Lightning Rider

by Jen Greyson

  He points to the blue sky. I don’t know how to explain it. I ease myself up to my elbows and search for anything else that could be causing this much pain. There’s nothing else it could be. The abuelas are gone, but I never saw them leave. It’s like they vanished.

  Hector kneels in front of me and brushes the hair from my face. Concern and shock mingle on his features. Bet he didn’t plan on playing nursemaid when he hit on me. I have to toughen up and stop scaring this poor guy. With careful, measured movements, I push up a little higher until I’m sitting. There’s no way I can manage the rest on my own. I wince. “Help me up.”

  He puts his hands around my ribcage and drapes my arm around his neck, then gently supports me until I’m upright. I lean against the bike, one hand on the seat to steady myself so Hector doesn’t have to take all my weight.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an idiot. I’ve always been able to manage my lightning pain, but after last night’s episode on the bike, and now today . . . something is making it worse.

  “No!” Someone cries from over my shoulder, and I turn and cringe at the fresh wave of pain. An older man about Papi’s height stands to the right of the barn door in an outfit so out of place it’s obvious he’s just appeared there in the moments I’ve been distracted by the pain. No way I’d have missed his obnoxious blue pin-striped suit that screams tightass. But even if I had, it would have been impossible to overlook his glare.

  Shock and incredulity fuse with a scornful accusation. Like he caught me shoplifting.

  “Who are you?” I brace myself for an onslaught of pain.

  “Who are you?” he asks threateningly, as if my existence personally pisses him off.

  I straighten, though each movement threatens to ignite me. I put every bit of steel I’ve ever touched into my words. “None of your business, old man.” A coil of lightning flares in my palm.

  His image flickers, and he staggers back, a hand against his chest. “This can’t be.”

  He vanishes, and my pain does, too. But in its place is a heavy unfamiliar weight in the pit of my stomach. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid.

  Not a good time to be in a strange land, strange time, with strange people.

  Still, with the pain gone, I feel better than I have in months. I step away from Hector and peer at the building, then down at my hand. The lightning is gone, but I feel recharged, like it turned its power inward or something. My fingers twirl an invisible drumstick. I’m on a crazy beefed-up adrenalin rush.

  But people don’t flicker. They don’t vanish. Though if I’m going to tread down that path of reasoning, they definitely don’t time travel. But that guy showed up with no warning and then just . . . evaporated. No lightning, no nothing. Maybe I made him disappear with my lightning.

  It’s not exactly comforting to get blindsided by a stranger out time-traveling today. At least, I’m assuming that’s what he was doing. Not a lot of transportation options will let you pop in and out of thin air. He almost seemed to know me or recognize me . . . or at least my power. That can’t be good.

  I steal a glance at Hector and feel guilty about his look of confusion. Do I play it off like it’s normal? I need Hector’s bike, with or without him. Even without the abuela’s guidance—or lack thereof—I need to get out of here. I don’t like that they didn’t stick around when Mystery Guy showed up. But honestly, now that he knows my location, I don’t want to stick around either.

  “What the . . . what . . . who?” Hector stutters, his arms gesturing toward the empty spot near the barn.

  All I can offer is a head shake. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Closing the distance between us, he cups my elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Nervous laughter erupts. I can’t help it. Lightning is coursing through me, I’m a thousand miles and maybe decades away from home, I have no idea where my papi is, and some stranger is following me. “Yeah.” I take a big breath. “I am. But I need to get home.”

  He walks to the barn and stands over the spot, as if hoping for an answer.

  I need to figure out where I’m going to find mine. And quickly, before the questions keep multiplying.

  I need that book. Surely something like this happened to one of my ancestors.

  Hector returns and we walk back to the bike.

