Burning Midnight

by Will McIntosh

  Mr. Boyce, Sully’s English teacher, approached the table and stabbed a finger at the kids. “I hear that again, and I’ll put you all in detention. It’s a felony to cause a false alarm, whether you’re pulling a lever or using your mouth.”

  As he stormed off, the kids laughed and made obscene gestures behind his back.

  “Look at those twerps,” Dom said, shaking his head. “You can’t trust guys who always look like they just got their hair cut. What do they do, get it cut twice a week?”

  That got their whole table laughing. Sully had never thought about it before, but Dom was right, their hair always looked freshly cut.

  Rob leaned in. “Have you guys seen Jayla Washburn yet?”

  “Have I seen her?” Sully asked, confused.

  Rob nodded. “Her parents got her an early Christmas present. A pair of Cranberries. You’re not going to believe it.”

  Cranberry. Better-looking. Rarity seven. How did these people afford this stuff? Sully knew you could get twenty-, thirty-year loans from the bank to buy spheres, but he couldn’t believe people actually did that just so their daughter could be prettier.

  “There she is.” Rob pointed toward the cash registers, where Jayla Washburn was paying, her back to them. She lifted her tray and turned.

  “Holy—” Dom said.

  Results varied when it came to Cranberries. In Jayla’s case, she’d hit the jackpot. Her eyes were bigger and brighter, her cheekbones higher, her chin smaller. She’d been okay-looking before; now she almost looked like a model. She was grinning like she’d won the lottery.

  The bell rang. As kids grabbed backpacks, Mr. Boyce called, “Buses with blue tags in the window are going to the Hammerstein. Have a good afternoon.”

  Sully still couldn’t believe they were letting school out early for Alex Holliday. It made him want to puke.

  “You guys going?” Rob Dalton made a face. “I’m going to the mall instead. I need sneakers. You want to come with?”

  Sully looked at Dom, who shrugged. “Why not? I’m sure as hell not going to the Hammerstein.”

  Sully appreciated Rob and Dom not saying Alex Holliday’s name. Everyone else in the school, especially the teachers, had been saying almost nothing but Holliday’s name for the past week. Big deal, Yonkers was giving its prodigal son some lame award. Was it really so noteworthy that they closed school early? It wasn’t the president, or Taylor Swift, or Kanye West. It was a con artist with a lot of money.

  No one seemed to understand what it felt like. They’d shaken hands. Alex Holliday had handed him a check for two and a half million. In that moment when Sully took the check, everything changed. All of his and Mom’s money problems had melted away.

  Rent? No problem; in fact, they could buy a house, cash.

  The old junker Ford he had to share with his mother broken down, again? Buy two new cars.

  College tuition for Sully, when he graduated from high school? Paid for.

  Then the Cherry Red hadn’t done what Alex Holliday expected. It hadn’t given him, personally, any new abilities to add to his repertoire. It had only reseeded the entire freaking planet with new spheres—as many spheres as had appeared in the first wave five years earlier.

  And, poof, the money was gone. Check, voided. Next time read the fine print, sucker. There would be no college for David Sullivan.

  Holliday had opened that old wound again just this week, mailing Sully a gold-embossed VIP invitation to his appearance. Front-row seats to hear how great Alex Holliday is! Admission to the private reception afterward! What a petty, bush-league move. Cheat a kid, then rub it in. Nice.

  Sully hated Alex Holliday. Would throw a party if the man died. Not that he was likely to die anytime soon, since he was barely thirty and had burned the entire spectrum of health-boosting spheres, from Aquamarine (quick healing) to Olive (pain control).

  —

  Central Avenue was quiet, a cold wind keeping pedestrians inside, traffic cruising along the wet street past the muffler shops and fast-food restaurants.

  “Where’s Jeannette?” Dom asked Rob as they walked, hands in pockets, chins tucked against the wind.

  “She’s going to the thing,” Rob said. “You know. Holliday.” Rob muttered the name.

  Dom glanced at Sully, who kept his eyes on the gum-stained sidewalk.

  “That asshat,” Dom said.

