Outcasts (12 page)

The people of Jack’s Peak saw owls as an omen of death and destruction. And while Omar found such superstitions foolish, he liked the idea of an owl as a messenger, the way Bender used the messenger office to communicate with other rebels.

Owls were also hunters. Omar had never been skilled at hunting deer, elk, or bear. But owls hunted smaller game. They were cunning. And they had the ability to notice things, to see and hear better than most. Omar had those strengths too.

He needed to prove himself — redefine who he was and who he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be “traitor” anymore. He didn’t want to be “juicehead” or “flaker,” either. Or any of the names his father had called him: crybaby, wimp, girl, sissy.

Omar wanted to be a hero.

He took a draw from his PV, and the burning taste told him it was empty. He pocketed it and grabbed a beer from his fridge, drank half of it, and set the can on the floor under his easel.

He removed the thin sheet of painted aluminum from the sign’s frame and carried it to his bedroom. He stood before the mirror, holding the sign in front of his chest. Squinting one eye, he imagined himself with wings. He carried the sign back to the kitchen where his easels were set up and dug out his canvas of the Owl superhero he’d started a few nights back.

Omar had been branded a traitor. It would not be an easy image to change in people’s mind. But if he could hide his face behind a mask … create a hero people loved … maybe then, when he finally revealed himself, he would have a chance at redefining his image.

He needed a costume. Perhaps the sign could be formed into a breastplate of owl armor, but reshaping the aluminum would cause the paint to flake. He could get fresh metal and paint it after it was shaped, but aluminum or steel wouldn’t stop an enforcer’s SimScanner or stunner — or bullet, if someone were to use a real gun. If he couldn’t protect himself, why not be comfortable? Maybe he should just design SimArt that would display feathers all over his body. He’d been getting tired of the chain design on his arm, which had been the first SimArt he’d done himself.

Omar stared at the sketch of the Owl, his thoughts sloshing in his mind like colors in an ink tumbler. He recalled Levi telling Jordan about how the stunners hadn’t worked on the chest waders he’d worn into the Safe Lands. If Omar could find a suit of rubber, perhaps he could craft himself a different kind of armor.

The enforcers had taken Levi’s chest waders, but Shay had found an old black-and-white wetsuit when she and Aunt Chipeta had cleaned the bunker. She’d put it on and flapped around the bunker like a penguin until everyone was laughing.

What had she done with it? He’d have to ask her the next time he saw her.

But he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to make his suit now. He glanced at the clock on his Wyndo wall screen. 12:26 a.m. He had time. He finished his beer then headed out into the night. He stopped at a stim store to fill his PV. They had a special on something called a stim cocktail. It was half the credits of what Omar usually vaped, so he decided to try it.

He entered the storm drains and headed toward the bunker, using his off-grid Wyndo to light his way. The water wasn’t terribly deep, so he waded through it even though he was unable to keep his feet where he wanted them. Too much beer, perhaps.

He sloshed down the tunnel, vaping and dreaming about his costume. Oils would take too long to dry. He did have some tubes of fabric paint that he’d used to paint wings on his curtains. He’d likely need to buy more, though.

By the time he reached the bunker, he was shivering and his pulse was racing. He was glad they were moving above ground. The door seemed extra loud, especially when he closed it. His steps too. The air around him felt electric, like time was going faster than it was, yet he could see it moving … so did that mean it was really moving slower?

He stood in the corridor outside the main room for a moment, holding his Wyndo above his head, trying to remember which room Shay slept in.

The one on the end. With Mary.

Omar walked that way, mumbling to himself. “Where’s the penguin suit, Shay-Shay? I’m going to turn the penguin into an owl so it can fly.” He giggled and cracked open her bedroom door, then shifted and held his Wyndo inside first. He squinted to make out the forms on the beds inside. One was much larger than the other.

That would be Mary.

He crept inside, trying not to laugh. He held his Wyndo close to Shay’s head to make sure it was her. The tinsel in her hair shone in the white light. He tap-tap-tapped the Wyndo glass against her forehead.

“Shaaay,” he whispered. “Oh, Shay-Shay. Wake up, Shaylinnnnn.”

Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She’d taken out the green contacts and her eyes were brown again. Burnt umber, actually, like the tube of the color he bought from the Task of Art store the last time he’d been in the Highlands, thinking of Shay’s eyes, quicksand eyes that made him sink into their depths, never to return.

Walls, his thoughts were coming super-duper fast from whatever was in that stim-cock-a-doodle-doo-tail.

“Omar?” Shay said. “What are you doing?”

“Shhhhh. Don’t wake Big Mary.” He threw back her covers. She was wearing a tank top and shorts. The top had twisted around her waist, making her body look … well, perfect. He stared at her, mesmerized. Such a pretty girl, Shay was. When did it happen? How did he miss it? “Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty — ”

“What are you doing?” She tugged at the covers, trying to pull them back over her.

So Omar slipped into the bed and rolled onto his side, facing her. The bed was warm and smelled like honey, which made his stomach growl, and he wished he had something to eat. He shivered under the soft warmth of the blankets and snuggled into them. “You smell good.”

“Well, you smell funny. And you’re wet.”

“I’m making something special and I need your help. Say you’ll help me, Shay-Shay, please? I want to turn a penguin into an owl.”

“Omar, it’s one in the morning,” Shay whispered.

“When did you get so beautifully pretty?”

Her eyes flashed wide, and she pulled the covers tight under her chin. “What are you doing here? And what’s wrong with your eyes?”

“I want to paint you, your eyes and your hair, so I can hang you on my wall and see you all the time and stare.” He snickered. “That rhymed, Shay-Shay. Did you hear it? Hair and stare. Paint your hair so I can stare, stare, stare at your hair.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

Why was he? He blinked, trying to remember. And it came to him in a breath, like there was too much air to breathe and it gave him a pulsing rush of energy. “I need the wetsuit with the penguins. I mean the black-and-white one you put on that day to look like a penguin when you made everyone laugh so hard they cried and then you took it off. What did you do with it? Please say you kept it and didn’t throw it away because I need it for my special project of making an owl into a pink … into a p-penguin.”
Deep breath. Wow. Can’t focus.

“Uh … it’s hanging in the closet.”

His cheeks were tingling. “In this room?”

“Yes.”

He threw back the covers and hopped out of bed, but he couldn’t see the closet. He felt for his Wyndo, but it wasn’t in his pockets. Where was it? Where? He spun around, looking at his feet, then back to Shay’s bed. She was sitting up now, clutching the blankets to her chin. He wanted to pull them away and stare at her again, but he ran his hands through his hair, trying to remember why he was here.

To kiss Shay and paint her and smell her and drown in her eyes of burnt umber quicksand.

He pressed his hands over his face. They were trembling, and he stayed that way, standing in her room, covering his face, trying to remember, his cheeks and head tingling, his heart racing, his vision blurred.

Something tickled his arm. Bugs. Crawling on him. He swatted at his arms, trying to brush them off, but Shay was there and she grabbed him and held his arms down at his side and he could smell her honey sweetness and he wanted a sandwich or a beer or hair … honey that smelled like hair. He tried to pull away, but she hugged him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said. “Calm down.”

So he did. He closed his eyes and stood in her arms, his forehead resting on the top of her head where he could smell her honey hair. And he dreamed he was eating bread with honey and butter and it tasted good and he was rocking and then he lay down and was so very warm.

A moment later he opened his eyes, panicked. The enforcers. He was in the health clinic, tied to the bed. They were going to operate. He broke free from the restraints.

“You should rest, Omar.” Shay was sitting on the foot of his bed.

“We have to get out of here.” Omar’s arms shook as he searched the room. Someone was in the bed beside his, under the blankets. Someone big. “He’s there,” Omar whispered, pointing to the lump on the bed. “Otley.”

Shay frowned. “That’s my aunt Mary, Omar.” She picked up something from the bed and held it out to him. “Here’s the wetsuit. You wanted it, right?”

The wetsuit. Yes. It would make the perfect disguise. He took it from Shay and shook it out so that it lay on top of him. He kicked off his shoes, leaned back on the bed, and pushed his feet through the legs. Then he slid out of the bed and jumped, pulling the suit up until he could put on the arms. It was tight over his clothes, and he wrestled with it until he got it on. He spotted his Wyndo tangled in the blankets
and tucked it into the top of the suit, then zipped it up. “We have to go,” he said, running out the door and into the corridor.