  I take a deep breath and press both palms against the seat. Nervousness wiggles in my belly, but a surge of mega-adrenalin extinguishes it. I straighten and glance at Hector. He’s eyeing my ass and recoils when I catch him. I raise an eyebrow, and he looks away, confirming my earlier assessment that this guy wouldn’t make a move even if I handed him an engraved invitation. Ready, I take my hands off the bike and step toward the tail.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  He cocks his head like he wants to argue. “You sure?”

  Double-checking the area surrounding the barn, I nod, noting how fast my emotions are flip-flopping. I take a risk. “Where am I?”

  He watches me for a moment, then climbs on the bike and starts it. Glancing over his shoulder, he says, “Spain.”

  “Good guess,” I whisper to myself. Settling my hands against his shoulders, I mount the bike behind him, squished in the leather cradle built for one. Once I slide into position without incident, I exhale and link my hands around Hector’s waist, awkwardly trying to hang on and not press my body against him at the same time.

  Emerald hills speed past us as the village fades away. Less than an hour ago, I was at the base of a mountain range. What a strange day. A normal person would be totally messed up by today’s corkscrew path. I’ve never been scared of anything else, and I suppose I’m not surprised I’m taking a little time travel in stride.

  An uneven patch of stones jars the front tire, and the bike leaps in the air. I squeeze Hector’s ribs as he lands the bike. I catch a glimpse of his grin in the mirror and scoot my butt to the back end of the seat to put a little space between his back and my boobs.

  Houses reappear along the edge of the street, mashed together until there’s barely room for walkways or roads. The bike growls between my thighs as we climb a steep hill. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t driving, and it’s easy to slip away on my thoughts while Hector guides us along the winding street. Three small girls play with dolls and wave as we pass. I wave back.

  Houses crowd each other on the crest of the hill, concealing the horizon before the drop-off on the other side quickly comes into view. An impossibly narrow bridge spans a deep gorge, and we hurtle toward it. To the left of the bridge, a viaduct chokes the river at the top of the gorge and squeezes it through a simple hydro plant. The water plummets to the river hundreds of feet below. The canyon here is narrow, and the spray washes the road. Tiny wires connect the coils harnessing the water’s power.

  Fear rises in my stomach, and I flip-flop again, wrapping myself tight around Hector, no longer caring what he thinks it means.

  Now I mind being a passenger. I do not want to cross that bridge. I do not want to go anywhere near that waterfall. I want to go home. If I were driving, I’d turn around and get as far away from the power plant as possible. My stomach tightens.

  Oblivious to my issues, Hector tips the bike down the hill on the backside of the gorge and lets gravity propel us beyond the engine’s capabilities. We hit the bridge and rocket halfway across it before I can make myself speak, but by then it’s too late. The wires from the power station are thick black snakes splitting the gorge in half. The coil of emotion in my belly intensifies.

  This hot space inside me isn’t fear anymore. I ignore the wind whipping me and the road’s rumble beneath us. I’ve misjudged the emotion. It part adrenalin, but there’s more. Way more.

  It’s power. And it’s responding to the hydro plant.

  It’s my lightning.

  The moment I make the connection, I’m yanked off the bike by invisible fingers. I instinctively curl into a ball to lessen the impact, but it never comes. Though I’m terrified t
o watch myself die, I force my eyes open. I hang suspended above the road, three hundred feet above the bottom of the gorge, and watch as the Spanish landscape fades. Terror shuffles with excitement. The dark red tiles atop the houses become pink rooftops, and dark vines become a washed-out yellow, like spring has turned to late fall in less than three heartbeats. The comforting warmth of the sunshine intensifies to such an uncomfortable fire, I think I hold enough heat to birth a star.

  As the earth beneath me fades to transparency, I lean into the sensation of weightlessness and ready myself for this skydive into the unknown. My blood pounds through my body, pulsing in melody with the light.

  A blinding flash.

  It obscures everything. Then I’m plunged into a darkness so absolute only remnants of the flash remain. As the blackness consumes me, one small question rises on a sliver of panic. One I should have asked in the beginning.

  How will I find home?

