“But he didn’t say anything at dinner last night. If he knew, then why…?” His voice drifts off until his eyes bulge. “He did ask me if I liked to swim. Do you think maybe he was fishing for an answer?” He giggles. “Fishing. Get it? Fishing?”
Sometimes Mac is such a dork. But I’ve never been happier to hear his bad jokes.
“And what about you?” he asks. “Does he want to kidnap you, too?”
I chew my lip, not sure how much to tell Mac about what I overheard. But I decide he should know the truth, since we’re both going to be on the lam.
“I don’t think he wants to kidnap me. I’m in his way. I think he just wants me dead.”
“Dead?!” Mac yelps.
“Yes.” Which reminds me why I’m out here to begin with. We have to go. The principal and Mr. Charles are going to find us any minute now. I start gathering up the pencils and other stuff that spilled from his backpack. Among the piles of junk I find a semi-clean tissue and hand it to him so he can wipe his nose, but I leave a glob of something that looks suspiciously like a ball of chewed bubble gum in the grass where it fell.
“Dead, like dead dead?”
“Yes,” I say, stuffing more pencils into his backpack, “and that’s why we need to run.”
“We don’t need to run,” Mac says. “We need to tell Dad.”
And here it is. “We can’t.”
“Why not? Come on, Nizhoni, you can’t keep this from him. Dad will believe you now, for sure.”
“Because Dad already knows,” I say. “He’s the one who told us to run.” It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either.
“Really?” Mac looks dubious and I don’t blame him. But if I tell Mac what I saw, he’ll worry too much, and I need him not to freak.
I dig our train tickets out of my back pocket. “How else would I have gotten these?”
“What are those?”
“Train tickets to Gallup.”
“Gallup? Why—?”
“There’s a lady near there who can help us. Promise.” I don’t tell him her name is Spider Woman, because I know that will send him down a whole other tangent, and we only have so much time.
Mac takes a moment to process it all. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’s going to believe me. Finally, he says, “If Dad said so…”
I smile, relieved. I stand up, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. Then, before he can ask any more questions, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t help you beat Adrien Cuttlebush. All I did was make it worse.”
He slides his backpack over his shoulders. “You did great. Plus, I didn’t need you to save me,” he says, standing up straight. “I took care of Cuttlebush on my own.”
I grin, happy for my little brother. “You sure did. But how did you end up out here with them, anyway?”
He groans. “It’s a long story, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
It must be embarrassing. I don’t know how Mac gets himself into these situations, but I know not to push too hard. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with bullies. I don’t need to pile on him, too.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Davery.
Davery
Are you at the train station yet?
Nizhoni
No, but I found Mac.
Davery
Well, you better hurry. Everyone’s looking for you. They even have school security out now.
Nizhoni
Whoa! The ICCS cops?!
Davery
Mrs. Peterson just walked into the library. She’s talking to Maya now. GTG. I’ll join you as soon as I can.
I swipe my phone off and drop it back in my pocket.
“What is it?” Mac asks.
“Time to go.”
We make it across the field and off the school grounds surprisingly easily. I’m starting to think school security is really lacking. I’ll have to give Mrs. Peterson some helpful pointers on improving it, assuming we survive. At the very least, I’ll have Davery write her a strongly worded letter.
Mac and I pool the change in the bottom of our backpacks. Between the two of us, there is just enough for bus fare downtown. The ride is quick, and we make it to the Albuquerque train station twenty minutes before our train is scheduled to leave. I’ve only been to the station once, to pick up my cousin coming in from Flagstaff, and the big adobe building and the rumbling trains are both exciting and intimidating. The air is bright and hot and a little humid, like a rain shower came through recently. Sure enough, little puddles of water have gathered in the corners of the courtyard, the dark rocks around the tracks glisten like shiny black and gray diamonds, and everything smells like wet concrete. Plenty of people mill about, some in business clothes and some in tourist T-shirts, all crisscrossing the terra-cotta tile floor. We get a few curious looks, but most folks don’t even notice two kids on their own waiting for a train.