“Omar, your shoes.”

He cranked the hatch wheel on the bunker door, and it squeaked. Otley would hear it. He had to hurry. The door banged when he broke the seal, then
squeeeeeeaked
open, and Omar stepped out into the tunnel. He turned back and waved Shay to follow. “Come on.”

She shook her head. “Stay here, Omar. Please?”

“Otley is going to catch us,” he hissed. “We have to go.”

“I’m going to get Levi.” She jogged down the hallway.

“Traitor!” Omar turned and ran. He should never have trusted Shay. She was on Otley’s side now, and he’d have to forget about her quicksand eyes and honey hair.

His foot hit something sharp, and he cried out. Where were his shoes? Why couldn’t he see? He fumbled to get his Wyndo out from the wetsuit and tapped the flashlight add. White light lit the storm drain around him. Better.

“Omar?” Levi’s voice.

Omar spun around and saw lights in the tunnel behind him. Walls! Otley must have tricked Levi into helping him.

Omar turned and ran, splashing through the water and not slowing down until he got back to his street. He still felt like he was being followed, but when he noticed he wasn’t wearing his shoes and that he was wearing the wetsuit, the thought occurred to him that he’d vaped some dirty juice.

The stim store was still open, so Omar went in and complained about the cocktail.

“Grass will help you come down,” the barkeep said. “Want me to switch your juice to grass?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Anything to feel normal again. To stop shaking.

Omar vaped grass the rest of the way home, still wondering if someone were following him. No more cocktails for him. He got home at 1:57 a.m. and tripped again on the dumbbells he’d left by the door. Stupid chunks of metal. He turned on the lights, too excited to sleep.
He wanted to paint his costume. He took off the wetsuit and dug out all the fabric paint he could find. He started with the torso, since the wetsuit legs were soaked. Feathers of gray and black and brown — burnt umber quicksand eyes.

Shay. He’d left her to Otley. He put down his brush and palette and ran to his windows and pulled the curtains closed. Otley’s enforcers could be watching. The curtains were too thin. He should paint the windows black so no one could see inside.

Wait. Otley wasn’t here. The stim cocktail was still messing with him. He took another drag of grass and went to sit on his couch for a minute, but the knob on his front door rattled, and someone pounded on the door.

“Omar? Are you in there? I saw your lights go on from the street. Open up.”

Red. He’d reprogrammed his door locks to keep her out — his chicken attempt at trying to wean himself of her company. The pounding continued. If she kept it up, Otley would hear. But he couldn’t risk Red seeing his costume. She might be Otley’s spy.

He took the costume off the easel and hung it in his closet, then went and opened the front door.

Red was a skeleton. Her cheeks and eye sockets were sunken in her pale face and her figure, except for her chest, was all sharp angles, the opposite of Shay’s soft round warmth. “What do you want?”

“You ditched me at the club hours ago,” she said. “And why can’t I get in?”

Omar looked away. He should tell Red the truth. End this like a man. He stepped over the dumbbells this time and walked back to his easel, though nothing was on it now that he’d hidden the costume. The aluminum owl from the Night Owl marquee was clipped to his second easel. He’d been repainting the places the glass tube had chipped and scratched the paint.

He grabbed his oil paint palette, dipped a fresh brush into the burnt umber, and dabbed at one of the feathers, thinking of Shay and
searching for the words to end this mess of a relationship with Red.
Go away? I don’t like you? You’re too gummy?

Her footsteps crossed the hardwood floor behind him, drawing nearer until she appeared at his side. “Is that the sign from the Night Owl club?”

“Some juicehead trashed it,” Omar said. “I brought it home.”

“Walls. Why are you painting on trash?”

He studied the sign. “Why not?”

She crossed her arms, watching his brush strokes. “Why couldn’t I get in?”

“I changed my code.”

“Why would you do that?”

He released a trembling sigh. “I can’t do this anymore, Red. It’s not really working. I think we should stop.”

“Stop what, Omar? Stop talking. Stop kissing? Stop trading paint?”

“Yeah. Stop everything.”

She changed her posture, stretched her shoulders back, straightened her spine. She stared at Omar with her neon pink eyes. “Why would we do that?”