End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  “That’s crazy. You’re, like, an angel or something.”

  She was about to protest when one of the bungees sprung loose with a loud thwap.

  “Ow!” He jumped back, grasping his hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  He rubbed the flesh next to his thumb, where a red welt had already begun to rise. “Oh yeah. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just, uh, clumsy, I guess.” He grimaced.

  “Let me get that.” Daphne leaned in to fix the cord, but he practically leapt in front of her.

  “Hey, it’s cool! I got it. I know what I’m doing.” He fumbled for several agonizing moments, eventually snapping it back into place.

  “So, uh, yeah. Detroit, huh?” He leaned back against his truck, one elbow on the cooler. “What was that like?”

  “It was . . . okay,” she said cagily, not wanting to talk about it. Thinking about her past still filled her with anger and regret. “Shouldn’t we get back to your friends?” she asked instead.

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Uh, sure. I guess. Yeah, let’s go.”

  As they made their way back to the group, Doug upended the remains of his beer into his mouth, then crushed the can on his tailgate. “All right!” He straddled his bike, kicking it to life. “Trumpets or not, I’m ready to ride. Who’s in?”

  The boys made their way to their bikes, and soon they were swarming the track, the roar of their motors drowning out the metallic ringing in the sky. Someone switched on the floodlights, bathing the trails and ridges in a glow like phosphorescent milk, and the tinny sounds of a driving hard-rock song blared through an old pair of mounted speakers, competing with the bikes’ coughs and belches.

  “C’mon.” Janie was already waddling toward the bleachers. “Let’s go get a good seat.”

  “Yeah—better beat this massive crowd,” Hilary added, gesturing at the handful of girls drifting idly away from the parking lot. “Don’t want to miss a second of nail-biting action, that’s for sure.”

  “Darn it, Hil, if you don’t like it, why do you even come?” Janie asked.

  “You think my man is any less into this crap than yours?” Hilary rolled her eyes. “If I want my stocking stuffed, I better show up.”

  They settled into a small stand of metal bleachers overlooking the track, and Janie leaned forward eagerly. “Go, Doug!” she cried. “Show ’em what you got!”

  “How do you even know which one is Doug?” Daphne asked. From up there they all looked like Lego people driving matchbox bikes, glossy round helmets completely obscuring their faces.

  “Silver helmet, green bike.” Janie pointed as one of the figures gathered speed and flew over a jump, his bike flashing in the glow of the floodlights.

  “And rims,” Hilary interjected. “Don’t forget his precious rims.”

  “Oh yeah.” Janie giggled. “He just had them special-ordered from Cheyenne. See how they spin even when his wheels aren’t moving? I think he may be even more in love with them than me.” She laughed like the thought of Doug loving something more than her was the most far-fetched idea in the world. Hilary snorted.

  Daphne settled into a kind of cozy fog as the bikes zoomed up and down the track, occasionally disappearing behind a rise and returning moments later in a cloud of dust and bravado. It felt good to be far away from Detroit and her mother’s accusing eyes. For the first time in months, the angry pangs in her stomach were gone, and she no longer felt a clawing need to escape. Maybe it was the miles of dark, empty sky above her head or the comforting chatter of girls around her who had no idea what she’d done.

  “Look!” Janie poked her in the ribs. “They’re trying to see who can get the most air.”

  Daphne returned to the moment in time to see Doug soar into the sky. One after another, the bikes followed his lead, competing to see who could take the jump highest and longest. At the end of the track, they turned in a circle and came back the other way, Doug always in the lead.

  The second time Doug executed the jump with a half spin, torquing his bike a quarter turn in the air and landing in a triumphant puddle of cheers before zooming off again.

  “Go, baby, go!” Janie cheered, watching Doug’s back lovingly as a rider in a teal helmet approached the jump.

  Teal Helmet got a little less air and wobbled as his wheels touched the track, but still managed to right himself and ride back to the starting line in a spray of dirt and burned rubber.

  Voices floated up to the bleachers, the remaining riders daring one another to try the trick.