Mac’s stomach growls. I’m starving, too. I’d totally kill for one of Davery’s dusty cookies right now.
Kill. I swallow around a hard lump that suddenly rises in my throat. I can’t believe someone wants to kill me. Not a someone—a monster. But I’m not helpless, I remind myself. I have a power all my own that will let me know when he’s near. And I can figure out the fighting thing. I won’t let him get close enough to snatch me or Mac.
“I’m so hungry,” Mac whines. “Can we get something to eat?”
I look around. There’s a bright neon sign to our right that says TACO TOWN, and at the thought, my mouth waters. But there’s one big problem. “We don’t have enough money,” I admit. “We spent the last of our change on the bus.”
“Not even enough for a bag of Hot Cheetos?” he moans.
Flamin’ Hot Cheetos are Mac’s favorite. I once saw him eat a family-size bag all by himself. Dad said if he did that again, he would ruin the plumbing in our house, but Mac vowed that nothing would stop him, even busted toilets. Mac may have some kind of power over water, but Hot Cheetos are definitely his weakness.
“I hate this,” Mac mumbles.
“I didn’t plan this, you know,” I say, feeling like he’s being unfair. Here I am risking my life to save him from monsters, and all he can think about is lunch.
“Maybe you should have planned it better if you were going to drag me along.” Mac sniffs. “I think I want to go home.”
“We can’t!” I say, outraged that he already wants to give up. I clutch my turquoise necklace, the one my mom gave me, and take a deep breath. “Look, Mac. You’ve got to stay strong. Think about Dad. He needs us. He needs you.”
“I still don’t get why he wants us to run.” He scuffs his shoe on the ground. “I mean, maybe you’re wrong, Z. Mr. Charles was nice to me last night.”
“Because he wants to steal you and your powers.”
He shrugs. “If he had some food, I might just go with him. I can’t think past my stomach.”
Mac’s right. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re hungry. “Okay. Wait here. I’m going to try and find us something to eat. Maybe someone will give me their leftovers.”
Mac flops onto a bright blue bench and hugs his backpack to his chest. “I’m probably going to die of starvation before the monsters can even find us,” he mutters. “Here lies Mac Begay. RIP.”
Confident that Mac will not, in fact, die of starvation, and even more sure that he’ll wait for me on the bench—out of exhaustion brought on by too much drama more than anything else—I head into the main area of the train station. People rush back and forth, shoes clicking on the tile floors. Someone bumps me from behind, making me stumble. I look to see who it was, but they’re gone, without even an Excuse me. More passengers are coming in through the doors, from a train disembarking on the platform outside. I squeeze into a corner to get out of the way, and I feel trapped. I stare up at the beamed ceilings overhead, trying to stop an onset of dizziness. The train station is huge and overwhelming, and I feel so, so small. Mr. Charles could be i
n this crowd right now and I might not know until it was too late. What good is monster sense when the enemy is already staring at you from only ten feet away? And, suddenly, I hate this, too.
“This was a bad idea,” I say aloud to myself. “Mac’s right.”
A squeaky sound, like a mouse on an exercise wheel, catches my attention. I look through the crowd and see a lady pushing a cart, the kind they roll down the aisle on an airplane. On the side someone has written in a loopy cursive:
Station Snacks!
The lady parks the cart right in front of me. I watch as she scratches her butt, looks around, sniffs loudly, and then walks away.
Leaving the cart completely unguarded.
All by itself. Loaded with snacks. And not just any snacks. Bags of Hot Cheetos hang from plastic clips on the side. Cans of soda pop are stacked on the lower shelves. A veritable rolling feast of junk food is sitting inches from my face. The other passengers pay it no mind, walking around it as if it were just a big rock in their way.
