by Megan, check into a hotel and eat pizza, but he was dead tired. Just the newness of it was exhausting. That didn’t seem to affect Megan, though.
“Do you think the bowling place is closed?” she asked as they approached the hotel.
“Maybe,” Jon said. “But I don’t think I’m up to bowling. How can you eat so much and not want to go to sleep?”
She rubbed her hands together. “I dunno. Nervous energy? I just—we’re out. I’m out. I’m free! I want to do something!”
“Can we get some rest, first, you think? I feel like I’m about the fall over. I don’t have your nervous energy thing.”
“Yeah, all right. I can watch TV. They’ve got HBO! And I’ve got beer. What more could a girl want? And I can smoke. You don’t snore, do you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jon said. “You sorta do, though.”
“A lie!” she exclaimed as they walked up the stairs to their room at the EconoLodge. “A foul and despicable lie!”
“Well, just a little,” Jon amended.
“I do not snore,” Megan asserted. “I don’t fart, either.”
Jon laughed. “I know that’s not true. Me and Johnny Two had to run for our lives that one time—I think you guys had gone to eat Mexican, and we we’re all watching MTV in Johnny’s room and—”
“Lies, lies and falsehoods!” Megan insisted as they entered their hotel room. “Never ever ever happened.”
“Never?”
“Not so much as the tiniest toot.”
After closing and bolting the door, Jon sat down on the first bed, by Megan’s duffel bag. “I think I’m about to pass out. Which bed do you want?”
“I want the one closest to the bathroom.” She gestured at the bed he was sitting on. “You can have the one next to the door.”
“Figured,” Jon said, and tossed Megan’s duffel bag over to the second bed. “Night.”
Megan walked up to the bed and leaned over. “Not without a goodnight kiss, you don’t,” she said, and softly pressed her lips against his cheek. Then she put her open mouth over his, her tongue moving slowly between his lips, one hand caressing his cheek. She tasted, and smelled, like pizza, chocolate and cigarettes, but it was still wonderful. Her mouth was so soft, so warm, so perfect, Jon couldn’t help but think that he did love this crazy, manic, cigarette-and-pizza smelling girl. That love was the word for it, no matter what Megan said. What other word was there for the tender touch of her lips, the salty taste of her kiss, the wet, soft, accepting warmth of her open mouth? The soft, cool fingers on his cheek? How could she not like that word? Not believe in that word? She was, as far as he was concerned, the very embodiment of that word. Jon found himself suddenly feeling more awake.
Abruptly, she disengaged. “Well, nighty-night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” she sing-songed, eyes and lips both glistening. She turned on her heel, and sashayed to the bathroom door. “I’m going to take a shower, then watch some TV. If you wanted to be sweet, you could go put some ice in the bucket and stick a beer in it for me, before you go to sleep. I think the beer and snacks are still in the car. ‘Night!”
The bathroom door closed, and the lock clicked. Jon sat up tiredly. Okay, he’d get her some ice. Fine. Then he really was going to go to sleep.
He got the ice bucket from the sink and went downstairs to the ice machine, filling it up as much as he could, retrieved the beer and snacks from the car, and returned upstairs. He poured the ice in the sink and then filled it halfway with cold water, which left enough room for three beers, in case she wanted more.
He turned to walk back towards the bed, and paused, watching the steam come from under the bathroom door. He listened to the sound of the shower running, and he couldn’t help but wonder how it would be. To be in there with her. His soapy hands washing her back, her arms, her legs. Moving across her stomach . . .
Almost without meaning to, he blinked three times and looked left, looked right, and his world turned bright blue. He had been playing with the bionic vision stuff earlier in the car, and had discovered that, while he couldn’t get the X-ray vision to work in color, per se, he could change the look so that instead of black and white and shades of gray, it was black and yellow and shades of red and orange or, as he had last left it, deep navy and white with shades of blue and cyan.