  Chapter 4

  Accompanied by a sudden rush of wind, color impales me from every direction. I stagger and throw my hands out to steady myself. It takes me a second, but I recognize the furniture in Mami and Papi’s living room. Air whooshes from my lungs, and I bend over, gasping.

  I did it. I made it back to where I started.

  Time travel just topped BASE jumping on my list. Spain rocked, too. Tiny sparks of lightning crackle in my palm.

  I race back toward the bedrooms. “Papi?” I push his door open to an empty room. As I walk down the hall replaying the trip, a memory that isn’t mine sweeps over me.

  I’m another little girl and my friends and I are playing with our favorite dolls when a loud motorcycle roars by us. We wave at the boy and girl on the bike. The pretty girl on the back waves back.

  It was me. I was the pretty girl on the back of the bike.

  Something crashes at the back of the house, startling the quasi-memory away.

  “Papi, are you here?”

  Another crash and a curse. “Evy? Are you okay?”

  I bounce up on my toes and pat myself down. Seems like everything made it back to all the right spots. I dance a quick rumba step through the kitchen door.

  I freeze, my left hip pushed outward. A stranger stands in the kitchen, a fistful of bills in one hand and Bimni nudging the other. I trust her judgment—dogs don’t come any more discriminating than she is. She sits, tongue lolling, slimy ball at her feet.

  “Uh, hola.” I rotate my hips back to normal and take in the whole scene, smiling that Spain is already rubbing off on my lingo. And that my day is filling up with super spicy guys. He must be one of Papi’s workers, come to get cash for the upcoming library job. They’ve been in and out of here my whole life, but none this chiseled.

  “Where did Vic go?” As much as I’m loving my ratio of hot guys today, I do need to find Papi. I saunter past and give him my best come-get-my-number smile before looking away, chest up, with a little extra swing in my business.

  “What are you talking about?” Papi’s voice shoots from behind me.

  I stop and slowly rotate.

  As I ask my next question, I watch hottie’s face. “Do you know where Vic is?”

  “Stop fooling. Come help me.”

  My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.

  “What happened to you?” I inch closer. He does look a little like Papi, only young. Real young.

  And I’d thought he was hot. Gross.

  He taps the bills against the counter, straightening their edges, then shoves them in a coffee can I hadn’t noticed. I’d also failed to spot the coffee grounds scattered all over the counter and linoleum. What in the world . . .

  “We must have somehow—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—we must have somehow time traveled,” Papi says.

  “Yeah. I got that. I mean, what happened to your face?”

  Reading my disbelief, he touches his cheek and sends a bill fluttering.

  “What’s wrong?” He bends and snatches a hundred off the floor. “I don’t have time for this, I have issues.”

  That’s no joke. I ease my hand forward and cradle his elbow. “You’re going to want a mirror.”

  Chapter 5

  Tugging against me, he stuffs the last few bills into the coffee can and forces the lid shut. When at last he turns to me, the strain around his lips and eyes catches me off guard. I haven’t seen this much emotion in him . . . well, ever.

  I squeeze his elbow gently, and he wraps his arm around my waist and gives me a hearty hug. “Where were you, Evy? How’d you get home? Were you in danger?”

  “Shhh.” I lead us to the bathroom, flick the switch, and brace myself.

  “Holy shit!” He yanks from my grip.

  His eyes flash from my reflection to his and back again. When he leans closer to the mirror, I slide onto the counter and study him, too. A precisely trimmed goatee hugs his strong chin, and his silver hair is gone, replaced by a tight crew cut of dark spikes. The stress lines on his face are deep, though age no longer wrinkles his cheeks or brackets his eyes. His face is lean, tough, fierce.

  “You look like that picture when you won the belt,” I say.

  He straightens and lifts his shirt. Not an ounce of his old-man paunch remains. Now a rock-hard boxer’s core barely holds up his pants. Even if he is my papi, it’s an admirable six-pack. I’m totally staring but can’t look away.

