Flying (14 page)

“Drop it,” China orders.

“No, you.”

Wow. It's like they're both five.

“Both of you put your stupid guns down!” I yell, pushing my way in front of China. “This is so ridiculous.”

Neither of them put anything down.

The bag I left at Lyle's house slips on his shoulder as he says, “Get out of the way, Mana. I'm not going to let him kidnap you.”

“He is not kidnapping me, and if he was, you let him drive forever before trying to stop it … although I appreciate that you tried and everything.” I turn enough so I can sneak a peek at China, and then refocus on Lyle. “Wait. Why
did
you wait so long?”

“I was trying to figure out what to do. I wanted a plan.” He actually blushes. “When someone is kidnapping your best friend you want to make sure you do the right thing and not make the situation worse.”

“He's not kidnapping me. He's going to help me find my mom.”

Lyle snorts. “Right.”

A Dead River Oil truck barrels past us. Sand and grit spray up into our faces. It stings.

“Crud,” I mutter, wiping at my eyes.

The oil truck stops about two hundred yards ahead of us. He must have realized what he was seeing. Two men with guns. One girl in between them. A massive lumbering guy, yelling into his cell phone, hauls himself out of the cab and starts crouch-walking toward us, trying to be a smart hero, trying not to be a target.

“Great,” China mutters. “More complications.”

I turn back to Lyle, reach up, and grip his belt loop with my fingers. “We have to go. Get in the truck with us. I will tell you everything.”

China bristles. “This kid is on a hero mission, and he's a liability. I don't want him coming with us.”

“Well, he is,” I say as Lyle jumps off the truck bed. “Put your gun away, Lyle.”

“He has to, first.”

“No way.” A muscle in China's temple pulses.

The trucker decides to yell from where he is rather than risk coming any closer, which is a highly intelligent self-preservation instinct. “Hey! I've called the police! You best be putting those guns down before they come. You okay, lady?”

“That is the question of the day,” I mutter, and resist the urge to yell,
Define ‘okay'!

Lyle gives me big eyes, but I can't tell what he wants me to do. So I make it up.

“Yep!” I yell. “Just a little lovers' spat! Nothing big! Everything is A-OK.”

He straightens up. He's got on a giant red parka. He seems like he's somebody's dad. “I've called the police.”

“That is so nice of you,” I say as China gets back in the truck cab and Lyle and I slip around to the front of the truck toward the passenger's side door. “But it's not necessary. We'll just be leaving now.”

The trucker pulls out a gun of his own. “Oh, I don't think you should do that. You best stay right here until the authorities come to handle this.”

“Shit,” China says. “Get in. Now!”

We dive inside the cab. Lyle slams in behind me, not even shutting the door, just as the trucker clicks the safety off his gun.

Lyle pretty much lands on top of me. We are just a pile of limbs, and he is shouting, “What the f—”

But his shouts lose to the sound of a gunshot. The oil truck driver is actually shooting at us. I think I swear.

“Ha!” China says, stepping on the gas. “What a lousy shot. Shut the door, idiot.”

Reaching over me, Lyle shuts the door just as we speed by the Dead River Oil man, who is cursing at us and pointing his gun again. He shoots.

“That one hit the side,” China says, grinning massively. “So he's getting better.”

“How can you smile at this?” I say, trying to disentangle my legs from Lyle's and actually sit upright. When we're finally in proper sitting position, I grab Lyle's gun and put it on the floor between my feet. The safety is still on.

“Because it's fun,” China answers.

“Fun!” I turn to Lyle for help. “There is something wrong with him.”

“That's why I was trying to rescue you,” Lyle says, handing me the seat belt.

I click it in. “I do not need to be rescued.”

“Right.”

“Lyle! Just shut up!”

“I will if you stop yelling,” he says in a perfectly calm voice.

“I am not yelling!”

China grunts, and the truck engine revs under the pressure of trying to go so fast so quick. “Yes, you are.”

I ignore that, watching behind us. “He's getting into the oil truck.”

