Quicksilver

by R. J. Anderson

  “So you’re never going out with anyone again?” Milo asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, if I met somebody who accepted me the way I am and didn’t feel cheated that I didn’t want to make out all the time. But how likely is that? Most people our age are crazy about sex. And don’t tell me you’re different, because I won’t believe you.”

  Milo made a face. “I’m not. I wish I was sometimes, because my mom doesn’t want me seeing anybody until I’m done with university. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about it. A lot.”

  “How do you get anything done?” I asked, and Milo laughed. Only a short laugh, but the smile that went with it was real, and it dissolved all the tension between us.

  “Cold showers,” he said. “And lots of running. My thighs are steel. My abs are bronze. My biceps—”

  “They are excellent biceps,” I said. “I’ve noticed.”

  That got me a double take. “You have?”

  “I’m in your bus shelter, messing with your worldview,” I said, elbowing him. “Yes, I’ve noticed. I’m asexual, not blind.”

  Milo scratched the back of his neck, clearly at a loss. “So … what exactly are you noticing, again?”

  I wanted to laugh. “Stop fishing for compliments,” I said. “Yes, I like the way you look. I’d even say you’re attractive. Just because I don’t have the urge to tackle you and rip your clothes off—”

  “Please don’t say things like that,” Milo moaned, and now I did laugh.

  “Sorry. What I mean is, there’s nothing wrong with you as far as I’m concerned. I wish…” No, I wasn’t going to finish that sentence. I’d been honest enough for one night. “Anyway, if you don’t mind the people at the makerspace thinking you’re my boyfriend, I’m not going to argue with them. In fact—” My gaze turned inward, a new thought sparking alight. “It might help if one or two other people made the same mistake.”

  “Oh, no,” said Milo. “I know that look. That’s your I-havean-idea look, and it means bad things.”

  “Not necessarily,” I told him. “But if my parents thought I had a boyfriend, a mature, responsible, strong boyfriend…”

  “Then you’d have the perfect excuse to go out every night and work on the transceiver. I get it. But remember what I told you about my mother? If she thought I was seeing anybody, she would flay me alive. With her teeth.”

  “You’re already lying to her about the phys ed thing,” I pointed out. “This wouldn’t even be a lie. We aren’t going out. We’re just going to let a few people think we are.”

  “What about everybody at work?” asked Milo. “What do we tell them?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s none of their business.”

  The bus squeaked to a stop outside the shelter, blue and white paint glowing in the fading light. I climbed on, flashed my pass at the driver, and swung myself into a seat.

  “So let me get this straight,” Milo said as he joined me. “To the people at the makerspace and to your parents, we’re going out. To my mother and between ourselves we’re not. Everybody else gets to make up their own minds, because we aren’t saying one way or the other. We’re like the Schrodinger’s Cat of relationships.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And if somebody asks if we’re together? Like Jon, for instance.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “We have to play it cool because our parents don’t approve. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Who ended up dead, if you remember,” said Milo.

  “Only because they were stupid. You and I are not stupid.”

  “Thank you,” said Milo dryly. “But there’s another problem. You never asked me to pretend-go out with you.”

  “Should I pretend to get down on one knee?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready,” he said. “It’s a big commitment.”

  For three seconds I couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious. I was beginning to worry that I’d assumed too much when he went on in the same grave tone, “Maybe we should pretend see other people for a while.”

  I punched him in the arm. “Stop messing with me. Are you okay with this or not? Because if you’re not, we need to come up with a better idea fast. My mom’s seen us together a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re going out already.”

  “This has been the second weirdest evening of my life,” said Milo, resigned. “But why not? Let’s pretend-do it.”

  I was tempted to make that into a joke—On the first date? What kind of pretend girlfriend do you think I am?—but it would only embarrass him, and I was getting tired of bantering anyway. “Thanks,” I said softly.

  We rode a while in silence. The bus paused to let off a young woman in a hijab, then stopped again to pick up an old man, who tottered down the aisle and collapsed into the seat across from us, wheezing and mopping his nose. Two more blocks, and it would be my turn.

  “So,” said Milo. “We get off the bus together. Right?”

  “Right,” I said, reaching up to signal for our stop.

  “And then what?”

  “You walk me home.” I got up, stumbling a little before I caught my balance, and headed for the exit. “We say good night. I go inside and start working on the transceiver.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for anyone to sound relieved and disappointed at the same time, especially in three syllables. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Liar, I thought. But I didn’t call him on it, not until we’d got off the bus and crossed the four lanes of traffic to my street. Then I turned to him, held out my hand, and said, “Showtime.”

  “Really?” he asked. “You’re okay with that?”

  “I am totally okay with that,” I said firmly and laced my fingers into his.

  0 1 1 1 0 1

  “How was the movie?” Dad asked when I came in. He was kneeling on the kitchen tile with a pile of newspapers under him and a paint can in one hand, touching up the baseboards.

