Club None

VIII.

The following Wednesday, after the step-sisters had resolved themselves not to fear Duane and to carry on as usual; after the festival had screeched to a temporary halt due to flash floods, much to the irritation of the patrons; after Chanden Henric's father had almost had a heart attack, because ten acts took a field trip and wound up stuck in Canada; Chanden himself wandered through the desert to The Fort, where he expected solitude, and instead found a person.

He stopped dead, in front of gaping, half-destroyed jeep. "This is private property."

"This," the intruder said, "also happens to be the back corner of a junkyard. If you want to reclaim nature, do the rest of us a favor and post a sign."

He pushed a crooked metal lightning bolt aside. The girl – Ellie, again, still hiding – sat cross-legged, hands planted on the ground, wires twining around her wrists.

"For the record," he said, recognition creeping over his face, "my spine is still sore from where you kicked me."

"Oh." Ellie met his eyes, studied him. "I thought you sounded –"

"– awe-inspiring?"

"—entitled," she finished.

He leaned back against a crumpled, spray-painted Ford and slid to the ground, knees folding in. Dust settled on his shoes.

"Not a junkyard. This is art. Give it three hours and the tourists will be flocking. I think Vans is sponsoring this spot today." he paused. "What makes you think I'm entitled?"

"The fact that you tried to stake your claim on a hilltop? Also, on the ground last night?"

"My dad –" Chanden swept out his arm, gesturing at the yawning morning across the sand, festival grounds temporarily deserted "– organizes all this. This. This-ness."

Ellie closed her eyes. "Congratulations."

Overhead, the air buzzed. The desert was hot, dry, and sleepy. A leaning tower of tires steamed out air, hissing, rubber cracked open. Lights and torn streamers swayed around them.

His mother called from LA last night. She was at some benefit, lips painted red, holding a half-empty wineglass. I totaled your car on the way back from the gallery, she said. Chanden had hung up on her.

He clenched his fists. His mother, his father. Better off ignored.

"So," he said, turning back around. "Who are you?"

Her fingers dug deeper into the ground. Her face remained titled toward the sky but her forehead wrinkled. "What a question. I'm a girl, for starters. I'm pregnant, for another. You already knew that." one eye slid open. "And...the rest is not so conversational."

"Try me."

"You sure?"

Chanden bounced his heel off a rusted engine. Broken CDs, half-buried in the ground, caught skin on the back of his hand. "Yeah."

"Okay." her head lolled back. The column of her throat was – exquisite. He looked at the ground to avoid counting exposed bones. "My ex-boyfriend's coming to kill me."

"That sucks." at her glare, he winced. "That's not – not what I meant. I mean, it does suck, but – you aren't serious?"

"I don't know – maybe I'll get lucky."

"When?"

"Not why?"

He looked at the ground. "I've spent too much time learning stuff about other people I didn't want to know." another wince. "That's not what I meant."