Midnight on Strange Street, page 5
So Lola preferred not to think of the war at all.
“Seven o’clock,” Mrs. Gil told the twins. “Off with you.”
Lola and Bastian headed for the door, grabbing their backpacks and glowboards on the way out.
“Bye,” Lola whispered back to the paper canary, still roosted on her place mat, staring at a bowl of uneaten magic.
At lunch, the Sardines sat together with a meal that befitted the last day of school: corn dogs, french fries, fruit cups, and double-fudge cake. Lola squirted an extra-large gloop of mustard on her corn dog, while Avery recounted what she’d been reading recently—in particular, a book about training Australian shepherds.
“Radar’s going to be a pro,” she told them. “The book said Aussies can jump as high as four feet. That’s my goal. One day Radar will be able to jump over our fence.”
“Sure,” said Dani, who had been acting moody all through lunch. “But that kind of defeats the purpose of a fence, doesn’t it?”
Avery frowned, and the Sardines grew quiet.
Lola smiled sympathetically at Avery. She found her hand beneath the table and squeezed it once—code for You can tell me more when we’re on our own. But Lola didn’t actually think the message at Avery. She didn’t want to try.
Avery looked up at Lola’s touch, and the softness in her hazel eyes sent Lola’s heart into a funny rhythm—a pit-pat that was faster and lighter than usual.
Then the lunch table’s silence was shattered by an unpleasant voice.
“Hey, losers! You cry yourselves to sleep all weekend?”
It was Mitchell Jensen. He was striding up to the table, simpering at the Sardines.
“Here we go,” muttered Bastian.
“You know, Mitchell,” said Avery, pointing her corn dog at him. “It’s a good thing you’re rich, or else no one would hang out with you.”
“I’m not rich,” Mitchell said, tipping his chin. “I’m loaded. And what about you all? Skating on garbage. I’ve seen your board, Hirsch; doesn’t even stream right, it’s so gunked up with bad glow.”
“I could still beat you at single speeds, if I was old enough,” Dani said with narrowed eyes. “My garbage board against your dad’s nicest, newest invention.”
“Cute,” said Mitchell. The rest of the Grackles had now descended upon the Sardines’ table—Ross Mondt, Kyle Bridges, and Zander Poxleitner. Mitchell gripped the edge of the table and leaned in even closer. “We’re going to annihilate you at Glow in the Park. Get ready to eat the concrete.” He pointed at Bastian. “Especially you, Gil.”
Lola hoped Mitchell would say his piece and leave. All the while, heat was building inside her, a burning flame wicking up her spine.
Leave him alone, she pleaded silently. Leave my brother alone.
“You know Zander gave us the whole lowdown on you, right?” Mitchell said in Bastian’s face. Lola could smell his breath—regurgitated cheese puffs. “You’ve got so many feelings about your paintings. And you joined the Sardines ’cause you knew no one else would take you but a bunch of girls.”
Bastian glared at his tray of food as Kyle and Ross snickered, drawing closer to the table. Zander hung back, though, picking at his wristbands and staring at the floor.
“Hey, Zee,” said Dani, glaring his way. “Your friends are super great.”
Zander didn’t reply, but Mitchell said, “At least he was smart enough to leave your dumb pack. How do you even spend your practice time? Giving each other makeovers?”
Leave us alone, Lola thought. Leave us all alone.
“Some crew you got yourself, Hirsch.” Mitchell leaned in, punching Dani’s shoulder. “The only way you could find some friends, huh? And the ones you found are total freaks who can’t skate for crap.”
LEAVE. MY FRIENDS. ALONE.
Suddenly, the world around Lola snapped in a bright blue light, and—
everything
slowed
down.
