Translucent (3 page)

Chapter 3

“Does it feel
wet to you?” said Megan, examining the meteorite in her palm. She touched it and studied her finger. “Like . . . slimy almost.”

After school, Megan had brought over my homework assignments from the afternoon classes we shared, and now she sprawled on my bed.

“I don’t care,” I said, still agitated from the car ride home with my mom. Shame bristled my cheeks. I sat against my bureau, fingers knotted in my hair, staring at nothing.

It would be like this always.

There would be simple things I couldn’t do, simple pleasures I couldn’t experience—like food and sex, like sunsets and driving.

I, Leona Hewitt, would live a broken life.

“You’re right, it is really pretty,” said Megan, holding the rock up to the light.

“Put that away,” I said.

“Hold on, I’m looking at it.”

“Put it away, Megan.”

“There’s something on it,” she said. “Look, you can feel it.” She scratched at it with her fingernail.

“Could you not touch it like that?” I didn’t know why I cared, but the meteorite felt like mine—I had gone down and gotten it, after all.

She would taint its purity.

“So this came from space?” she said, placing it in the center of her palm again. “Like . . . what does that mean? It came from the moon?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If an asteroid hit the moon, it could have knocked this little piece into space, which then landed here. It could have come from farther, too.”

“Like Mars?”

“Or deep space.”

“Deep space,” she repeated. “Where’s deep space?”

“Do you know
anything
, Megan?” I regretted my words, and followed with a kinder tone to smooth them over. “I mean it could have come from way out there, maybe another solar system, or another galaxy. The point is, it could have come from anywhere, and that’s why it’s beautiful, because we don’t know where it came from. It’s a mystery.”

“Ew,” she said, dropping it. “It’s definitely wet.” She rubbed her fingers together, then rubbed them off on my pillow.

“See, that’s why I don’t want you touching it.” I scooted over to the bed and snatched up the fragment, feeling oddly protective of it. In my hands, it did have a slimy feel to it, even more so than before.

Maybe something in it was reacting with earth’s atmosphere and secreting some kind of liquid.

Maybe it was deteriorating.

I could put it in acetone or something else to preserve it, but who knew if that would actually help.

A shadow materialized in my periphery—Megan, leaning over my shoulder.

Instinctively, I shielded the rock from her.

“Come on,” she said, “let me look at it. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

I closed my fist around it and gave her a flat, “No.”

She returned a patronizing look. “Really, Leona?”

“Did you even wash your hands? Go wash your hands.”

“What . . . after touching it?”

“No, the oils in your hand might dissolve the rock. Go wash your hands if you want to touch it.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Go wash your hands,” I ordered. “I’m not going to let you touch it until you wash your hands.”

Why did I care so much?

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and stepped into my bathroom. The water ran for a few seconds, then cut off.

“With
soap
,” I called.

“Jeez, you want me to wear rubber gloves too?”

“Maybe. Look, I just don’t want to damage it, okay? I want to be careful.”

“It’s just a rock, Leona.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “We need to be careful. We always need to be careful. That’s how it is now.”

“Yeah, uh . . . what are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” I shook my head, turning the meteorite over in my hand.

She wouldn’t understand.

This tiny fragment came from somewhere beyond our solar system, where human existence wasn’t even a blip on the radar. Out there, in the empty vastness of space, there was no such thing as guilt, no such thing as morality.

Out there, no one judged me. A human being was just an insignificant collection of atoms. We were like ants compared to what was out there—the nebulae that gave birth to stars, the supernovae that lit the farthest reaches of space, the colossal black holes that held galaxies together. Compared to those behemoths, we were utterly insignificant.

In this tiny meteorite, I could feel the hugeness of that place, feel its soothing reminder that other galaxies didn’t give a crap about us, that my own petty issues didn’t really exist.

Out there, in the sterile, velvety silence of outer space, I had never sinned.

Megan’s open palm appeared in front of me, now scrubbed pink. “Can I see it?”