Now, it’s one thing to break a school rule, but it’s a whole other thing to steal. I have never stolen anything in my life. I once thought about shoplifting a Milky Way from a Bashas’ grocery store and was so overcome with guilt at the thought that I cried for an hour. My dad thought I was sick and took me to the Indian Health hospital, where I confessed my thought crime to a baffled doctor. He sent me home with a lollipop and a shake of his head.
I glance through the crowd at my miserable little brother, who is still slumped on the bench where I left him, allegedly dying of starvation. I’m not stealing it for me, I tell myself. It’s for him. And that’s the truth, but my insides still churn with guilt, and I hate myself a little for what I am about to do.
I try to act innocent as I move toward the rolling fount of temptation. I keep my eyes peeled for the cart lady. But she has disappeared, nowhere to be seen. I spot the bathroom and realize she must have gone in there.
I do a first pass, walking close to the cart, whistling nonchalantly. I reach out a hand and let my fingers brush the orange-and-red bag of fiery goodness, but I don’t take it. When I pull my hand back to my pocket, I’m shaking. I may throw up, I feel so bad, but Mac’s so hungry, and so am I, and I don’t know what else to do.
I reach the far wall and then turn, casual-like, and make my way back to the cart. I pull my hand from my pocket and let it swing. Closer to the cart, and closer.
I reach out for the bag, eyes halfway closed in fear (or shame!). I’m ready to grab it and go, when the worst thing that could possibly happen happens.
I’m busted!
My wrist is caught in a viselike clamp, someone squeezing the bones so hard I cry out. I want to wail and puke at the same time.
“Can I help you?” says an older woman’s voice.
I open my eyes to see who’s holding me down. It’s the cart lady. She’s wearing an Amtrak uniform. Her face is brown like mine, and her dark hair is pulled back in a tsiiyéél, a traditional Navajo bun. Silver-and-turquoise bracelets shine on her wrists. Where did she come from, and how did I miss her?
“I was going to pay!” I shout, hoping for mercy.
“Well, then,” the cart lady says, smiling at me, “there won’t be a problem.”
“My brother’s really hungry,” I blurt. My stomach gurgles loudly.
Her eyes narrow in concern. “Sounds like you’re hungry, too.”
Smooth move, stomach. I nod, embarrassed.
She plucks three shrink-wrapped bologna sandwiches, three bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, two chocolate milks, and one grape soda from her cart and drops them in a paper bag decorated with an arching rainbow. She hands the bag to me. “For you, your brother, and your friend.”
“My friend?”
“The one who’s coming to meet you. The smart one.”
She must mean Davery, but how would she know about him? Maybe I’m so hungry that I’m hallucinating. All I know is that my mouth is watering and I’m pretty sure I could make a solid attempt at eating all three sandwiches on my own.
But then I remember that I lied to her.
“Thank you, but I can’t pay for this,” I confess, feeling more miserable than I even knew was possible. “I don’t really have any money.”
She nods, like she already knew I was making up the paying-for-stuff thing. “Of course you can’t, but where I’m from, we never turn away hungry people.” Her voice is as sweet and warm as honey on bread fresh from the pan. “We always share what we have, even if we don’t have much. And we don’t make people pay.”
“Ever?” I ask, surprised.
“Well, sometimes,” she admits, “but not every time.” She winks at me.
Now I really do weep a little, not because I’m scared or feeling guilty, but because my heart feels like it’s going to burst. I wipe away a tear, hoping the cart lady doesn’t notice I’m crying over white bread sandwiches and bags of cheese puffs.
“But if I give this to you, you must remember that whenever you have food and someone else does not, you must feed them first. Or else you’ll bring hunger down on others. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say, not quite sure about the bring hunger down on others thing, but I know she’s basically telling me not to be greedy and to share. Two things I can definitely do. As soon as I get some food in my stomach and I can think straight again.
She nods sharply, satisfied, and gives me a little push in the back. “Okay, then. Now go on, Nizhoni. Tell Mac not to eat too many Cheetos or he’ll make himself sick, like last time. But hurry. The train is leaving soon. And make sure you read the note I put in your bag.”