He leaned forward, already able to see a fuzzy, moving bloom of cyan and white on the bathroom door that quickly focused into a human form as the wood completely melted away. And he could see her perfectly, as if there was nothing at all between them. She was a goddess in burning blue fire. He could see the faint hint of the tub, the shower curtain and the faucets. But she—she was glowing. She was radiating. She was a moving, blazing statue cast in chrome, the water of the shower bathing her body in ripples of blue energy, luminous rivulets of plasma cascading down the soft curves of her body. As she moved—hands to her head, sliding down across her face, then back through her hair—the mist of water coming off her was like brilliant blue sparks. She turned, flipping her wet hair from one shoulder to the other as she did so, creating an eruption of glittering azure.
“I do not snore,” Megan asserted. “I don’t fart, either.”
Jon laughed. “I know that’s not true. Me and Johnny Two had to run for our lives that one time—I think you guys had gone to eat Mexican, and we we’re all watching MTV in Johnny’s room and—”
“Lies, lies and falsehoods!” Megan insisted as they entered their hotel room. “Never ever ever happened.”
“Never?”
“Not so much as the tiniest toot.”
After closing and bolting the door, Jon sat down on the first bed, by Megan’s duffel bag. “I think I’m about to pass out. Which bed do you want?”
“I want the one closest to the bathroom.” She gestured at the bed he was sitting on. “You can have the one next to the door.”
“Figured,” Jon said, and tossed Megan’s duffel bag over to the second bed. “Night.”
Megan walked up to the bed and leaned over. “Not without a goodnight kiss, you don’t,” she said, and softly pressed her lips against his cheek. Then she put her open mouth over his, her tongue moving slowly between his lips, one hand caressing his cheek. She tasted, and smelled, like pizza, chocolate and cigarettes, but it was still wonderful. Her mouth was so soft, so warm, so perfect, Jon couldn’t help but think that he did love this crazy, manic, cigarette-and-pizza smelling girl. That love was the word for it, no matter what Megan said. What other word was there for the tender touch of her lips, the salty taste of her kiss, the wet, soft, accepting warmth of her open mouth? The soft, cool fingers on his cheek? How could she not like that word? Not believe in that word? She was, as far as he was concerned, the very embodiment of that word. Jon found himself suddenly feeling more awake.
Abruptly, she disengaged. “Well, nighty-night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” she sing-songed, eyes and lips both glistening. She turned on her heel, and sashayed to the bathroom door. “I’m going to take a shower, then watch some TV. If you wanted to be sweet, you could go put some ice in the bucket and stick a beer in it for me, before you go to sleep. I think the beer and snacks are still in the car. ‘Night!”
The bathroom door closed, and the lock clicked. Jon sat up tiredly. Okay, he’d get her some ice. Fine. Then he really was going to go to sleep.
He got the ice bucket from the sink and went downstairs to the ice machine, filling it up as much as he could, retrieved the beer and snacks from the car, and returned upstairs. He poured the ice in the sink and then filled it halfway with cold water, which left enough room for three beers, in case she wanted more.
He turned to walk back towards the bed, and paused, watching the steam come from under the bathroom door. He listened to the sound of the shower running, and he couldn’t help but wonder how it would be. To be in there with her. His soapy hands washing her back, her arms, her legs. Moving across her stomach . . .
Almost without meaning to, he blinked three times and looked left, looked right, and his world turned bright blue. He had been playing with the bionic vision stuff earlier in the car, and had discovered that, while he couldn’t get the X-ray vision to work in color, per se, he could change the look so that instead of black and white and shades of gray, it was black and yellow and shades of red and orange or, as he had last left it, deep navy and white with shades of blue and cyan.
He leaned forward, already able to see a fuzzy, moving bloom of cyan and white on the bathroom door that quickly focused into a human form as the wood completely melted away. And he could see her perfectly, as if there was nothing at all between them. She was a goddess in burning blue fire. He could see the faint hint of the tub, the shower curtain and the faucets. But she—she was glowing. She was radiating. She was a moving, blazing statue cast in chrome, the water of the shower bathing her body in ripples of blue energy, luminous rivulets of plasma cascading down the soft curves of her body. As she moved—hands to her head, sliding down across her face, then back through her hair—the mist of water coming off her was like brilliant blue sparks. She turned, flipping her wet hair from one shoulder to the other as she did so, creating an eruption of glittering azure.