Mitchell’s mouth moved languidly, each syllable emerging in a drawn-out groan. Dani took a full five seconds to blink. Lola looked at Avery’s and Bastian’s downcast expressions, at Dani’s fists, clenched around her knife and fork. She looked to Mitchell’s sneering, spiteful face. The heat inside became unbearable. Lola closed her eyes and felt the lurch of time speeding back into gear. And then—
Sound, startling and everywhere, and loud, loud, loud, like a thousand balloons popping, all at once. Lola opened her eyes to find the food from her plate suspended in midair—the half-eaten corn dog, the pieces of chopped-up pineapples and pears. It wasn’t just her own food; the cafeteria was filled with floating school lunches, lifting higher and higher above the students’ heads. Then, in a snap of a second, gravity did its work, and the hundreds of pieces of food all came crashing down.
The cafeteria erupted into screams. Lola placed one hand to her cheek, which had been smacked by a maraschino cherry. Dani wiped mustard off her nose. Avery’s T-shirt was soaked through with cola. Their table was a mushy, messy disaster. Then Lola looked up and had to cover her mouth, quick, to keep from laughing.
Mitchell Jensen was covered in chocolate cake. It looked as though someone had smeared a giant piece of it, icing side up, all around his face, and topping it off was a dollop of whipped cream on the end of his nose.
Avery burst out in a cackle. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”
The screams in the cafeteria were turning to shouts and laughter. A boy from across the room yelled, “FOOD FIGHT!” And the food was flying again, this time catapulted from hands.
Something gloopy hit Lola’s neck, but she didn’t look to see what or wipe it off. She suddenly felt distant from the scene, and numb all over. She watched as adults hurried down the aisles, shouting for everyone to stop this instant and put the food down. Then she raised her eyes to Bastian’s, whose mouth was slightly parted, his pupils wide.
Lola, his voice reached inside her head. Lola, what did you do?
“No food-related injuries. That’s a relief, at least.” Mr. Gil turned around at a stoplight to face the twins. “Bastian, are you sure your sister’s all right?”
Bastian looked across the backseat at Lola, who had buried her face in her knees. There was mustard splattered on her torn pink tights and chocolate syrup crusted into her flower crown.
Lola, Bastian reached out for what felt like the hundredth time. Lola, talk to me, please.
But now, like before, Lola didn’t respond. For once, she’d been the one to build a wall in her mind, made of solid brick.
Bleeeep!
The light had turned from red to green, and the car behind them honked again. Ble-ble-bleeeep!
Mr. Gil drove on, but his eyes stayed on Bastian in the rearview mirror.
“I think she’s just scared,” Bastian said, as twin spokesperson. But this time, he wasn’t sure if he really was speaking for Lola. He wasn’t sure of anything going on in his sister’s head.
“Well, hey,” said Mr. Gil. “There’s nothing to be scared about now. You’re all right. We’re going home. And school is over, huh? All good things.”
Bastian winced. It was clear that his dad was trying to be positive for the twins’ sake, but his cheerful words fell flat. Bastian couldn’t so easily forget.
Even now, blocks away from Taft Middle, he could hear distant sirens. The cafeteria had been a mess, kids chucking cake and handfuls of peas at each other, slipping on spilled chocolate milk, jumping from tables and chairs. Eventually, the adults had won out and brought order to the chaos, but not before getting covered in everyone’s lunch. An army of fire trucks and police cars had arrived at the school, while teachers had ushered students out to the front lawn.
Bastian had eavesdropped on the teachers, who’d gathered in tight circles. A lot of them seemed to think that an explosive had been detonated; that was the only explanation for the sudden, violent burst of food. But there was contention over whether the explosive was planted by a student, or—far worse—an enemy sympathizer making a political statement. There had been plenty of those in other cities, bigger than Callaway. It wasn’t unheard of.
But Bastian knew the truth: Lola had been the bomb.
“You two must be hungry,” his father was saying now. “What do you say we make a pit stop at the Frozen Spoon?”
Any other day, Bastian would’ve jumped at the chance to order his favorite ice cream: a double scoop of chocolate coconut fudge. Now he shrugged and gave a halfhearted “Sure,” while Lola kept her nose buried between her knees.
Bastian was also thinking of what Mitchell Jensen had said: You know Zander gave us the whole lowdown on you, right?