Hesitantly, I placed the meteorite in her hand. She scooted across my bedroom to examine it under the window, gently prodding it. She rubbed her finger and thumb together. “Why is it sticky?”

“I think it’s secreting something,” I said.

“Feels weird,” she muttered.

I watched her poke at the rock again, and my earlier unease came back. “You know what, I changed my mind. I don’t want you touching it. Ever.” I reached for the meteorite, but she held it out of reach.

“You’re being weird,” she said.

Panic needled my mind. “Megan, give it back. It’s mine.” I lunged for it, but she only held it farther away.

“I think I’ll keep it.”

“It’s
mine
,” I snapped.

“It’s both of ours,” she said slowly. “We found it together.”

“No, you stood by and watched while I went down into the crater and got it. You were too scared.”

She held my gaze. “Why are you being like this? Why are we being like this? We said we would never be like this, remember?”

“I’m not being like anything,” I snapped. “I just want you to give it back to me because it’s mine. I want you to stop touching my things like you own them. You always do that, and it pisses me off.”

“Fine, take your fucking rock.” She tossed it into my lap.

“Here, let’s just put it away. Look, I’m putting it away.” I pulled open my nightstand drawer and set the stone inside.

Her eyes lingered on the drawer after I closed it.

My eyelids opened
at two in the morning, as a whisper echoed into the silence.

Leooooona
 . . .

Wide awake, I gaped at the pitch black ceiling of my bedroom, and each thump of my heart deepened the soreness in my chest.

A bad dream.

Just a bad dream.

I lay rigid as a board, fists clenched at my side, T-shirt soaked in sweat. Fear crackled through my veins, little pricks of electricity. In the darkness, my bedroom walls seemed to rush in at me.

My eyes flicked to my nightstand, the drawer.

I wanted to hold it.

Sitting up in bed, I shoveled hair off my clammy face and pulled open the drawer, then peered into it. Just blackness. I propped myself up on one fist and rummaged through the drawer with my other hand, shoving aside picture frames. The brush of something cold and hard gave me a surge of relief—but it was just my miniature Eiffel Tower. I swallowed the tension rising in my throat and kept searching. My fingers scraped the back panel, then went to the corners.

Light. I needed light.

A chain hung from the lamp on my nightstand, which I gave a sharp tug. The light stabbed my eyes and made me wince. The drawer came into view.

But not the meteorite.

Where was it?

Breathing faster, I flipped over the frames, dug them out and threw them onto my bed. The Eiffel Tower skittered around. I snatched it and flung it across my room—the point left a dent in the wall—leaving only gum wrappers and coins.

My breath came in tight gasps.

Where the hell was it?

Frantic now, I yanked out the entire drawer and dumped the contents in my lap.

Gone.

It felt like a hand clamped around my throat.

The meteorite was gone.

I threw off my sheets and staggered to my feet, hyperalert, scanned my bedroom. Shelves, closet, laundry hamper. Panic nipped at my brain.

The laundry hamper was empty.

My mom.

She must have come in to grab the laundry and peeked in the drawer.

That explained it.

I charged down the hall, ignoring the time, and pounded on the door to the master bedroom, my fists closed tight.

“Mom,” I yelled. “Mom, did you take something from my room?”

To my relief, their bed creaked. Awake.

“Sweetie, what is it?” came my mom’s muffled voice.

“Did you take something from my room?” I called.

A pause. “Jesus, what time is it?”

“Can I come in?” I pushed open the door without waiting for an answer. “Mom,” I hissed into the darkness. “Did you go through my stuff?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I had a rock . . . in my drawer . . . and now it’s gone.” I tried to control my breathing. “You took it, right?”

Her silhouette sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“
Mom
,” I shouted. “Did you go through my stuff? Did you take something from my room?”

At this, my dad stirred and groaned. “Sweetheart, go back to bed.”

“Dad, did you take it?” I ran to his side of the bed. “That rock I had in my drawer. You took it, right?”