The effect was dramatic. It had to be something like infrared, he thought. He could think of no other explanation for why Megan and the water should stand out so profoundly against everything else, except for temperature. Still, it wasn’t like any infrared video thing he had ever scene on television. It was like she was really there, standing almost alone in the darkness except for the hot water and a long, blue bar that extended down from the ceiling, to the faint edge of the tub, and looped back up to the showerhead—the hot water pipe, Jon guessed.
It seemed on odd coincidence, though. He had been just messing with the settings for the x-ray, figuring that the more he knew about this stuff, the better, and happened to stop and leave it set on a color palette very much like the one from the dream. A setting that made Megan look very much like the Megan from his dream—although now she looked almost as if she were forged out of chrome.
While it lacked some of the visual punch of being in the middle of a swirling vortex of blue fire and seeing Megan’s heart, beating inside her chest, turn at once into a burning sun and then collapse into a black hole, her appearance now was in some ways even more striking. She looked as if she was made of moving, super-polished metal, showering in a spray of liquid mercury, all lit from in front and behind and maybe even inside by blue light so deep, so intense, it would have to have been a laser, were it not all a trick of the magic contact lenses in his eyes. In some ways, the scene reminded him a lot of Tron. Only a whole lot sexier. And soapier.
Coincidence, certainly. But it was almost as if he could hear her voice, the voice from his dream, as he stood, transfixed. I was waiting for you to touch me. Touch me with your fingers.
It seemed on odd coincidence, though. He had been just messing with the settings for the x-ray, figuring that the more he knew about this stuff, the better, and happened to stop and leave it set on a color palette very much like the one from the dream. A setting that made Megan look very much like the Megan from his dream—although now she looked almost as if she were forged out of chrome.
While it lacked some of the visual punch of being in the middle of a swirling vortex of blue fire and seeing Megan’s heart, beating inside her chest, turn at once into a burning sun and then collapse into a black hole, her appearance now was in some ways even more striking. She looked as if she was made of moving, super-polished metal, showering in a spray of liquid mercury, all lit from in front and behind and maybe even inside by blue light so deep, so intense, it would have to have been a laser, were it not all a trick of the magic contact lenses in his eyes. In some ways, the scene reminded him a lot of Tron. Only a whole lot sexier. And soapier.
Coincidence, certainly. But it was almost as if he could hear her voice, the voice from his dream, as he stood, transfixed. I was waiting for you to touch me. Touch me with your fingers.
He watched as she turned in the shower, almost directly facing the door, rubbing her shimmering metallic hands across her burning white-aqua chrome-plated belly and then down her thighs. The water of the shower sluiced down the constantly changing channels made by each move of her arms, each twist of her torso, each shift of her legs, in brilliant streams of liquid blue electricity.
Touch me with your fingers, her voice whispered in his head. It seemed like such a good idea.
He wasn’t entirely sure how long he stood there just staring, but he knew when it was time to stop. She grew still, her hands dropping to her sides, her head craning forward. She seemed to sway on her feet, reaching out and holding onto something—maybe a towel bar—for support. It took a moment for Jon’s sleepy, mesmerized head to put it together, but then he realized: she was looking right back him. She could see him, staring at her, in the shower. Because she was still wearing the contact lenses, just like he was.
Touch me with your fingers, her voice whispered in his head. It seemed like such a good idea.
He wasn’t entirely sure how long he stood there just staring, but he knew when it was time to stop. She grew still, her hands dropping to her sides, her head craning forward. She seemed to sway on her feet, reaching out and holding onto something—maybe a towel bar—for support. It took a moment for Jon’s sleepy, mesmerized head to put it together, but then he realized: she was looking right back him. She could see him, staring at her, in the shower. Because she was still wearing the contact lenses, just like he was.