Bastian couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to tell Zander about the emotions that certain paints brought out in him, how making a design was like composing a symphony, and every color was a different instrument’s contribution. Back then, Zander had acted like he’d understood. He’d nodded along, probably making fun of Bastian in his head. Mitchell was bad, but Zander was the worst—because he’d been Bastian’s friend. And now he hung back, quiet and smug, while Mitchell used all his insider information.
Bastian tugged on his seat belt, which felt suddenly too taut against his chest.
As Mr. Gil drove through the next intersection, the car digipad rang. He pressed the lit-up screen on the dashboard, and a moment later, their mother’s frantic voice filled the car.
“Are they all right?” she asked. “Where are you now?”
“It’s fine, Mar. They’re okay. We’re en route. I’m swinging by the Frozen Spoon first.”
There was silence on Mrs. Gil’s end. Then her voice burst from the car speakers: “Ice cream? Not a chance, Diego. What they need now is proper food, and no doubt a shower, and plenty of hugs. Bring them home.”
Bastian knew the tone his mother was using; there was no crossing Maribel Gil when she spoke that way. His dad, it seemed, knew that as well. He took a sharp turn at the intersection, redirecting the car away from downtown Callaway and toward Cedar Lane.
Bastian wondered about the other Sardines. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in all the confusion, before they were whisked away by their worried parents. What the Sardines needed, Bastian thought, was an emergency meeting. Lola had caused something big to happen at Taft Middle—something even bigger than what they’d seen the night before, in the Hirsches’ backyard. The Sardines had to figure out what to do next, before their powers got even more out of control.
Bastian cast a furtive look at his sister. She had sat up, revealing a splotchy, teary-eyed face. Lola had always been the more sensitive of the twins, and Bastian didn’t want her to hurt any more. But they had to get to the bottom of this, didn’t they? If Lola could make an entire cafeteria explode…what else could she do? What else could Bastian do? The question made him nervous, but a little excited, too.
Mr. Gil pulled into the driveway of 27 Cedar Lane. He hadn’t even turned off the engine, when Mrs. Gil appeared at the front door, waving and then running toward the car. The moment Bastian stepped out, she wrapped him in her arms. Then she was ushering him and Lola into the house, handing them fresh, fluffy towels and insisting they immediately wash off.
“When you’re through,” she said, directing the twins to the two upstairs bathrooms, “come to the kitchen. I’m making my couscous and fresh pink lemonade for the two of you.”
Bastian knew better than to argue. Anyway, he loved his mom’s pork and couscous recipe, handed down from her family in Madrid. And pink lemonade was both Lola and Bastian’s favorite drink.
He scrubbed himself down in the shower, using globs of body wash to clean his skin of crusty foods and condiments. When he emerged from his bedroom, toweled dry and dressed in fresh clothes, he found Lola in the same state, standing across from him in the hallway.
Lola, he tried, for the hundred-and-first time. Please talk.
Lola sniffed. Droplets of water inched down her long black hair, falling to the carpet in silent splats.
“I don’t know…what to say.” Lola’s voice wobbled. “I don’t know what happened, Bastian. I didn’t mean it.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Bastian said. “You were mad at Mitchell, weren’t you?”
That, at least, Bastian understood.
“Yes,” Lola said, looking more frightened than ever. “I was mad, but I didn’t mean to make everything explode.”
Then Lola began to cry. Silent tears slipped from her eyes, running down her cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” Bastian said. “It’s going to be okay.”
But the words sounded wrong once he’d spoken them.
The twins stood in the hallway, one crying and one confused, as the scent of saffron and cooked dates filled the air.
Bastian’s stomach was growling louder than ever, but he found that he didn’t have an appetite. Even the pink lemonade tasted too sour in his mouth. While he tried and failed to enjoy his food, his mother expressed her concern about the safety of Taft Middle School.
“…wholly unacceptable,” she was saying to her husband, across the table. “I hardly think it’s a coincidence that this explosion occurred on the last day of school. It seems deliberate, like a message. Whoever is responsible, it’s clear they’ve been emboldened by all this violence broadcast around us. War should never be commonplace.”