“Thank y—What?” I’m so shocked I almost drop our sandwiches. “How do you know our names? And—”
But the cart lady has already turned away and is quickly rolling her cart through the busy station.
“How do you know us?” I shout.
She’s gone now, lost in the crowd of passengers.
A man in an Amtrak uniform hurries past and I reach out to get his attention. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, “but do you know where the cart lady went?”
He frowns down at me, annoyed at being waylaid. “Cart lady?” he grumbles, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “There’s no cart lady around here, kid.”
“But there was,” I insist. “An older Navajo woman, her hair in a bun. She gave me these?” I hold up our food.
He looks away from his phone to inspect my lunch. Then he sneers. “Bologna sandwiches? Okay, now I know you’re lying. There’s definitely no one giving away that kind of food around here. You must be seeing things.”
I look down at the bag, which has a rainbow symbol on the side. It’s proof that I didn’t imagine her.
The man makes an irritated noise, like maybe I’m a kid trying to pull a prank or something. “Look, I’ve got to go. And if you’re here to catch the train, you’d better get a move on and stop worrying about some lady who doesn’t exist.” He hurries away without a second look.
I guess not all the Amtrak employees know each other. I still wish I’d had a chance to ask the woman how she knew my name.
A train horn sounds, and the people around me stream to the nearest platform. I look up at the big arrivals-and-departures sign above me that shows all the destinations. Our train goes to Gallup, and it leaves in five minutes.
I check my phone to see if Davery has texted and maybe I missed it, but there’s no message. He said he would get here as soon as he could, but he also said the principal was talking to Maya. Maybe Mrs. Peterson was interrogating everyone in the Ancestor Club about where I had gone. I chew on my bottom lip, worried. But chewing on my lip reminds me how hungry I am, and I’m still clutching the rainbow bag, so I go back to where I left Mac on the turquoise-colored bench.
Only, Mac’s gone! I panic, fearing Mr. Charles got him while I wasn’t paying attention. Now what will I do?
“Mac?!” I shout, looking left and right, hysteria rising from my gut.
<
br /> “I’m here,” he says from behind me.
I spin around, half-relieved and half-furious. “Where did you go?”
“Calm down. I had to pee.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down when people are after us!” I thrust his share of the food at him. “I got us lunch. And next time I tell you to stay put, you need to stay put!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, ripping the chip bag open. “When nature calls, I’m going to answer.” He points at me with a Cheeto. “You need to take a chill pill.”
“I don’t even know what that means!”
“It’s a pill to make you chill. Seriously? You’re in seventh grade and you don’t know that?” He munches on a Cheeto, unconcerned. And he didn’t even say thank you for the food.
At this rate, Mac’s going to make me want to strangle him before the monsters even get their chance.
The whistle blows and the conductor leans out, calling, “All aboard!”
Mac and I gather up our food and push it all back in the bag. We run to the train and climb the steps into the car. I’ve never been on a train before, besides the one at the Albuquerque zoo, but considering that one just goes around the exhibits and back, I don’t think it counts. This one is the real deal, with two rows of wide seats, and carpeted aisles, and big windows. I check our tickets again and find our seats—two facing each other in a group of four. Mac and I will both get a window.
“Aren’t you kids a little young to be riding the train by yourselves?” asks a voice behind us.
I turn to find the conductor standing there. He’s a dark-skinned man with a broad stomach. It’s difficult to read his eyes beneath his Amtrak cap and bushy eyebrows. But he isn’t smiling.
“Uhhh…” I mutter uselessly. This is it. If he kicks us off the train, I don’t know how we’ll get to Spider Rock. Which means no Spider Woman, no map, no weapons, and no saving Dad.
“Our father told us to take the train,” Mac offers matter-of-factly. “He’s the one who bought us the tickets.”
Race to the Sun Page 7