  “Pretty stupid, actually,” I replied. “I’d skip that one if I were you. Where’s Mom?”

  “Having a bath, probably,” he said. “She’s been painting all evening, so I told her to go relax.”

  “Oh,” I said. I’d hoped at least one of my parents had seen Milo and I standing close together on the sidewalk, still holding hands, as I gazed dreamily up at him and told him that I was going to ship all the bigger transceiver parts to his house. He’d told me okay, but not to overdo it and could I please get that dopey look off my face before he threw up? So it had been a very special moment, and I was sorry to think it had been wasted on just the two of us.

  “So who’d you go with?” Dad asked, painting a slow line across the top of the trim and dipping his brush again.

  “A friend,” I said.

  He sat back on his haunches and gave me a quizzical look. “Just a friend?”

  The next time I heard somebody use that phrase, I was going to hit them. “A good friend,” I said shortly and turned to leave.

  “Because,” Dad continued, “your mother thought it might be a date.”

  I stopped.

  The newspapers rustled as my father got to his feet. “Look, pumpkin,” he said, “All I want is for you to be safe and happy. So you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

  He had no idea how much I wished I could believe that. “I know,” I said. “It’s just … we’ve only gone out a couple of times, and I didn’t want Mom to get worked up over it.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” he said, putting a burly arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. “She’ll be fine. So who’s the lucky boy?”

  Hello, Dad Cliché 32. Nice to know this conversation was still on a predictable course. “Milo Hwang,” I said.

  There was a fractional silence. Then Dad said, a little too heartily, “Well, good for you. That’s … um, great. Hope it works out.”

  And th
ere it was. Liberal on the outside, redneck conservative deep down. He wouldn’t forbid me to see Milo because that would be narrow-minded, but that didn’t mean he was ready to invite him over for hockey and popcorn.

  “Why shouldn’t it work?” I asked. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” said Dad. “But when people from different cultures get together, it can be an adjustment—”

  “He’s not from a different culture,” I interrupted. “Milo was born and raised here. He’s just as Canadian as I am.” More so, in fact, but that was the last thing I wanted to tell my parents. Because if I did, they’d react like this. “Anyway, like I said, we only just got together. It’s not like we’re planning the wedding.”

  “I’ll say you aren’t,” Dad said with mock gruffness and made his Big Bad Giant face until I gave a reluctant smile. Then he continued, “All right, point taken. We’ll stay out of it and let the two of you sort things out.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And … Dad?”

  He’d stooped and picked up the brush again, but he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Could you and Mom keep this to yourselves? Because Milo’s mom thinks having a girlfriend is going to interfere with his studies, and he needs some time to prove to her that it won’t before he breaks the news.”

  “Sure thing,” he replied and went back to painting.

  Relieved, I made myself a plate of cheese and crackers and headed for the basement. I had some schematics to draw up, and a whole lot of parts and components to order.

  0 1 1 1 1 0

  Sebastian texted me two days later.

  –How’s the transceiver coming?

  –Fine so far. Though I can’t do much more until I hear from the makerspace. And I’ll need to borrow a vector network analyzer from somebody, unless you have $10K sitting around. Also, you forgot the antenna.

  –I didn’t forget. It’ll be ready when you are. Just keep working.

  I hesitated, fingers hovering above the keys. Then I wrote:

  –How much danger am I in right now? Could the relay find me and beam me back to Mathis even without the chip? Or is there something else I should be afraid of?

  But the phone was silent.

  The weekend was largely uneventful, although Jon frowned when he saw me talking to Milo on Friday night, and I had a sinking suspicion he was going to ask if we were together. Not that I would have minded saying yes if I thought it would get Jon off my case, but Milo’s grandparents came through Jon’s register nearly every time they shopped, and if he said anything to them, it would be a disaster. So I kept my distance from Milo for the rest of the weekend, and for good measure—though I hated myself for doing it—I flirted with Jon a little. He perked up at once, and when he told me he was helping out at his aunt’s bakery the following Saturday and that if I came in he’d give me a free cupcake, I knew I was off the hook.

  All in all, if I hadn’t been worried about what might happen if I didn’t get this transceiver built in time, I might have been tempted to believe my troubles were over. Apart from her discomfort with me seeing Milo, my mother was happier than I’d seen her in months: she’d been having so much fun redecorating the house that she’d started talking about taking some night courses and becoming an interior decorator. Meanwhile, Dad was selling farm insurance policies as fast as people could sign them, so his boss had given him and Mom a gift card for a hotel and theater getaway in Toronto. Everything seemed to be going our way—or my parents’ way, at least—and I was glad of it.

  But late Sunday night, I got another message from Faraday.

  –Check your e-mail. Now.

  He wasn’t usually so curt, even in text form. I put down my soldering iron, pushed my safety glasses up onto my forehead, and flipped my laptop open.