“Shit,” Jon swore, as a chrome goddess sculpted from burning white and blue energy stumbled towards the bathroom door. He blinked three times, looked left, looked right, and his vision cleared. He was just standing at the sink by the dark wood bathroom door, only the lamp on the tiny table and beside the bed lighting the room.
The bathroom door jerked open and Megan, a white motel towel hastily wrapped around her torso, stuck her head, wet hair plastered to her skull and still dripping, out the door. The shower was still running behind her, and she apparently liked it very hot, because thick white clouds of steam billowed out into the room. The smell of soap was very strong.
“You said you were sleepy, you jackass!” she yelled at him. “‘Oh, I’m too tired to go bowling, I need to go to sleep’ but there you are out here spying on me take a shower—“
Jon felt his cheeks burning. “I—uh—um—I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re not still doing it, are you? You stopped, right, jerkwad?”
“I stopped, I stopped. I—it was just so cool. You looked like you were made out of chrome. Burning blue chrome. It was—you can watch me take a shower, if you want.”
“Eww!” she said. “I don’t want to see you washing between your toes and bending over and shit. That’s gross. And I don’t want you watching me. Unless I tell you that you can. That’s my decision. Not yours. If we’re going to be traveling across the world together for the rest of our lives, you can’t be spying on me in the bathroom when I might be doing personal gross female stuff or peeing or picking my nose or something.”
Jon just stood with his head bowed. “Sorry.”
“You’re right, you’re sorry. Don’t do it again. Or I’m snatching those things out of your eyeballs.”
Jon nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better. I’m going to finish my shower.” She paused. “And you keep your eyeballs to yourself. If you want some cheap thrills, try me live and in person.” She turned on her heel, and Jon could see through the thin crack of the door that the towel did not go all the way around her, and he could clearly see—without any magic tricks—her wet, naked backside. “You just might get lucky,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. And kicked the door closed.
Good God, she was some kind of wonderful. It was amazing how much life could change, and so fast. He had barely spent more than a few hours alone with Megan before last Friday, and certainly had expected a fairly limited engagement, mostly with her fawning over Johnny Two, this summer. Now, he was finding it difficult to imagine his life without her. He was finding it difficult to think about anyone or anything else.
He knocked on the door. He heard the shower curtain, wet footsteps on the tile, and then she cracked the door so that he could only see her eyes. “You aren’t going to get lucky right now, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m taking a shower. You’ve already had your cheap thrills for the night. I don’t need you to wash or scrub or dry off anything—”
Jon shook his head. “I just thought of something. The Dragon Soap.”
“You put who in the what now?”
“Hang on,” he said, and turned around to the closet, reaching in back and feeling his hand hit the briefcase, even though he couldn’t see it. At his touch, there was a shimmer and then it was just there, as solid as ever. He pulled it out, popped the latches, and then rummaged around. After a moment, he pulled out a bar of soap wrapped in brown paper, with the words DRAGON SOAP neatly written in blue capital letters on the outside. He opened it up, and pulled out the plain white bar of soap.
“Here,” he said, standing back up and poking it through the door. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to just start—I mean, you ought to see it, it’s really cool, but—I just wanted to make sure you got this. Is all.”
She took it the soap and held it to her nose—at least, he heard her sniffing at it, the door was almost closed. “Smells like Ivory. It says Ivory. It is Ivory.”
“It’s supposed to be, ah, slightly modified. To protect you. Make sure you lather up everything everywhere—between your toes and even your hair.”
“Ugh! I don’t put bar soap in my hair, are you crazy?”
Jon sighed heavily. When it came down to it, he was tired, and didn’t want to have to argue, explain, or justify anything else. He was just wanted her to do what he told her to. “It’s supposed to make you, like, invulnerable. Bulletproof, it said, although I don’t think we should try it. Just do it.”
“Ah,” Megan said brightly. “For the shootout. Cool!” And the door slammed shut.
Well, at least she was going to use it. “On your hair, too!” he yelled through the door. “So it gets on your scalp and stuff.”
“All right, Mom! Thanks!” she yelled back. “You can go away now!”
