I repeatedly told her no. I didn’t think it was appropriate to celebrate a landmark that Lottie would never see. But my mother insisted. She told me to invite everyone I knew from school and we would have a big bash. She went all out with the decorations and the theme and the food and the refreshments.
Of course no one came.
I didn’t know anyone.
So I didn’t invite anyone.
On the day of the party my mom and I sat alone in the living room, staring at the floor in silence. I fiddled with my phone while my mother chain-ate canapés from a nearby serving dish.
“Well,” she said, after a huge swallow. “I’m sure it’s just because of Halloween. That’s the problem with being born on a big holiday. It’s hard to compete.”
I knew that was the best I was going to get from her. I knew neither us would actually acknowledge the truth of the situation. That wasn’t our M.O. This was our M.O.
“Yeah,” I said, rising to my feet and trudging up the stairs to my room. “That’s exactly the problem.”
I quietly closed my bedroom door and walked over to the sketch pad on my desk. I traced various shapes with my fingertip, not daring to pick up a pen.
“She’s trying,” Lottie said. “You have to give her that.”
I know, I admitted. I just really wish she wouldn’t.
There was a long silence and then, as usual, Lottie spoke the very words I was too afraid to say aloud. “No, you don’t.”
I smiled to myself. You know me too well, I joked.
She didn’t laugh.
I sat down on the floor and crossed my legs, remembering the night, one year ago, when I sat in Lottie’s tree house with her head in my lap and her flaming red hair fanned out over my knees. She was wearing that skimpy Twister dress with all the colorful circles.
“What was I thinking with that costume?” she asked, sounding perturbed. “It was so on the nose.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Lottie? I asked after a moment.
“Yeah?”
I bit my lip, trying to form my random, chaotic thoughts into coherent sentences. Thanks for being here, I told her. I mean, thanks for sticking around. I’m not sure how I would have gotten through this day—or any other day—without you.
She didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, I was terrified I might have scared her off by acknowledging her directly. Like those mythical creatures you’re not supposed to look in the eye.
And just when I thought she’d disappeared for the night—crawled back into that dark corner of my mind where she must sleep—I heard her whisper, “Happy Birthday, Ryn.”
“What is this one supposed to represent?” I ask Troy.
We’re standing in front of another giant, disturbing mural on the ground floor of the concourse building. This one appears to be depicting some kind of funeral. A city burns in the background while children gather around three open caskets.
“What do you think it means?” he asks, sounding like a professor challenging one of his students.
I study the painting for a long moment. “Grief, I suppose.”
“What makes you think that?”
I point to the burning city. “When someone you love dies, it feels like everything goes up in flames.”
He nods. “Well, according to my research, it’s another allusion to the end of the world.”
“A literal end of the world? Or a metaphorical one?”
“I guess it depends on who you ask. Look.” He points to a little girl with dark skin and dark hair, standing just behind the other children. “She’s holding a Mayan tablet that supposedly references December twenty-first, 2012, the day the Mayans predicted to be the end of the world.”
I lean in closer to the painting and study the tablet clutched in the girl’s hands. So many questions race through my mind at once. I choose the one that’s been bothering me ever since Troy showed me that first mural of the gas-masked Nazi stabbing the dove. “How exactly do these paintings prove that the Illuminati are going to bring about the apocalypse?”
Troy glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “It’s more than just these paintings. These are just the tip of the iceberg. There are many other signs.”
“What kind of other signs?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Follow me.” Troy spins on his heels and stalks purposefully into the center of the terminal, his gaze cast downward, as though he’s counting the floor tiles. “Aha!” he says, skidding to a halt near the exit of the airport train.
I run over to him. “What?”
He points at the floor. “That.”
When I look down, I instantly realize what’s caught his attention. The tile he’s standing in front of is different from the other surrounding tiles. This one has a gold engraving sketched into it in the shape of a cart with wheels. On the side of the cart are the letters Au Ag.
“Au Ag?” I say. “Aren’t those the periodic symbols for gold and silver?”
He nods, looking only mildly impressed by my knowledge. “Yes, however, some people believe Au Ag is also short for Australia antigen.”
“What’s that?”
“A deadly strain of hepatitis believed to have been discovered by one of the founders of the airport.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Some people claim it’s a weapon of biological warfare, intended to wipe out large numbers of the population.”
“So that’s what you think, then?” I confirm. “That the Illuminati plan to bring about the end of the world with a deadly virus and then hide out in the Denver airport until it’s over?”
“I didn’t say that,” he corrects.
I huff, feeling frustrated by Troy’s lack of specificity. “Then what do you think this all means?”
“I couldn’t possibly say at this point,” Troy replies vaguely before turning and striding off again. He heads back in the direction of the bench where we found me after the party. Just a few feet away from it he slows in front of some kind of stone marker that’s been erected near the window.