“Leona,” my Mom’s voice took on an edge, “go back to bed. It’s two in the morning.”

“But someone took my rock.”

“We’ll look for it in the morning. I promise.”

“But I need it now.” My tone grew desperate. “Guys, it’s really important to me. I’m serious.”

“Leona, I’m counting to five,” she said. “One . . .”

“What is this?” said my dad. “What did you lose?”

“I didn’t lose it,” I said hotly. “Someone stole it. It’s a little rock.”

“Two,” said my mom.

“We’ll get you another rock,” he said. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want another rock, I want this one . . . it’s important to me.”

“Three,” my mom warned.

“Mom, please—”

“Four . . .”

“Mom, it was a gift from Megan.”

“
Five . . .
”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.” Fuming, I retreated into the hallway, yanking the door shut behind me. I held my left fist up to my mouth, breathing fast and shallow.

Who took it?

Megan
.

Of course.

She’d been obsessed with it earlier. When we were doing our homework, I’d caught her eyeing the drawer.

I stormed back to my bedroom and dialed her number on my phone.

She didn’t pick up.

I called her again, heart hammering.

At last, after the fourth attempt, she picked up with an angry, “What do you want?”

“You took it,” I accused.

“Took what?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you took it, Megan.”

“Took
what?
” she said.

“The meteorite. You stole it.”

Silence. “Leona,” she said softly. “I didn’t steal it.”

“Then where is it?” I countered, sweeping my hair off my face with the back of my fist.

“I don’t know,” she said. “My first guess would be that drawer you put it in, unless you moved it.”

“I think I would know if I moved it.”

“Maybe your parents—”

“I already asked them, and they don’t know anything about it. So either you took it, or it evaporated.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Goodbye, Leona.”

“Megan, wait—”

But she’d already hung up.

I squeezed the phone to my cheek, wanting to crush it.

In the silence, the cold emptiness of my bedroom crowded around me. The dark hallway outside drew my gaze. I reached out to shut the door, and only then noticed my left hand was still clenched in a fist.

My fingernails dug into my palms.

White spots spread on my knuckles, where I had squeezed out all the color.

I stared at my hand, trembling a little from the exertion of staying clasped, and my breathing slowed to a stop. A slow chill spread across my skin.

I opened my hand.

And there it was.

Where it had been the entire time.

Clutched in my own fist.

Chapter 4

I stared at
the meteorite sitting on my palm, and a knot of unease formed at the back of my throat. I had been holding it the entire time, oblivious to its presence in my hand.

No, even worse than that.

Four white lines marked my palms, where my fingernails had indented the skin. My fingers too appeared a yellowish white, only now flushing with color before my eyes. A tiny cut on my index finger pooled with blood, then began to bead, where the jagged rock had broken the skin.

How long had I been holding it?

I thought back to when I’d first startled awake.

My fist had been clenched even then.

Which meant I had been holding the rock in my sleep. In my sleep, I must have opened the drawer and taken it out, then held it in my fist for the rest of the night.

That was just weird.

And
why?

When I’d woken up, I’d felt the urge to touch it without realizing it was already in my hand—at the time, I’d figured that was only because the meteorite fascinated me.

I leveled my eyes with the fragment, my breathing thin.

Now its strange pull took on a whole new meaning.

And I didn’t like it.

Thinking back to yesterday, I’d snapped at Megan because of this thing. Things between us had been strained all summer, and this certainly didn’t make things better.

It wasn’t worth that.

It spoke to me in my sleep
.

Suddenly, I wanted it gone. I wanted it out of my sight, where it couldn’t affect me.

Straightening up, I scanned by bedroom, and my gaze honed in on the waste basket under my desk.

Just throw it away.

Just throw it away, Leona.

I tossed it into the basket, and the stone landed at the bottom with a satisfying clunk. A sticky film lingered on my palm, like honey, which I wiped on my shirt. Then I went for the chain to turn off my bedside lamp.