  Holliday. Everywhere Sully went, Holliday. At this very moment, the elite of Yonkers were falling over themselves to kiss Holliday’s rich butt. Those without VIP passes would have paid good money for Sully’s. He’d torn it into pieces and flushed it.

  Everyone knew Holliday had ripped Sully off, ripped off a thirteen-year-old living in the Garden Apartments. No one cared. Success was a whitewash for shitty behavior.

  “I’d like to tell him what a thief he is to his face,” Dom said.

  “I guess now’s your chance,” Rob said. “When he asks for questions you could raise your hand and ask why he’s such a crook.” He cackled at the idea.

  Dom slowed. “You don’t think I would?”

  “Come on, Dom,” Rob said.

  “Two and a half million dollars. That’s how much he owes Sully.”

  “I know. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying you don’t have the balls to call Alex Holliday a thief in front of a thousand people.”

  Dom slapped Sully’s arm. “Let’s go. Come on.”

  “No way.” Sully didn’t want to see Holliday’s smarmy face while everyone clapped. “All the way into the city for that? No way.” There was no venue in Yonkers swanky enough, so the Yonkers Citizen of Distinction Award was being presented in Manhattan.

  He would like to hear what Holliday would say if Dom called him out about the Cherry Red, though. The thing was, Dom would probably chicken out.

  Although maybe Sully should ask the question himself.

  “We’re going. ‘Not only are you a liar and a criminal, you walk like a rooster.’ That’s what I’m gonna say.” Dom shook his head, laughed. “Oh, man, this is gonna be great.”

  He wouldn’t do it, though. Dom could talk a blue streak with his buddies, but in class he sat in the back and clammed up. He wasn’t much on public speaking. Sully was the talker. He’d have to see how he felt when they got there, but if the mood hit him he might just call Holliday out. What did he have to lose?

  “Hang on,” Dom said, “I have to take a piss.” He cut into a shallow alley beside Addeo and Sons Bakery, which was festooned with Christmas wreaths and garlands. Sully and Rob waited, Rob weaving slightly as he stood, as if he were standing on the deck of a ship at sea, while Dom pissed against a silver trash can and chuckled to himself.

  —

  A lone figure stood on a portable podium to one side of the Hammerstein Ballroom on Thirty-Fourth Street. He was young, holding a Bible, his polished black shoes pressed tightly together.

  “Every time you absorb a pair of those titillating balls, you welcome Satan into your soul. They are Trojan horses, sin in your choice of colors.”

  “I’ve got a Trojan for your balls right here,” a guy shouted as he passed, setting off laughter among his friends.

  Ignoring the crack, the preacher opened his Bible to a bookmarked page. “In the book of Revelation, God warns, ‘Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength…’ ” He held up a finger. “They are the mark of the beast, a sign that the end of days is upon us.”

  Sully found it interesting how split religions were on the spheres. The pope thought they were okay, because they didn’t go against anything in the Bible and didn’t hurt anyone. Some of the evangelists on TV were like this guy on the podium; others claimed the spheres came straight from God. If there was a God, Sully didn’t think he had anything to do with the spheres. They weren’t angels or devils; they were pretty obviously things, even if no one could explain how they suddenly materialized all over the world or why they gave people enhanced abilities.
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  “The arrival of the spheres is a sign. Judgment Day is upon us, and Alex Holliday is a servant of Satan. He offers you the mark of the beast!” the guy on the podium shouted as Sully and his friends pushed through the doors.

  Sully couldn’t argue with the guy’s view of Holliday, even if he didn’t buy into the Judgment Day stuff. Not that there weren’t a lot of nonreligious people who were saying the same thing, that the spheres were bad news. It was hard to turn on the TV without hearing some pundit warning about pigs being fattened for the slaughter. Sully only sold spheres—he couldn’t afford to burn any—so he figured he didn’t have anything to worry about, even if the doomsayers turned out to be right.