  “Friggin’ idiots,” Hilary muttered. “They all act like they’re God’s gift—one of these days, someone’s gonna get himself killed.” As crude as Hilary was, Daphne couldn’t help liking her; she wore her attitude like a feather headdress, obviously not caring what anyone thought.

  The third rider executed the jump with a perfect twist, even popping a wheelie after he landed. Janie sucked in her breath. “Oooh, Doug’s not gonna like that!” she said.

  “Ten bucks he’ll try to one-up him next time—then maybe take off his shirt and do a victory dance,” Hilary predicted.

  She was almost right. Doug had already geared up and was going through a series of easy jumps, gaining more and more air until finally soaring into the sky, torquing his bike, and then taking his hands from the handlebars and raising his arms above his head, fingers in the V-for-victory position, before he landed.

  “That’s my man!” Janie cried.

  “I dare any of you chicken-livered mofos to try that!” Doug crowed.

  The boys revved their bikes like a pack of peacocks fanning their feathers.

  “Oh, don’t even . . .” Hilary moaned. She leaned forward on the bleachers as a rider in an orange helmet emerged from the pack. “Hey, idiot, you’re not as badass as you think!”

  “Is that your boyfriend?” Daphne asked.

  “Who, him? Nah, that’s Trey—you know, the guy you were getting all cozy with earlier?”

  Trey. So that was his name. “We weren’t getting cozy,” Daphne said. “He just gave me a Coke.”

  Hilary smirked. “I bet he wanted to give you a whole lot more.”

  Daphne opened her mouth to explain that she had the wrong idea, but Hilary had already turned back to the track, her eyes glued to Trey as he swung his bike around. Then he was racing toward the jump, leaving a plume of dust in his wake so thick she had to squint to see him hit the air.

  “Yessssss!” the girls cried as his body twisted in a blinding flash of metal.

  Trey raised his arms above his head, imitating Doug’s pose, and Daphne opened her mouth to cheer. But he’d turned his bike too far and couldn’t get it facing forward again. He grabbed the handlebars and tried to scramble into the right position, but it was too late. He slammed into the ground with his wheels facing backward, bike veering wildly from side to side as he tried, and failed, to gain control. Then he crumpled to one side.

  “Aw, crap!” Hilary screamed. She shot up from the bleachers and raced down the steep incline to the track, dark dirt streaking her jeans. Daphne leapt up and followed her, half-running and half-sliding down the hill, leaving the other girls back on the bleachers, still slack-jawed with shock.

  She had her phone out by the time she reached Trey, ready to call 911 if necessary. The other riders had already hopped off their bikes; two pulled the stilled Suzuki off of Trey while another helped him to his feet. He unbuckled his helmet and looked around, confused.

  “I thought I landed it?” He took one wobbly step forward, then another. Daphne’s shoulders unclenched, and she slid her phone back in her pocket. She realized, with a small start of surprise, that the trumpet sounds had stopped.

  “Not exactly, buddy,” Doug said patronizingly. Trey’s brow crumpled, and for an agonizing moment Daphne wondered if he was going to cry. Then he seemed to shake it off. He squared his s
houlders, brushing the dirt from his jacket.

  “Well, I guess you can’t land ’em all, can you?” He turned to the boys who had helped him up. “Who wants another beer? I could kind of use one after that.”

  He turned and carefully, almost lovingly, righted his bike as the crowd broke up and drifted back toward the parking lot.

  • • •

  AFTER the guys had ratcheted their bikes back into their pickups and let the night breeze cool the sweat from their foreheads, they divvied up another of Doug’s twelve-packs and hung around the parking lot, speculating about the trumpets and bragging about their escapades on the track.

  Exhausted from the effort of dodging questions, Daphne wandered away from the lot, taking the trail to the track on foot. They’d turned off the floodlights, but the moon was almost full, and the sky was blanketed in stars.

  She stood in the middle of the track and raised her face to the heavens, taking in great deep lungfuls of air. Her feet felt planted in the ground, like they could take root right there and reach all the way to the center of the earth. So this was why she’d felt pulled to Carbon County, Wyoming: the space and silence, the feeling of finally being exactly where she belonged. She let out a long, whistling breath and stretched her arms out to the sides. “Home,” she mouthed. The word felt round and full, unusual but not unwelcome on her tongue.