“Fine, fine,” Jon mumbled, heading back to the bed. He took his shoes off, laid down, and closed his eyes.
The bathroom door jerked open and Megan, a white motel towel hastily wrapped around her torso, stuck her head, wet hair plastered to her skull and still dripping, out the door. The shower was still running behind her, and she apparently liked it very hot, because thick white clouds of steam billowed out into the room. The smell of soap was very strong.
“You said you were sleepy, you jackass!” she yelled at him. “‘Oh, I’m too tired to go bowling, I need to go to sleep’ but there you are out here spying on me take a shower—“
Jon felt his cheeks burning. “I—uh—um—I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re not still doing it, are you? You stopped, right, jerkwad?”
“I stopped, I stopped. I—it was just so cool. You looked like you were made out of chrome. Burning blue chrome. It was—you can watch me take a shower, if you want.”
“Eww!” she said. “I don’t want to see you washing between your toes and bending over and shit. That’s gross. And I don’t want you watching me. Unless I tell you that you can. That’s my decision. Not yours. If we’re going to be traveling across the world together for the rest of our lives, you can’t be spying on me in the bathroom when I might be doing personal gross female stuff or peeing or picking my nose or something.”
Jon just stood with his head bowed. “Sorry.”
“You’re right, you’re sorry. Don’t do it again. Or I’m snatching those things out of your eyeballs.”
Jon nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better. I’m going to finish my shower.” She paused. “And you keep your eyeballs to yourself. If you want some cheap thrills, try me live and in person.” She turned on her heel, and Jon could see through the thin crack of the door that the towel did not go all the way around her, and he could clearly see—without any magic tricks—her wet, naked backside. “You just might get lucky,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. And kicked the door closed.
Good God, she was some kind of wonderful. It was amazing how much life could change, and so fast. He had barely spent more than a few hours alone with Megan before last Friday, and certainly had expected a fairly limited engagement, mostly with her fawning over Johnny Two, this summer. Now, he was finding it difficult to imagine his life without her. He was finding it difficult to think about anyone or anything else.
He knocked on the door. He heard the shower curtain, wet footsteps on the tile, and then she cracked the door so that he could only see her eyes. “You aren’t going to get lucky right now, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m taking a shower. You’ve already had your cheap thrills for the night. I don’t need you to wash or scrub or dry off anything—”
Jon shook his head. “I just thought of something. The Dragon Soap.”
“You put who in the what now?”
“Hang on,” he said, and turned around to the closet, reaching in back and feeling his hand hit the briefcase, even though he couldn’t see it. At his touch, there was a shimmer and then it was just there, as solid as ever. He pulled it out, popped the latches, and then rummaged around. After a moment, he pulled out a bar of soap wrapped in brown paper, with the words DRAGON SOAP neatly written in blue capital letters on the outside. He opened it up, and pulled out the plain white bar of soap.
“Here,” he said, standing back up and poking it through the door. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to just start—I mean, you ought to see it, it’s really cool, but—I just wanted to make sure you got this. Is all.”
She took it the soap and held it to her nose—at least, he heard her sniffing at it, the door was almost closed. “Smells like Ivory. It says Ivory. It is Ivory.”
“It’s supposed to be, ah, slightly modified. To protect you. Make sure you lather up everything everywhere—between your toes and even your hair.”
“Ugh! I don’t put bar soap in my hair, are you crazy?”
Jon sighed heavily. When it came down to it, he was tired, and didn’t want to have to argue, explain, or justify anything else. He was just wanted her to do what he told her to. “It’s supposed to make you, like, invulnerable. Bulletproof, it said, although I don’t think we should try it. Just do it.”
“Ah,” Megan said brightly. “For the shootout. Cool!” And the door slammed shut.
Well, at least she was going to use it. “On your hair, too!” he yelled through the door. “So it gets on your scalp and stuff.”
“All right, Mom! Thanks!” she yelled back. “You can go away now!”
“Fine, fine,” Jon mumbled, heading back to the bed. He took his shoes off, laid down, and closed his eyes.
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