But my hand hesitated.

Heat bloomed on the back of my neck, like something watching me. My gaze went right back to the waste basket. I could practically feel the meteorite’s presence, feel its influence tugging at my skin. I’d never sleep knowing it was there.

I had to do better.

So I collected the meteorite and slunk out into the hall, pulse drumming in my neck. The floorboards in the living room squeaked under my feet. In the kitchen, I pressed the foot pedal to open the trash can and dangled the meteorite over a smelly mess of banana peels, greasy napkins, and moldy food wrappers.

Drop it
.

My chest rose and fell, lungs straining to pull in enough air. An electric current buzzed in my veins.

I couldn’t.

This didn’t feel right.

My foot nudged off the pedal, and the trash can lid clanged shut. In my hand, the fragment felt heavy. A burden. The skin that touched it throbbed and tingled.

I’d read on the internet that chemicals on the skin would leech into the body, a warning against using cheap facial cleansers and lotions with toxic chemicals. Back when I cared about that stuff.

Was the meteorite leeching something into my blood?

I needed to get rid of it. Right now.

But how?

Quickly becoming anxious, I scanned the kitchen. The oven. Could I broil it and destroy it? Fat chance. What about the microwave? It would probably just spark and go crazy. If I washed it down the sink, it would get caught in the garbage disposal.

Maybe I could flush it down the toilet.

I tiptoed to the bathroom, clicked on the lights, and for a single disturbing instant, caught my own hazel eyes in the mirror—snuffed of all life—before a hideous tightness clamped down on my chest and I averted my gaze. Since the beginning of summer, I hadn’t been able to look myself in the eye.

I went to the toilet.

Leaning over it, I stared at the water, gently rippling, the porcelain drain curving out of view. It would get flushed down and go through a maze of pipes, the main sewer line, and it would end up in the sewage treatment plant out in Goleta. My hand closed tighter around the meteorite.

Even that wasn’t enough.

I had to destroy, banish it, send it so far away I could never recover it.

A feverish resolve pulled me out the back door and into the cool night, and a shiver worked its way under my T-shirt and pajama shorts and drew out goosebumps.

But it had to be done.

On barefoot, I slunk through the backyard toward the trashcans lined up next to the garage and threw up the first lid. The bin gaped like a black throat, empty except for a lone bag of trash way down at the bottom.

The trash can had been emptied recently. It could be another week before the trash truck came again. All that time, it would be sitting here. Sitting in the bottom of the trash can. The thought made me uneasy. I let the lid close, and another shiver took hold of my body.

I wanted it gone.
Really
gone.

Instead, I was stuck with it.

My gaze rose to the stars.

If only I could send it back, toss it right back up into the sky and banish it to the cold depths of space from whence it came.

I couldn’t do that.

But
 . . . I could do the next best thing.

At once I knew what I had to do.

I had to return it to the San Rafael Wilderness. I had to hike back up the trail and throw it down into the crater.

That would be the only way.

That would be the right thing to do.

Nailed to a
wooden stake in the middle of the trail, the yellow warning sign caught the reddish glare of the setting sun.

I halted, panting from my near-sprint through the woods, and stared at the sign—all brand new, gleaming metal, stamped with three intersecting crescents. I’d seen the symbol before in movies.

Not the one for radiation, but the other one.

Printed in all caps below the symbol was an ominous warning.

Do not enter

Biohazard Zone

To the left and right, strands of barbed wire snaked off into the woods, cordoning off the area beyond. More signs hung nearby, equally terrifying.
Trail ahead monitored by remote surveillance aircraft.
Trespassers will be prosecuted.

Anxiety edged into my thoughts, which went back to the team in hazmat suits. That had been three days ago. Since then, they’d closed down the entire area.

Was it the meteorite?

My hand went into my pocket, the shard of rock sticky at my fingertips.

A biohazard?

Don’t touch it
. I yanked my hand back.

I never should have taken it.

