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Authors: Scott Westerfeld
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out to Brooklyn to pick up Minerva. I was wondering if . . . you wanted to come.”
“To Brooklyn ?”
That’s how he said it: Brooklyn? Like I wanted to drag him to Bombay.
I should have given up. For two weeks now I’d been trying to connect with Moz, but he always kept his distance. If only I hadn’t messed up that first rehearsal, the one where I’d pulled the Big Riff apart. I should have gone slowly, respecting what had been conjured between us when the Strat had fallen from the sky. But instead I’d decided to dazzle him with nine kinds of brilliance. Clever, Pearl.
Eight A.M. was probably not the best time to break my losing streak, but for two seconds I’d imagined that maybe this morning—the morning we became a real band—might be different.
I kept talking, trying to make it sound fun. “Yeah. I didn’t explain this before, but it’s kind of a ninja mission, getting her out of there.”
“Kind of a what ?”
“Kind of tricky. Her parents have this thing about . . .” Insanity? Abduction? “Well, let’s just say I could use your help.”
I hadn’t said much about Min to anyone yet, except what a lateral singer she was. It wouldn’t hurt if Moz got used to her weirdness before she met the rest of them. And it would be nice just having someone beside me on the way out there, even if he only waited outside while I snuck in to get her.
“Look, uh, Pearl . . .” he said. “I just woke up.”
“I sort of figured that. But I’m at the F station down from your house. You could get here in five minutes.”
Silence crackled in my ear; a breeze stirred newspapers on the tracks.
I sighed. “Look, it’s no big deal. Sorry to wake you up.”
“That’s okay. My alarm’s about to go off anyway. See you at nine.”
“Yeah. You’re going to love Minerva. And a drummer! It’s going to be fawesome, huh?”
“Sure. Totally.”
I felt like I was supposed to say more, something to get him revved up for our first real rehearsal. “Don’t forget your Strat.”
“It’s not mine. But yeah, see you soon.” Click.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, letting another sigh slip through my teeth. I’d let him take the Stratocaster home after the second rehearsal, but that hadn’t changed anything between us. I was still Boss Pearl.
The newspapers stirred on the tracks again, one rolling over restlessly. I felt the platform rumbling under my feet, and my stomach tightened. As the sound steadily grew into a roar, it pushed all the thoughts from my head, thundering across me as if something huge was about to burst from the tunnel, overpowering all my plans.
But it was just the F train pulling in.
In the past two weeks, Minerva’s block had gotten worse. The garbage had been massed into a few huge, leaking mountains. Like how you deal with snow: push it into piles, then wait for the sun to make it go away.
Except garbage doesn’t melt, and snow doesn’t smell bad.
It was more than weird. Mom always bitched about this or that neighborhood going to seed, but I’d figured that took decades, longer than I’d been alive anyway. Until this summer, New York had always looked pretty much the same to me. But this part of Brooklyn seem to change every time I saw it, like someone dying of a disease before my eyes.
Luz always talked about “the sickness” like it wasn’t just Minerva but the whole city—maybe the whole world—that was afflicted, all of it a prelude to the big struggle. Only she never said what the struggle was actually about. Good versus evil? Angels versus demons? Crazy versus sane?
Crazy Versus Sane. Now there was a band name that fit us like a glove.
The early morning shadows stretched down the block, sunlight spattering the asphalt through the leaves, dancing with the breeze. I crept past the garbage mountains, trying not to listen to the things inside them and wishing I didn’t have the Taj Mahal of hearing. No people were on the
“To Brooklyn ?”
That’s how he said it: Brooklyn? Like I wanted to drag him to Bombay.
I should have given up. For two weeks now I’d been trying to connect with Moz, but he always kept his distance. If only I hadn’t messed up that first rehearsal, the one where I’d pulled the Big Riff apart. I should have gone slowly, respecting what had been conjured between us when the Strat had fallen from the sky. But instead I’d decided to dazzle him with nine kinds of brilliance. Clever, Pearl.
Eight A.M. was probably not the best time to break my losing streak, but for two seconds I’d imagined that maybe this morning—the morning we became a real band—might be different.
I kept talking, trying to make it sound fun. “Yeah. I didn’t explain this before, but it’s kind of a ninja mission, getting her out of there.”
“Kind of a what ?”
“Kind of tricky. Her parents have this thing about . . .” Insanity? Abduction? “Well, let’s just say I could use your help.”
I hadn’t said much about Min to anyone yet, except what a lateral singer she was. It wouldn’t hurt if Moz got used to her weirdness before she met the rest of them. And it would be nice just having someone beside me on the way out there, even if he only waited outside while I snuck in to get her.
“Look, uh, Pearl . . .” he said. “I just woke up.”
“I sort of figured that. But I’m at the F station down from your house. You could get here in five minutes.”
Silence crackled in my ear; a breeze stirred newspapers on the tracks.
I sighed. “Look, it’s no big deal. Sorry to wake you up.”
“That’s okay. My alarm’s about to go off anyway. See you at nine.”
“Yeah. You’re going to love Minerva. And a drummer! It’s going to be fawesome, huh?”
“Sure. Totally.”
I felt like I was supposed to say more, something to get him revved up for our first real rehearsal. “Don’t forget your Strat.”
“It’s not mine. But yeah, see you soon.” Click.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, letting another sigh slip through my teeth. I’d let him take the Stratocaster home after the second rehearsal, but that hadn’t changed anything between us. I was still Boss Pearl.
The newspapers stirred on the tracks again, one rolling over restlessly. I felt the platform rumbling under my feet, and my stomach tightened. As the sound steadily grew into a roar, it pushed all the thoughts from my head, thundering across me as if something huge was about to burst from the tunnel, overpowering all my plans.
But it was just the F train pulling in.
In the past two weeks, Minerva’s block had gotten worse. The garbage had been massed into a few huge, leaking mountains. Like how you deal with snow: push it into piles, then wait for the sun to make it go away.
Except garbage doesn’t melt, and snow doesn’t smell bad.
It was more than weird. Mom always bitched about this or that neighborhood going to seed, but I’d figured that took decades, longer than I’d been alive anyway. Until this summer, New York had always looked pretty much the same to me. But this part of Brooklyn seem to change every time I saw it, like someone dying of a disease before my eyes.
Luz always talked about “the sickness” like it wasn’t just Minerva but the whole city—maybe the whole world—that was afflicted, all of it a prelude to the big struggle. Only she never said what the struggle was actually about. Good versus evil? Angels versus demons? Crazy versus sane?
Crazy Versus Sane. Now there was a band name that fit us like a glove.
The early morning shadows stretched down the block, sunlight spattering the asphalt through the leaves, dancing with the breeze. I crept past the garbage mountains, trying not to listen to the things inside them and wishing I didn’t have the Taj Mahal of hearing. No people were on the
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