  There was a huge poster to the left of the ticket window, advertising an Arcade Fire concert in a couple of weeks. All seven band members had finally given in and absorbed Lavender spheres (enhanced musical ability, rarity level two) live on the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. Sully was dying to hear their new album. He’d kill to see them live. But no, he was going to see Alex Holliday live instead.

  The Hammerstein had a high domed ceiling, plush burgundy seats, four levels of balconies along the sides for VIPs. It was packed. Sully, Dom, and Rob nabbed some of the last general-admission tickets reserved for Yonkers High students and found three open seats near the back on the ground level. Holliday was already speaking, backlit by animated slides. A lot of people thought he was good-looking, but Sully thought he looked like a cartoon bandit, his black eyebrows dark and thick, as if drawn in with a fat-tipped Magic Marker, his jaw peppered with black speckles like he needed a shave. The black boots with heels didn’t mask that he was short, despite the extra inch or two he’d gotten by burning a pair of Lemon Yellows. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms. Chocolate spheres, which gave you both enhanced strength and the build to go with it, were rarity level nine. In today’s market they would set you back three or four million each at auction, and of course if you wanted to burn them you needed two, which meant six to eight million.

  The shoulders of Holliday’s tailored white shirt were covered in a rainbow of the pearl-sized brag buttons his company had pioneered. They spilled down the front of his shirt in dueling swirls that met at the breastbone. Sully had read that Holliday commissioned fashion designers to stylishly incorporate the buttons into his wardrobe.

  Sully studied the brag buttons, trying to see if there was any color the guy hadn’t burned.

  Even from a distance Sully could see all of the super-rare ones represented. Besides Chocolate, there was Mustard (high IQ), Cranberry (better-looking—although in Holliday’s case the results weren’t as striking as they’d been on Jayla), Cream (athleticism), Vermillion (need little sleep), Periwinkle (good with numbers). That was only the tip of the iceberg, though. The guy seemed to have everything. He had all of the enhanced senses (including good old Forest Green), and tons of common, marginally useful stuff like Copper (ambidexterity) and Taupe (artistic ability). There were forty-three sphere colors total, but Sully didn’t think he’d be able to count the buttons with Holliday moving around….

  Sully smiled, realizing one brag button was missing. Cherry Red. Was it because Holliday didn’t want to remind people how he’d gotten it, or because it hadn’t provided him, personally, with any benefit?

  “Spheres are the only truly magical things in the world that you can hold in your hand,” Holliday said. He was holding an Aquamarine toward the audience. “You can set them on your shelf and admire them while they appreciate in value more reliably than any stock or bond. You can burn them and gain remarkable abilities for the rest of your life.” He looked around the hall, let that sink in. “For the rest of your life.” He shrugged. “They’re miracles. That’s not to say we don’t understand how they work. We do.” He made a sheepish expression. “Sort of.”

  The audience erupted in laughter. They were acting like he was some titan of business, an international celebrity. The truth was, he was a regional player; he had maybe a hundred stores in the Northeast, fifty in other parts of the country, and none outside the United States. Yes, Holliday’s was expanding fast, but he was still nothing compared with Jin Bao, who had something like two thousand Wanmei stores all over the world.

  “We know when someone burns a sphere, it alters them physiologically. Some spheres alter receptor sites in the brain, some influence glandular secretion, like Lemon Yellow, which stimulates the pituitary gland.” Holliday set the Aquamarine down, spread his arms. “Not that some of us couldn’t use a little more help than they provide.” More laughter. “Others go right to the source, altering the DNA in our cells.” He shrugged, let the silence build. “It’s still magic. We understand what it’s doing, but it’s still magic.”

  He was slick. Charming. Sully gave him that. But Sully knew better than anyone what was underneath the thin veneer Holliday showed the public. Seeing him strut around up there made Sully’s skin crawl.

  “There are no shortcuts to finding spheres. If they were hidden underground, geophysical survey techniques that archaeologists use to find buried artifacts could be used. But most are hidden in man-made structures, so they blend right in, as you all well know.” He held up a finger. “That doesn’t mean we’re not working to develop more effective sphere-hunting technology. We’re always on the lookout for new ways to deliver these miraculous orbs into your hands.”