  “’Sup, Daffy!”

  Her gaze snapped forward and caught a figure lumbering toward her. She saw the glint of a Coors can, heard the whoosh of boots tamping dust, and squinted as Doug’s big head came into view.

  “Daphne,” she corrected. She hated phony-sounding nicknames. “Is it time to get going?”

  “What?” Doug looked confused. “No, I just, uh . . . happened to be comin’ out here anyway.”

  “Really?” She’d known Doug for only a few hours, but it was hard to imagine anything important enough to tear him away from his drinking buddies.

  “Want a beer?” he offered. “I got an extra in my pocket.”

  “No thanks.” Her shoulders went tight with the same uneasiness she’d always felt when her mom went to work the night shift, leaving her alone with Jim. “Where’s Janie?”

  “Back up at the lot. Sure about that beer? We could hang out here and get a little buzz on away from all a’those idiots.” He was standing close to her, close enough that the cloud of cologne wafting off his neck nearly choked her. It smelled like being trapped inside a mall.

  “How ’bout it?” He jiggled the can invitingly. “Just you and me.”

  “Really, no. I should get back. Janie’s probably wondering where I am.” She ducked around him and started walking toward the parking lot.

  “Well, hey, I’ll walk you back.” Doug tossed the beer can over his shoulder and hurried to catch up. He walked close, hovering like he wanted to say something, and the silence between them felt strained and uncomfortable. Daphne picked up the pace but he met it, practically trampling her heels.

  When they were just short of the parking lot, he grasped her arm and spun her so she was facing him, his meaty chin and beery breath just inches away.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Daphne’s heartbeat thudded through her veins, the pressure of panic roaring in her ears. She tried to squirm away but his grip was strong, his fingers sinking deep into her flesh.

  “What?” she whispered, her throat sandpaper-dry.

  “You know you’re really hot, right?” Doug’s voice was gruff and low. He pulled her into his chest, so she could feel the heat from his body and smell the alcohol sweat on his shirt, and pressed himself against her. A bitter bubble of nausea rose from her stomach.

  “You’re my cousin’s boyfriend!” she hissed. She raised her other arm to push him away, but he caught it easily. His nose was almost touching hers, and she could see the dark caverns between his teeth as his lips spread in a hungry smile.

  “She doesn’t have to know.” Hands still clamped like steel around her wrists, he raised her arms so they were wrapped around his shoulders in a gross parody of an embrace. “I know you want me, too. I could tell from the moment I saw you. It’s okay.”

  His lips puckered, zeroing in on hers, and bile surged in her stomach. The smell of beer, the unwanted touch of a body she found repulsive: It was too much like all the times Jim had pressed into her in the kitchen, trapping her against the counter while her mom stared stubbornly at the TV or slept in the other room. She twisted and squirmed against the memory and his grip until finally, just as the first flake of skin from his chapped lips brushed hers, she brought her knee up hard and fast.

  “Guuuuuuh!” Doug cried, stumbling back. His hands released her wrists and flew to his crotch as he doubled over, groaning.

  Daphne’s heart pounded in her ears. Her arms had broken out in goose bumps so hard they hurt, and her wrists were red and tender from Doug’s tugging. She was shaking, but she managed to turn to Doug, who had staggered back like a wounded animal, still clutching his groin and moaning.

  “Don’t. You. Ever. Touch. Me. Again.” She spat each word like a bullet, clear and silver and aimed straight at his head.

  He looked up at her, eyes cloudy with confusion and anger.

  “You frigid bitch . . .” he began.

  Daphne didn’t stay to hear the rest. She turned, still trembling, and ran back to the parking lot, back to Janie and the noise and the light.

  OWEN pushed his way through the crowd gathered at the gate of the Radical Roots festival, wondering how he was going to identify a girl whose face he’d never seen. In the sea of tie-dye and patchwork, his dark hair and clothes stood out like a storm cloud obscuring a rainbow.