“Violence begets violence,” Mr. Gil agreed.
It was no secret that the Gils were anti-war. They had taken the twins to several protests downtown and even farther off, at the state capitol in Austin. Bastian thought his parents were right about the war, but he wanted to tell them that they were completely wrong about Taft Middle. But he couldn’t give away Lola’s secret—his secret. Resigning himself to an uncomfortable meal, Bastian glanced out the dining room window.
Dani was there, standing in the backyard. She was waving a bright red flag over her head—the Sardines’ code for an emergency meeting. Bastian sneaked a glance at Lola, who had also noticed the scene at their parents’ backs.
“Um, Mom?” Bastian said, interrupting her point about international diplomacy.
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you think Lola and I could go outside? See, uh, the Sardines agreed to—”
“Bastian, you can’t be serious.”
He blinked, nonplussed. “I…can’t?”
“No. Diego, tell them.” Mrs. Gil looked to her husband for support.
“Sebastian,” Mr. Gil said. “We still don’t know the cause of that explosion at the school. There’s been no official report. Tonight, at least, we don’t think the two of you should be outside, unsupervised.”
“But—” Bastian began.
“That’s final,” said Mrs. Gil. “You’re not going out until we’ve learned more about what happened today. There’s plenty to keep you and your sister occupied for the night.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
Dani was still waving her flag forcefully, though she was obviously getting tired. Bastian watched his parents as they resumed their talk of the war. When he was sure they were both distracted, he met Dani’s eyes and sent a thought her way:
Can’t. Under house arrest.
Dani lowered the flag.
It’s important. Bastian could hear the urgency in her thought.
Sorry, Bastian said back, shrugging helplessly.
Dani remained standing in the backyard, motionless, a moment longer. Then she slumped her shoulders and walked off. Bastian looked down to his plate, picking at his couscous.
That’s when the Gils’ doorbell rang.
Bastian gripped his fork. Was it Dani again? Or worse—was it the police? What if they had found a way to trace the explosion back to Lola? What if they were here to take her away? To take all of them away?
“I’ll get it,” said Mr. Gil, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and getting to his feet.
Bastian wanted to tell his father not to go, that whoever stood on the other side of that door might be dangerous—but all the warnings died in his parched mouth.
Mr. Gil disappeared into the foyer. Then the house fell silent.
“Diego!” Mrs. Gil called. “Who’s there?”
“Dios mío,” came Mr. Gil’s voice from the other room. “I can’t believe it.”
No, Bastian thought. It’s really happening. They found out somehow, and they’re here to take us away.
He looked to Lola, fire in his eyes.
Then came the sound of the front door swinging open, and a shout from his dad—but not a shout of fear. A shout of joy.
“Surprise!” a second, familiar voice cried out, followed by boisterous laughter.
The sound of that laugh drew out a knowing, desperate feeling in Bastian’s heart.
Could it be?
Was it possible?
“Nando!”
Lola’s elated cry echoed off the dining room walls. Bastian turned, and there he was, standing in the foyer: Nando, taller and more muscled than ever, dressed in a smart suit. A grin stretched across his face as he dropped a green briefcase and opened his arms to Lola, who was running for him with incredible speed. She giggled as he picked her up and spun her around, like she was a little kid.
Just like that, Bastian’s worries faded away. He felt young and silly and full of happiness. Nando was home. This was a hearty helping of Last Day Magic.
As it turned out, Nando’s appearance was as much a surprise to his parents as it was to the twins. The five of them sat in the living room with tumblers in hand—pink lemonade for Bastian and Lola, red wine for the adults.
Mrs. Gil was shaking her head in disbelief. “Mijo, I simply cannot believe you!”
“It’s technically a business trip,” said Nando. “But good timing, huh?” He chucked Bastian’s and Lola’s shoulders. “Happy summer break, squirts.”
“How long are you staying?” asked Lola, whose mood had transformed to bubbly since Nando’s arrival. “A week at least, right?”
Nando smiled ruefully. “I can’t really say, Lols. It’s all up in the air at the moment.”