  “What am I going to tell your mother?”

  “I don’t think she’ll complain.” I shiver and cross my arms. “I can’t believe I flirted with you. That is so disturbing.”

  He drops his shirt and leans toward the mirror again. “I can’t go to work like this.”

  “Will it wear off?”

  “Hope so.”

  “Why didn’t that happen to me?” I lean toward the mirror and examine my own features. They look the same. Still a fat lower lip, long nose, pudgy cheeks.

  “Only a woman would complain.” He shakes his head, startled by the stranger’s mimicked motions in the mirror.

  “Did your father look”—I wave my hand around his torso—“like this?”

  His long fingers stroke his goatee. “I was eight, so he always seemed larger than life, but . . . maybe.”

  “Do you think he was a time traveler? Do you think this is lightning riding?” I ask, hopping off the counter.

  “I don’t like it.”

  I take a step back. “What’s not to like?”

  “I don’t know what we stumbled on, but we’re destroying those booklets and whatever that book is.”

  Papi marches from the room, his hand against his new ripped abs.

  I blink and scramble after him. “Wait, Papi. Hold on.”

  I stretch forward to grab his shoulder, but he sidesteps me, so I leap in front and walk backward through the family room. “Let’s talk about this. Didn’t you have a good time?” I point at his stomach. “The payoff had to be worth any bad stuff. Not to mention all that cash. Besides, we can’t destroy that book. It’s an heirloom. And you said the little ones looked like lessons. Come on, nothing ever goes perfectly the first time.”

  “No.” His voice is sharp. “We know nothing. I’m not convinced that is an heirloom. Nothing matches up. And money isn’t worth putting ourselves in danger.”

  “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

  “The mob.”

  That yanks me to a stop. “What? Are you kidding me?” I fold my arms and tap my finger against my lip. Not what I expected. “Your father had some serious secrets.”

  Papi pauses and drags his fingers through his new spiky hair. “I’m not sure I want to know them. What if this is what killed him?”

  “You said it was lightn—” I throw my hands up and stare at my fingers, then shove them behind my back as tiny tendrils fire from the tips.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Give me your hand.”

  I bristle and shake my head, positive the sight of my parlor trick won�
�t sway him the direction I want. “It’s nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re through.” He brushes past me.

  Of all the reactions I thought he’d have, this isn’t it. No one would walk away from something like this, certainly not a fighter. I take one step forward to follow him, then retreat, hands opening and clenching.

  Only once in my life have I ever purposely disobeyed this man. I was twelve. My friends tease me mercilessly for the way I crave his approval, look to him for guidance, and respect his opinion.

  But not this time. This time-traveling-lightning thing feels important. Seldom have I felt guided by my own compass. The first time was when I dropped out of college and started my own custom line of bikes, which earned me industry accolades and a fat bank account.

  The second time is now.

  I bite my lip and cringe. Then swan dive off the cliff.

  “Seriously?” I shout so he can hear me in the kitchen. My gut twists into knots, but I forge ahead. “You pick now to tell me no? We’re standing on the brink of something amazing and different and new, and you’re chickening out?”

  “Yep!” he yells back.

  My heart pounds. We’ve never yelled at each other. Drawers slam, and he stomps back and forth.

  I ball my fists.

  “What if your father wanted you to, but he died before he could tell you?”

  The kitchen falls silent.

  “Low blow, Evy. Low.”

  Damn him for what I’m about to do. But we can’t quit.

  “Well, I’ve learned every move I have from you. Staying down is a new one.”

  Metal strikes laminate like he just hurled the coffee can across the room. Almost there.

  “I have a job,” he yells, but I’m not sure if it’s at himself or at me. “And bills. I can’t go gallivanting through time!”

  “I’m not asking you to gallivant. And I have a job, too, you know!”

  “Well, you can’t go gallivanting through time either!”

  “Then I guess you’d better figure out how to look like you before you go back to work!”

  “I’ll handle it!”