  The sun had sunk beneath the mountains, and the sky was a deep lavender as he let the throngs of people pull him along, past stalls hawking hemp energy bars and devil sticks and batik sarongs. Fragments of conversation (hitched a ride in Boise . . . Sparklegirl kind of had a freak-out . . . String Cheese Incident was off the chain . . .) drifted in and out of his ears.

  It was the kind of scene his younger sister Cass would probably enjoy: The walls of her room were covered in posters of obscure bands, and she was the only one in her eighth-grade class who wore plum-colored lipstick to school every day. But he’d always preferred the company of machines to the crush of humanity. It was why he spent hours alone in the garage tinkering with his bike, or practicing by himself at the track long after his friends had packed up and gone home.

  The merch stalls dead-ended at the peak of a gentle hill, which sloped down to an amphitheater draped in a psychedelic backdrop glowing under a black light. Neon fairies perched in fluorescent trees, and butterflies with human faces hovered over garish pink flowers. A giant statue of a mushroom hunkered at the side of the stage, where Ariel Crow and the Fine Feathered Family were about to go on.

  The lead singer took his place at the mic and picked up a guitar, flashing a smile that was half gold teeth. Behind him, a parade of musicians clad in neon patchwork and fishnet, with dreadlocks like gnarled tree branches growing from their heads, carried tambourines and banjos onto the stage. Owen craned his neck, trying to get a look at them through the sea of people, but none of their faces sparked recognition. If Luna was among them, she was good at hiding in plain sight.

  “I’m Ariel Crow, and this is the Fine Feathered Family,” the lead singer said in a voice like worn, scarred leather. “We’re here to play a couple songs for you—”

  His words drowned in a tidal wave of cheers. The shuffling zombies who had surrounded Owen at the gate sprang to life, teeth bared with delight, arms waving like tentacles in the air.

  Ariel Crow struck a note on his guitar, and the crowd began to dance, keeping time with the Fine Feathered Family’s raucous, squawking vocals. Owen stood still among them, focused on the one thing he’d come for: finding Luna. The rambling jam-band tune did nothing for him;
he liked his music strong and fast, with a driving beat.

  Midway through the band’s first song, a trapdoor opened in the top of the mushroom statue and a girl appeared, brandishing a hula hoop that shimmered with LED lights, giving off a rainbow of colors. Her neon patchwork bikini glowed under the ultraviolet lights, and her hair stood out in a riot of dreadlocks, some wrapped in neon yarn so she looked like a modern-day Medusa with a nest of vipers writhing on her head. She eased the trapdoor shut with her toes and stood with her arms stretched to the sky, the hoop framing a body that was all ropy muscle and coiled feline energy, the stage lights dancing on the glitter that dusted her limbs.

  The breath left Owen’s lungs in a sudden, painful rush, like he had been kicked in the chest.

  It was her. Luna.

  Ariel Crow let out a wail, and Luna whipped the hoop over her head and spun it onto her body, twitching her hips and tossing her head and laughing into the stage lights.

  It was unmistakably her, the flashes of a face from his dreams now pieced together into a whole. Even from way up on the hill, he could trace her features with his eyes: her sharp cheekbones and the arrowhead of her chin, the taut muscles in her legs and a giant tattoo of a tree that sprouted from her lower back and grew into an ancient, wizened wonder with branches snaking down her arms. But mostly, he recognized her eyes. They slanted toward her forehead and blazed with a cold seafoam green, like the tail of a mermaid trapped and frozen under layers of ice.

  He recognized those eyes from more than just his dreams. He saw them whenever he looked in the mirror, and they gleamed coldly back at him when he caught his reflection in the window of a passing car. They were his eyes, too.

  He watched her, transfixed, for the rest of the Fine Feathered Family’s set. She could do a million and one things with the hoop, rotating it around her waist and shoulders and knees, snaking it across her body and tossing it nearly into the rafters before catching it with a flourish behind her back. He saw his own punished and triumphant body in the way she moved, knew that she was driven by the same relentless energy that pushed him to make something impossible look easy. They may have expressed the burning drive within them in different ways—she with a hula hoop, he with a dirt bike—but the engine powering them through life was the same. They were unlike everyone around them. They were cut from the same cloth.