I should have gone straight to the authorities and handed it over right then. Just like I should have gone to the police at the beginning of summer. At the reminder, guilt bubbled up in my stomach like acid.

Another sign caught my eye.

Removal of any rocks, plants, or debris from beyond this point is strictly prohibited pursuant to 42 Code of Federal Regulations §73.12.

I swallowed hard.

But how could I have known? I’d taken the meteorite before they’d put up the signs. That wasn’t illegal, was it?

My excuses wouldn’t stand up in court.

They would say I should have come forward with the meteorite when I saw the team disembark from the helicopters.

I had to put it back, I had to set this right.

Today, I could do the right thing.

I veered off the main trail and foraged through the chaparral, keeping the barbed wire on my left as it curved around in a giant circle. Every fifty feet or so, the biohazard sign repeated itself.

Dry stalks scraped at my bare shins, and the barbs tore loose and funneled into my tennis shoes, pricking my ankles.

My agitation from the trip up here lingered in my frazzled nerves. I’d taken the bus home right after school, and after an hour of staring at my car and hyperventilating, I’d finally worked up the nerve to drive it—and I’d come straight here.

It was a big step for me.

Maybe my mom forcing me to drive yesterday had done some good after all. I reached for the meteorite in my pocket, but stopped myself just in time.

That word . . .
biohazard
.

Of course I’d been touching it all day, fingering it in my pocket every five seconds during class. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cringed at the thought.

I was definitely contaminated.

Up ahead, the barbed wire fence slipped behind an oak tree that looked good for climbing. At waist height, a massive branch jutted out over the fence. I clambered onto the branch, balanced myself on the other branches, stepped out over the barbed wire fence, then dropped down on the other side and landed hard in the dirt.

I stood up and brushed off, bracing myself for the sirens and the thump of helicopters.

The woods remained silent.

A cool breeze creaked through the upper tree limbs and rustled the chaparral. Fending off my anxiety, I headed toward the center of the cordoned off area—toward the crater. By now I recognized the geography from camping here with Megan.

The meteorite made a lump in the pocket of my jean shorts, its sharp edge digging into my thigh below the hip. Soon, I would be free of it.

Good riddance.

I hurried my pace, feeling lighter already.

Charred branches appeared in the bushes at me feet, telling me I was getting close. I pushed through a burnt cluster of chaparral and emerged in a clearing rimmed with charred oak trees—their bark scorched off to reveal cracked wood, black as charcoal. This felt like the place.

But no crater.

Maybe just on the other side of the trees. I crossed the clearing, my heel sinking in loose dirt, and ventured into the greenery beyond. Ten feet out, a wall of knotted vegetation arrested my progress. No sign of fire. It wasn’t this far.

Back in the clearing, I peered around, confused.

The dirt.

The dirt under my feet had been disturbed, and while ash had mixed in with the soil everywhere else, here it looked pure.

Had they filled it in?

Carefully, I stepped off the mound, noticing how it depressed under my shoes. Loose dirt.

I caught other details. A footprint off to the side, half wiped away—a boot.

Only one thing to do.

I picked up a dry branch and started digging, using it like a hoe. The top layer came away easily, and I kicked it to the side. My heel scuffed something hard. I dropped down on my hands and knees, and raked at the soil. My nails scraped a solid surface, shooting pain up my fingers. I went slower, clearing away what I could.

At first, I thought it was a large rock buried a few inches deep. A boulder or something.

But rocks didn’t have smooth faces.

Rocks didn’t have letters stamped into them.

I stood up, sweating in the summer heat. Around me, insects clicked and chittered, birds chirped, oblivious to the anomaly buried in their midst. I wiped my forehead and surveyed my find, each heavy breath sending a nervous twinge through my lungs.

Before me lay a smooth gray slab stamped with some kind of code. Letters and numbers, gibberish.

One thing was clear.

This was indeed the site of the crater, but I would never be able to get to it.

They’d filled it in with concrete.