“This marks the location of a time capsule that’s been buried beneath the Denver airport,” he explains. “See that symbol?” Troy points to a strange diamond shape in the center of the engraving. “That’s a Masonic symbol, associated with the Freemasons, who some believe are their own secret society. And look there.” Troy bends down and points to an inscription at the bottom of the capstone. “It says, ‘New World Airport Commission.’ ”
“So?” I ask.
“The New World Airport Commission is allegedly the organization that funded the construction of the Denver airport.”
“So?” I repeat.
“So, the New World Airport Commission doesn’t exist. There’s no public record of it.”
I squint at the plaque. “Really?”
He nods. “Really. Which makes you wonder, what is the New World Airport Commission? Who is actually behind it? The Illuminati? The Freemasons? Some other secret society?”
“But none of this makes any sense,” I protest, growing frustrated. “If the Illuminati or whoever are funding airports and developing biological weapons, why would they advertise it all over the airport?”
Troy cocks an eyebrow. “My thoughts exactly.”
Next, Troy leads me to the baggage claim area. The carousels are all shut down and empty, and I have no idea what he’s going to say about them. That they actually lead through a portal to another dimension?
“Have you heard about the high-tech automated baggage delivery system that runs underneath the airport?”
I think about my own suitcase, probably trapped in the belly of a plane somewhere, and shake my head. “No.”
“Well, apparently, it was supposed to be the most advanced baggage system in the country. A series of tunnels and networks underground built to sort and deliver the luggage. It cost a fortune and delayed the opening of the airport for over a year. And now, more than two decades later, it
still doesn’t work.”
I scrunch my forehead. “What?”
“Nope. It was a total disaster. Most of the airlines don’t even bother to use the failed system. Which begs the question . . .” He trails off.
“What are the tunnels used for now?”
Troy gives me a proud smile. “Not bad for a lepton.”
“A what?”
He laughs. “Oh, that’s just what we highly evolved beings call the rest of you. It’s an elementary, half-integer particle. Leptons are essential for the makeup of things, but on their own, they’re not super useful.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, clearly not understanding my sarcasm. “You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes. “Just get back to the tunnels.”
“Right. Well, some theorists believe that the tunnels lead to a secret underground bunker that the president of the United States will use when the apocalypse comes, and that the failed baggage system was just a cover-up.”
“The apocalypse depicted in those murals?”
“Yes.”
I feel a surge of adrenaline, like the pieces are finally coming together and we’re starting to get somewhere. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I hit the little Search button on the screen of my phone and the answers begin to appear. “Okay, so the government is planning some kind of apocalyptic attack that the president will survive by hiding out in the Denver airport?”
“Or maybe the Nazis have infiltrated the government and are planning a comeback!”
“Wait, Nazis?” I repeat, confused. “Where did the Nazis come from?”
Troy pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes at the screen. He brings up an image of what looks like a view of the earth from a plane. “Those are the runways of the Denver airport.”
I tilt my head to make out the unusual shape in the center of the picture. “Is that a . . . ?”
“Swastika?” he asks. “It sure looks like one. And check out this.” He swipes a few more times to the left and shows me the phone again. I nearly gasp at the new image. It’s an absolutely terrifying statue of a massive blue mustang horse with illuminated red eyes.
“What’s that?”
He takes the phone back and gives it a swipe. “That’s the demon horse. It’s right outside the airport. The locals call him Blucifer. He’s supposed to ‘welcome’ visitors to Denver. The artist who built the statue was crushed to death when it fell on top of him.”
My eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Some believe the horse is an omen, and the Illuminati erected it to mark the end of humanity.”
I press my fingertips into my temples, beginning to feel overwhelmed. “Wait a minute. Now we’re back to the Illuminati? Which is it? The Nazis? The Illuminati? The Freemasons? Who’s going to bring about the end of the world? Who’s behind the conspiracy?”
“I don’t know.” Troy shrugs, like this doesn’t bother him in the slightest. But how could it not bother him? How can he be so calm in the face of all this ambiguity?
“That’s it?” I ask, growing agitated. “That’s your answer? ‘I don’t know’?”
“For now, anyways. I mean, it’s called a conspiracy theory for a reason.”
“Maybe we just need more data,” I resolve. “Let’s go look at the time capsule again.” I start to turn, but Troy stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.
“Actually, I think maybe you’ve had enough. You’re getting a little worked up.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “But we can’t just stop here. Don’t you want to know? You said this was one of your big problems. Don’t you want to solve it? Get to the truth? You’re a scientist! Aren’t scientists obsessed with finding answers?”
And there they are again. Those inquisitive eyes of his. That calm, observing gaze. Except this time, there’s something else in there too.
Empathy.
“Yes, we are,” Troy says in his usual blunt tone. “But as a scientist, you also need to know when to let go and accept the fact that sometimes there are no answers.”
His words feel like a punch in the chest. And yet, as soon as he says them, I know he’s right.