“Is he following us?” China asks.

“Yep.” I turn around and stare straight ahead of us. “I cannot believe he shot at us. I cannot believe you two have guns, and pointed them at each other.”

Whirling around, I stare at Lyle, who has his hand curled up like the gun is still there. “Do you know how dangerous that is? Have you ever actually even touched a gun before in your life?”

He squints his eyes at me. “Yes.”

“Right. When?”

“Mana, let's not interrogate the boy yet. We have priorities at the moment. Can you tell me if you can still see the oil truck behind us?” China says.

“Is that not what your rearview mirror is for?” I say, turning around.

“I'm focusing on driving,” he says, as the truck lurches around a Subaru station wagon like my mom's, only red.

I look behind us. The truck is cresting a hill on a straightaway. “Okay, he's still following us. But we're losing him. That's what you say in your line of work, right? Losing him?”

“Any cops in sight?” China asks, veering around a sand truck.

Lyle answers for me. “No.”

The dark grit spills out of the sand truck and onto the road, trying to make us all safer as we drive in the snow. I wonder if the government really understands the threats we're living under. I wonder if it would waste so many tax dollars on highway maintenance if it did.

“Is that oil truck guy actually one of the bad guys?” I whimper.

China grunts.

“What?” My hands clench each other.

“Appears that way. At least he is now,” he says. “God, what a day.”

“Mana?” Lyle touches my shoulder, gently, which is nice for a change, since in the past twenty-four hours everything has seemed terribly ungentle. “You okay?”

I make myself nod.

“You're just sort of staring blankly. And your hands…” Lyle unclenches my grip.

“I think she's just realized everything that's going on,” China says. “And it can be a little much to process when you first figure everything out.”

Lyle pulls me against him. His gun is still down on the floor between my feet. I let his arm wrap around my shoulders, and lean into his puffy jacket.

“Figure what out?” Lyle asks.

China glances at me for permission, I guess. I give a thumbs-up sign. And then China starts to tell Lyle what he told me. All of it.

“I thought we weren't supposed to trust anybody?” I say, after a mile of this.

Lyle removes his arm from my shoulders, which is fine, but a little immature, I think. I give him a raised eyebrow. He flops his arm around. “Fell asleep.”

Judging by the laugh lines near his eyes, China appears amused, and then he says to me, “People are always trying to protect you, aren't they?”

“It's because I'm short,” I say. “You're not answering the question.”

“The kid showed some spunk. He had a gun. He stowed away in the truck. I've decided he may be a liability, but he may also be useful,” he explains, as we turn onto the exit for Maine, “if he can remember to take the safety off a gun.”

Lyle cringes.

“Are we going to Maine?” I interrupt as we cross onto Interstate 95, the one real highway into the state. We pass a New Hampshire liquor store with a zillion cars in the parking lot.

“Yep. And I only had two choices,” China continues, driving as calm as can be, apparently not worried at all about police possibly searching for us, or the fact that his truck has been shot by the oil truck guy. “I could trust your little friend here—”

“I'm not a little friend,” Lyle scoffs.

China keeps talking. “Or I could shoot him.”

My stomach lurches. China smiles at me. “I figured you didn't want me to shoot him. You'd probably run off or fight me, and that would make things more difficult, too.”

Lyle's leg starts jiggling like it always does when he's mad or nervous. The whole damn truck vibrates. I decide to change the topic. “Why don't you tell him the rest, then?”

China talks. Lyle listens. I listen, too. I just heard it all, but how many times can you hear that your mom is an alien hunter, that the government has secret agencies dealing with aliens, that even the president doesn't understand the magnitude or nature of the threat?

One time is too many times.

But I listen again anyway.

I listen because it might bring me closer to Mom. Even so, it all kind of hits me in the stomach, punching it in with such great force that the only thing I can compare it to is the time I came out of a double tuck front twist and landed on Seppie's elbow.

