Monster (Gone 7)

“You get the tip between your teeth and it sticks out between your lips.”

Cruz made a rumbling sound of irritation, added a sentence to the Moleskine that ended with an unnecessarily emphatic exclamation point, and put her notebook away.

“You’re sure your folks won’t send cops to look for you?” Shade asked.

“I’m totally, absolutely, a hundred percent sure,” Cruz said grimly, then chided herself. No, no, don’t go to the bitter place, we’re having an adventure. We’re committing a federal crime.

Yay?

“You wouldn’t believe how little interest they have in where I am,” Cruz said, trying to inject some lightness into her tone. “And your dad?”

“I checked. He’s in Nebraska.” Cool, calm, unruffled.

She must know this will put her father in a bad spot, Cruz thought. But she won’t stop.

Won’t? Or can’t? Obsession? And why am I going along? Am I really this desperate for a friend?

But of course Cruz knew the answer to that question. Yes, she was desperate for a friend. Yes, she enjoyed the odd status that came from being associated with Shade at school. But mostly, Cruz admitted, she herself had no goal, no plan, no clear idea of what she wanted to do. And Shade did.

I’m a puppy who hopes Shade will throw a stick I can fetch.

Traffic was awful as usual in Chicagoland, but in time they emerged from beneath low rain clouds to a sunnier suburbia west of the city and soon were moving along open interstate, penetrating the vast spaces of the American agricultural heartland.

It was autumn, and the corn that extended for hundreds of miles around was being harvested. Giant, insect-like machines painted red or green powered slowly but relentlessly, stripping off the ears and leaving forlorn pale yellow stalks and mulch behind.

“How long is this drive to hell without apps?” Cruz asked.

“Four and a half hours. You know, Cruz, the human race survived for a million years before the first phone, let alone the first app.”

“Survived,” Cruz said, raising a finger. “Survived. But it wasn’t really living.”

“We have music.”

Cruz turned on the stereo and punched buttons until she came to the loaded files. She scrolled through Shade’s music, thinking it an opportunity to get some insight into her new friend’s soul. She found a number of things she didn’t recognize, experimental music, but also more familiar reggae, blues, pop, rock, punk, even classical. If there was a coded message in Shade’s playlists, the message was that she sampled widely and committed to no particular genre or artist. But there were a few things more accessible.

“Seriously?” Cruz asked. “Beyoncé? What else, Taylor Swift?”

“I suppose you’d like something more cutting edge?”

“Not really,” Cruz admitted. “Luis Malaga? Cantea?” Cruz peered at Shade, waiting for signs of recognition. “Nothing? OV7? Come on, Shade, they’ve been around forever.” She sighed. “What can I say, I move to the beat from south of the border.”

“Isn’t that all, like, accordions?”

“I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Mmmm. To cover the awkwardness you could put on some of my music,” Shade said, batting her eyes.

Cruz had found the right song, the one with the most plays. “Yes, yes, this is definitely Shade Darby,” Cruz said, and hit play. The guitar was twangy, and the voice was thin but strong.

You can stand me up at the gates of Hell,

But I won’t back down.

Cruz sang the refrain with a small adjustment.

Hey, Shade will stand her ground.

And she won’t back down.