For the past year I’ve been searching for answers that I may never find. That may not even exist. No matter how many times I look at all the information, no matter how many times I replay January 1st, 10:05 a.m., in my head, Lottie’s death may never make sense to me.
Troy is still studying me with the same intense gaze. I’ve suddenly become the more important theory to solve here.
I look to the ground. “I think I’m going to go back to the party.”
He nods, like this was his master plan all along. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Are you coming?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve had enough parties for one lifetime. I think I’m going to go find one of those meal vouchers.”
Once again I feel that familiar urge to protect him. To go with him. To not let him out of my sight. But I push it away. I’m pretty sure he’s not the one who actually needs protecting. The kid can clearly take care of himself. I give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Good luck, Genius Boy.” Then I turn back toward the concourse.
“Hey,” he calls a second later, and when I spin around, I swear he’s going to reprimand me again for calling him a genius instead of a prodigy.
“Yeah?”
“He wanted to kiss you.”
I blink in surprise, not sure I heard him correctly. “The guy my friend set me up with for my first kiss?”
He flashes me a smirk. “No.”
I bite my lip to stifle the smile that threatens to overtake my face. “How do you know?”
He blushes and stares at his shoes. “I may not be a normal guy, but I’m still a guy.”
Then, before I can question him further, he turns and walks away.
As I make my way back to the hotel, I’m stopped just short of the doors to the plaza by a strange moaning sound. Convinced that someone must be hurt, I follow the noise to a hidden bench, completely concealed from view by an escalator.
The couple from the train are sprawled out across the entire length of the bench, passionately making out and running their hands all over each other.
Apparently they’ve made up. Again.
I stifle a groan.
Am I the only one not kissing someone tonight?
I continue through the automatic doors and walk across the plaza to the hotel. As soon as I enter the lobby, I’m immediately bombarded by Siri’s drunk voice calling to me from the bank of elevators.
“Hey! Mopey Girl! Over here!” Then, a little softer, she says. “I know her. That’s my friend. Her name is Mopey Girl.”
I look over to see her walking with Marcus. Siri is teetering unsteadily and Marcus is holding on to her, struggling to keep her upright.
“We’re just going for a little stroll,” Siri slurs. “Marcus says I need to walk it off. But I’m totally not drunk.” Practically on cue, she stumbles, and his grip around her waist tightens.
“Okay,” she admits. “Maybe I’m a little drunk.”
“Any chance I can get my phone back now?” I ask her.
She cringes. “Oh! Sorry! I left it in the room.”
I breathe out slowly. “Okay. Where in the room?”
She has to think about this. The effort seems to cause her pain. I fight the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her.
“Um”—she taps her head—“maybe on the desk. No, on the nightstand. No, I definitely remember having it in the bathroom when I went in there to throw up.” This makes her giggle.
I feel sick at the mere thought of Siri’s vomit getting anywhere near my precious phone.
“Maybe we should head back upstairs and help her look,” Marcus suggests.
Siri swats this idea away with her hand. “No. I remember now. I buried it under the pillows on the bed so it wouldn’t get lost.”
�
�Which bed?”
She goes back into her painful thinker stance, twisting her face until she looks like she just swallowed a habanero pepper. “The one by the window?”
“Is that a statement or a question?”
“Um . . .”
I cut her off. “You know what, never mind. I’ll find it.”
Exasperated, I start toward the elevator. I’ll be very glad when I can leave this place and never see that girl again. The elevator is about to close when Marcus’s hand cuts through to stop it. He props the doors open with his shoulder. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I just wanted to thank you.”
I give him a confused look. “Me?”
He releases a heavy breath. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to get Siri to give me a chance for a really long time, but she always blew me off.”
I’m still trying to figure out how I fit into this equation.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “she said you were the one who convinced her to give me a shot.”
“Me?” I say again, like an idiot. “What did I say?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. She just said you convinced her. So whatever it was you said or did to change her mind . . . thanks.”
“Oh . . .” I fumble for words. “Um, you’re welcome.”
He gives me a heartfelt smile and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a black and gold business card. “Here. Take this. If you ever need anything in this airport, just show them this card. It should do the trick.”
I take it and slip it into my pocket. Then he backs out of the elevator, letting the doors close.
The party is still going strong when I arrive. I surreptitiously scan the room for Xander, but I don’t see him. Not that I care if he’s here or not.
I don’t.
Jimmy greets me with a beaming smile and a sloppy hug. “For the record, I never thought you were mopey,” he says, his words slurring.
“Thanks,” I mutter, politely patting his back as I disentangle myself from his large arms.
I push through the crowd and make a beeline for the bed by the window, shoving the blow-up doll aside and searching under all the pillows.
My phone is not there.
I rip the sheets and blanket off, swimming aimlessly in them, my hands feeling every inch, searching for a hard surface.
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