  There were four new messages in my inbox, including one from Milo. But it took me less than a second to find the one Sebastian wanted me to see.

  From: keyofviolet@gmail.com

  Subject: URGENT — PLEASE READ THIS

  It looked like spam from the subject line, but the address told me everything I needed to know. It was from Alison.

  I braced myself and opened the message.

  0 1 1 1 1 1

  I’m sorry if this letter doesn’t make much sense. I’m pretty shaken up right now, and my synesthesia’s more intense than it’s been for a while. But I had to write to you and tell you what’s been happening.

  I’m not sure if you ever met Constable Deckard, but he was part of the police investigation when you disappeared. He drove the van that took me to Pine Hills, and he questioned me a couple of times while I was in the hospital, trying to find out if I’d killed you. Even once it was obvious that I hadn’t, he still didn’t seem satisfied. He kept giving me these ice-dagger looks, like he knew I was hiding something. So I tried to keep out of his way.

  But about a month after you left, he came to the house and asked me if I’d talked to you lately. He wanted to know if I had your address or phone number or an e-mail where he could reach you. I said no, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He told me it was a very serious thing to give false information to the police and that it was vital that he get in touch with you immediately. His voice was so vinegar-sharp it scared me, but I kept repeating that I didn’t know where you were or how to reach you, and finally he changed the subject. If I hadn’t heard from you, then what about Faraday? Had he tried to contact me since he left Sudbury? Did I have any idea where he was now?

  That was when I couldn’t take any more. I told him to leave me alone and shut the door in his face. Then I went to my room and cried until I felt grey all over. I knew Deckard would never find Faraday no matter what I told him, and I doubted he’d find you either. But he’d made me feel like a criminal for not helping him, and I was afraid he’d find an excuse to charge me for it.

  I clenched my jaw and flexed my fingers against my knee, wishing I could strangle Deckard. Yet this was only the beginning of the story. There was more, and probably worse, to come.

  For weeks after that, I felt sick and shaky every time I saw a police cruiser. But it was never Deckard behind the wheel. And once I’d got through the whole winter without seeing or hearing from him, I convinced myself he’d given up. So when a car pulled into our driveway yesterday and a man got out, I didn’t think twice about answering the door. I figured it was one of my mom’s real estate clients come to drop off some paperwork.

  It wasn’t, though. It was Deckard.

  He was out of uniform this time, but the way he carried himself was as intimidating as ever. He told me he was working on a special investigation and had some questions to ask me. I started to tell him no, but he said I’d be welcome to ask one of my parents to join us if it made me feel more comfortable. So, stupidly, I let him in.

  Deckard asked me if anything had changed since the last time we’d talked and whether I’d found any way to contact you. I thought about the e-mail you’d sent me, and I tried not to hesitate or grimace at the taste when I said no. He gave me one of his steely looks, and I was afraid he’d threaten me again, but then he got very quiet and sober. He said that what he was about to tell me was confidential, but it was important for me to know. Then he told me that your doctor was trying to contact you with the results of some medical tests you’d done before you left. He said you’d been diagnosed with a very serious condition, and if you didn’t get it treated right away, you could die.

  “Oh, crap,” I whispered, staring at the screen. “Crap, crap, crap.”

  I should have seen it coming, even before I left Sudbury. Deckard’s single-minded obsession with my case had been suspicious enough, but his parting shot about summoning me back from Vancouver if I didn’t return Dr. Gervais’s call had practically clinched it. Then to show up at Alison’s house wearing plain clothes and driving an unmarked car and using the same line on her that Dr. Gervais had tried to use on me … there was only one explanation that fit the facts.

  De
ckard had left the police force and become a private investigator. And GeneSystem was paying him to hunt me down.

  He held my gaze steadily as he spoke those words, and his voice didn’t waver. But his words tasted funny, so I knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. I stammered something about being sorry and wishing I could help, but I really didn’t know where to find you. He nodded and turned to leave, and I thought the interrogation was over. But halfway down the steps he turned back, and said he had one more question.

  I knew he was going to ask me about Faraday, and I thought I was prepared. But when he asked which one of us had broken off our relationship, I was so flabbergasted I didn’t know what to say. I’d never told anyone how close I was to Faraday, not even Dr. Minta. How did Deckard know?

  But then I remembered that Faraday had taken me back to Champlain Secondary one night, so I could show him the spot where you’d disappeared. We’d hugged, we’d nearly kissed—in full view of the school’s security cameras. And of course Deckard would have seen the tape. So I resisted the temptation to tell him it was none of his business, and I said, “He ended it.”

  For the first time, I saw pity in Deckard’s eyes. He thanked me for my time and turned to leave. And I should have let him go, but I couldn’t stop myself. I called out to him and asked why he’d wanted to know. That was when he told me that Sebastian Faraday had been spotted in southern Ontario ten days ago, accessing one of his old bank accounts from an ATM.