She’s running out through the curtain and I’m just standing there, so it’s me he grabs. He’s sweating even more, and I’m wondering if he’s shotgun-up-the-cooter-guy. I wish I was the type to ask, but I’m not.
“Let go of me!” I’m crying, even though this guy can’t stand up. His detached leg rests in his lap. I swivel, leaving him with just the jacket.
Jules is waiting for me in admission, white coat gone, like it never happened.
“You ever think about killing a guy?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “All the time.”
We’re at Jules’ house for dinner. It’s some carrots her big sister dug up from their yard. Everybody munches. I used to pretend that I could trade these guys for my real family, but it doesn’t work like that. My parents yanked me across every pipeline on six continents. I know French and Hindi. When I’m introduced to someone, I shake firm, look people in the eye, and repeat their name back at them. I’ve got three million dollars in a trust fund I’m not allowed to open until I’m twenty-one. Jules’ family is dirt poor. They’re mean and they laugh out loud when you make a mistake. They give their boyfriends free rein, which is one of the reasons Jules is so mad all the time. Every time she puts a lock on her door they take it right down. If she had an ounce of self-awareness, she’d probably understand that it’s also why she only falls for men like me, men she can’t have.
I can’t wait to get out of this town, she told me the first time we met.
Jules’ mom and sister want to play Gin Rummy after dinner. They’re starting to realize that Aporia’s real, which is making them pretend all the more desperately that it’s not. “Did you see that the sale of crank-operated devices has gone up 2000%?” her mom asks. “It’s a conspiracy, this whole asteroid business. Mark my words!”
“I gotta shove off,” I tell them as I stand. Then I look at all three of them and realize they’ve all got Jules’ dull marble eyes. “Take care of yourselves,” I say. Then I’m out the door.
“The asteroid’s a hoax!” Jules’ sister shouts behind me. But it’s right outside, big as the moon and in the opposite direction. It glows, making the night doubly bright.
I’m on my bike, headed I don’t know where. Well, actually, yes. I do know. I’ve been thinking about it all day.
“Hey!” Jules calls after me, and she’s riding, too.
It’s biting cold. We’re wrapped in Hefty garbage bags to keep warm. “You go ahead. I don’t wanna rave,” I tell her.
“Where else is there to go?”
“Omaha,” I say.
She doesn’t chew me out for a half-brained plan, like riding our bikes six hundred miles in below-freezing weather. She just pedals right along with me, fast as she can, like the whole world behind her is on fire.
We go past the center of Pigment, near the high school. I stop at this arts and crafts house with a hoop out front. It looks like gingerbread. Jules doesn’t even ask whose house we’re at.
I ring the bell. I’m so nervous I’m panting.
“Don’t leave me,” Jules whispers. She’s sniffling. “You’re my family.”
But she’s not.
A Hobbit opens the door. Mrs. Nguyen, I presume.
“I’m looking for Fred,” I say.
Twin baby girls and a toddler boy crowd the mom’s legs. Warm air gushes out. It’s been so long since I felt radiator heat that I almost mistake it for magic.
Mrs. Nguyen brings us to a plastic-covered couch. The kids surround us, drooling. Out of habit, I pick one up and squeeze her thigh until she laughs. I’m going to murder Mr. Nguyen if I have to. This doesn’t change that.
Mrs. Nguyen brings us blankets and steaming hot cocoa with little marshmallows. The sugar is so sweet that my mouth dries on contact, then waters all over again.
“Jesus God this is good,” Jules says.
Mrs. Nguyen grins. “Don’t tell the Militia about our heat!”
We fake smile back.
“Mr. Tom Crawford, Ms. Juliet Olsen,” Mr. Nguyen says as he walks in. He’s still in khakis and a dirty shirt. He seems pleased we’ve come.
“I want your ticket,” I say. “I know you have one.”
Jules squeezes my knee.
Mr. Nguyen sits on the arm of a La-Z-Boy. The kids squirm and roll like seals. Mrs. Nguyen brings out hot brie and crackers.
“I love food,” Jules says as she scarfs. “I’m so happy about food!”
“Are you staying for dinner?” Mrs. Nguyen asks.
“I want a ticket,” I say. “My sister needs me. She can’t be raised by those people.”
“You know your parents got four tickets, don’t you?” Mr. Nguyen asks.
I’m holding a dull cheese knife, which should be funny but isn’t. I’m also crying. Everybody looks horrified. Mr. Nguyen is standing between me and his kids. Mrs. Nguyen is holding the twins. Even crazier, Jules has the little boy.
“Give me your ticket!” I’m shouting, waving the damn cheese knife.
Mr. Nguyen opens his wallet. He pulls out this credit card-looking-thing and hands it to me slowly, and I want to yell, Seriously? You think I’m going to cheese knife your stupid family?
The ticket is clear with engraved writing:
Offutt Refugee Center, First Class
Thomas J. Crawford
109-83-9921
I’m holding both the card and the cheese knife, and for just a second, I’m happy. Fred Nguyen is a magician.
Jules leans over, babe in arms. “Why do you have his ticket? Did you steal it?”
Mrs. Nguyen kind of connipts. She’s waving her hands, which happen to be full of kids. “His parents traded it for fuel to Nebraska! Dears, dears! It wasn’t easy for them. You have to know. They had no other way of getting to the shelter. Without fuel they’d have frozen to death. They had to sell! But true, true. We could have given it away. That would have been Christian. Indeed, indeed. I wish we had, to be honest. I truly do wish we had. It was a bad idea.”
Mrs. Nguyen runs out of steam. She’s got big tears in her eyes. “Now, Tom, dear, may I have that knife?”
I’m looking at Mrs. Nguyen, who’s holding these sweet baby girls who just happen to be the same age as Cathy. And I’m wondering if it would break her heart if I stabbed them.
“What are you people, the sultans of petroleum?” Jules asks.
“My husband prepared a year ago. They should have chosen us. We deserve to live,” Mrs. Nguyen says.
“Honey, take the children into another room,” Mr. Nguyen says, and Mrs. Nguyen starts to reach for the boy in Jules’ arms but I stop her.
“Let me get this straight—My parents got four tickets? They kept three and sold mine, to you, my teacher, who’s supposed to be a nice guy? Mr. Role model? Mr. Don’t Let The Devil Out?”
Nguyen nods. “I meant to give it back to you. But I’d been hoping to acquire more, for the rest of my family,” he opens his arms to signify his wife and three kids. “The clock ran out.”
“That’s really sad for you guys. As long as you’re giving them away, you got another ticket for me?” Jules asks.
“Please put the knife down, Thomas,” Mr. Nguyen says. “I’m very sorry. You know I am.”
I’m looking at Jules and the boy in her arms. She kisses his cheek, because it’s human nature to love children. But not for nut jobs like me, because all I’m thinking about is murder.
She turns to me. “Put the stupid knife down, you psycho! You’re freaking me out.”