  Holliday made a sour face, took a breath. “You bored yet?”

  There were shouts of “No” from every corner of the room.

  “Well, I’m tired of hearing my own voice. How about some questions?”

  Fifty hands shot in the air, including Dom’s. Heart thumping, Sully halfheartedly raised his as well. What were the odds Holliday would pick him? Sully was certain Holliday couldn’t pick him out of a lineup at this point. Sully was six inches taller than he’d been the last time he and Holliday were in the same room.

  Holliday pointed at the third or fourth row. “Yeah, the woman with the beautiful smile. You. Yes.”

  A black woman stood, sporting three brag buttons on her sleeve. She was handed a wireless microphone from the aisle. “Are there any pairs that you haven’t burned?”

  “Slate Gray,” Holliday said immediately.

  Singing ability. Rarity two, under five hundred for a pair. Sully wondered if there was anyone in the room who didn’t know what ability went with every single color.

  “Why Slate Gray?” the woman asked.

  He shrugged. “I guess I believe there should be at least one thing you’re bad at, so you don’t get too cocky.” He waved as people laughed. “I’m kidding. To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Superstition, maybe.” Holliday turned and walked toward the wings. He said something to someone out of sight, then returned to center stage. “I’ll tell you what. Come on up here.” He beckoned to the woman, who, after a moment’s hesitation, hurried onto the stage.

  A beefy guy in a black suit appeared from the wings carrying a pair of Slate Gray spheres. He handed them to Holliday, who offered them to the woman. “A gift for you, if you’ll agree to sing us a song.”

  Surprised, flustered, the woman accepted the spheres. She lifted them and touched them to her temples.

  There were no sparks. She didn’t fall backward or cry out in orgasmic ecstasy. When she touched the Slate Grays to her temples and then lowered them, their rich gray color began to fade. In an hour the color would be faded and cloudy, and the spheres would be worthless, except to people who collected used ones, which was becoming a larger part of Sully’s business every year.

  “Sing us something,” Holliday said.

  The woman nodded shyly, looked at the ceiling, and began singing “Like a Rainbow.” She was excellent—not pop-star excellent, but smooth and clear, and right on every note. She sang the first stanza, then gave Holliday a hug as the audience applauded, and went back to her seat.

  As the crowd quieted, hands shot up again, including Dom’s. Holliday’s index fing
er drifted, pointing to the left side of the auditorium, then right. “Someone’s whispering, ‘Pick me, pick me,’ under her breath.” Holliday tapped the Turquoise (enhanced hearing) brag button on his shirt to much laughter, then resumed pointing at the audience. Before his roaming finger reached the back where Sully was standing, he stopped and pointed at a girl halfway to the back. “Yes—the woman in the red sweatshirt.”

  The girl stood, accepted the microphone. She was Sully’s age or maybe a little older, Asian, big-boned, very tall.

  “Clearly your Lemon Yellow was more potent than mine,” Holliday said. The audience ate it up.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but this is the result of good nutrition and wholesome living,” the girl shot back, looking cool and relaxed. “I was wondering if you saw the article published on Slate a few years back about how independently owned sphere stores burn down at a rate six times higher than stores selling other goods.”

  Holliday shrugged, shook his head. The big smile had vanished. “What’s your point?”

  “Have you seen the article?”

  Holliday looked toward the ceiling, touched his chin. “Let’s see. Yes. June eighth, 2016, around ten a.m. I was in my office drinking tea. Earl Grey.” Laughter drifted from the audience. Sully pinched the bridge of his nose, sickened by Holliday’s smarmy display. They got it—he’d burned a Canary Yellow (perfect memory, rarity level nine). “I read the first paragraph. Everything sphere-related crosses my desk. Again, what’s your point?”

  The girl folded her arms. “My aunt’s store burned down a few months after one of your representatives offered to buy her out. He was really aggressive. Downright threatening. Then her store burned.”

  Holliday rolled his eyes, poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Let me make sure I have this straight before I respond. You’re accusing me of burning down your aunt’s store?”