“So, Mana's mother is my partner. We hunt aliens, mostly, and we try to collect proof of their plans so that we can present them to the president,” China says, all matter-of-fact casual. He seems awfully young to be working with my mother, to be driving in a truck with a gun, explaining this to us. He's probably in his twenties, but he's so different than we are, so calm and confident and in charge. It's almost like
he
is the alien.

“That's why they've taken her,” China continues. A hand lifts from the steering wheel to rub at his eyes. “They thought she had the proof on her.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lyle says. He closes his eyes, like he is trying to figure it all out. “What did you just say?”

The edge of China's lip creeps up, like he's trying not to smile. “Mana's mom works with me. We hunt aliens.”

Lyle sputters and then is silent, obviously stunned or astonished or whatever word you want to use to describe it.

And then we're all quiet.

*   *   *

We drive across the big green metal bridge that spans the brown river of ugly marking the line between New Hampshire and Maine. Cars zip along with us. The people in those sedans and SUVs and trucks are probably talking about normal things, like Thanksgiving and grocery lists, probably thinking the biggest thing to fear is fear itself and all that crap.

Ha.

Lyle finally remembers how to talk. “Holy crap.”

“That's a brilliant response.” China laughs. “Sanctifying feces.”

“Be nice to him.” I pull closer to Lyle. “It's a lot to process.”

China raises his eyebrows.

“You … you … you believe him?” Lyle gapes at me, stunned. “You just believe him, Mana? He could be insane, criminally insane. He could be kidnapping us right now.”

“Why would I want to kidnap you?” China says, amused. “Mana, maybe. But you?”

“No clue.” Lyle's exasperation shows in his head movements. His hair flops into his face and he shoves it out of the way. “It makes more sense than Mana's mom being an alien hunter.”

“Lyle, think about it,” I say. “Think about what we saw in my house last night, about what I told you happened in the locker room.”

Air leaves Lyle's mouth in a slow hiss, and then he says, “I know … I know … But … Ah, God. Your mom is so
mom
though. I mean, she's not some kick-ass, Joss Whedon—or J. J. Abrams–style toughie, you know?”

I pat his arm. His pop culture references are kind of beyond me. “It's okay.”

“Kid, you need to man up,” China says.

I smack his leather coat sleeve. “Will you stop?”

He laughs and smiles. “You're pretty protective. Your mom is the same way.”

I know. Or I think I know. I'm not sure how well I know my mom anymore, actually. “You don't need to put others down to feel better about yourself. Lyle is manning up just fine, thank you very much. He's not even hysterical. Most people would be hysterical, given these circumstances.”

China turns off the Maine interstate. He points a finger at me. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You sound just like your mother.”

I'm not sure whether that's an insult or not.

*   *   *

As we drive down the bumpy streets, wind blows new snow across our path, twisting it into white fingers that always seem to be reaching out to capture us. Lyle slowly stops jittering, losing some of the anxiety that has propelled him forward, I guess. He slumps against the window as we drive past a big store advertising, in big block letters,
GUNS, BAIT, WEDDING DRESSES, BEER
.

“Love that sign,” China says, nodding at it.

Dark brown wood the color of a UPS truck covers the store's exterior. The paint peels, to make it even more inviting. The
OPEN
sign is all lit up.

“Pretty white trash.” Lyle snickers in a way that makes him sound like such a rich boy. It's ridiculous. He's only upper middle class. It's like Dartmouth's pretentiousness has already invaded him.

I hit him in the leg. “Shut up.”

Lyle rubs his thigh. “What?”

I scowl at him. He still doesn't get it.

“What?”

“It's a mean thing to say.”

China kind of chuckles, like a normal person, as he turns the truck into the empty parking lot and drives toward the back of the building. He pulls the truck next to a large green Dumpster and parks.

“This is it?” I say, but it obviously is, because China is already unclicking his seat belt and jumping out of the car.

“Stay here while I make sure it's clear,” he says, leaning into the truck and staring at us super seriously. Snowflakes quickly conceal his dark hair. One lands on his eyelash. “I'll leave the key in case you get cold.”