Joshua McCune - Talker 25

I stumble out of bed and shuffle to the window. Drawing back the curtain, I’m greeted by the sharp glare of sunrise reflecting off a bumper-to-bumper convoy of black Humvees and tanks. It’s the All-Blacks, the army’s dragon forces unit, not the Bureau of Dragon Affairs, but I half expect them to stop at our house to arrest me anyway.

Thankfully, they roll right on by. It’s ten minutes before the last one passes, and it’s another five before the vehicular earthquake subsides to a dull thrum.

“What’s going down?” Sam says from behind me.

“No clue. Dad mention anything to you about Dragon Hill?” He’d spent the remainder of the weekend on the phone or at the rez. Besides reinterrogating me a couple of times about what happened Friday night, he’s given me the silent treatment.

Sam taps his lip several times before flashing me his impish smile. “He said something about his stupid daughter doing stupid things with stupid people.” I kick a soccer ball at him, but it hits the doorframe.

“You should have stuck to tae kwon do.” He flips me off and flees down the hallway.

After changing into jeans and a thin sweater, I tiptoe to Dad’s bedroom, where I find Sam with his ear pressed to the door.

I shove him aside. Dad’s voice is muffled, and I can only make out snippets of his conversation.

“. . . thirty APCs. Why . . .”

“What’s an APC, Sam?”

“Armored Personnel Carrier.”

“Huh?”

He sighs dramatically. “Looks like a tank, except without a giant gun.”

“. . . haven’t registered any dermal signatures. Why wasn’t . . .”

I glance at Sam. “A dermal signature?” Head shake.

“. . . you can’t come rolling into town without warning like this, Colonel.”

“He’s talking to a colonel. You think it’s Konrad’s father?”

“Maybe. It could be Colonel Sparks, the base commander at Fort Riley.”

“Does he have a son?”

“A son?” His eyes widen. “Oh, that mystery guy you met on Dragon Hill.”

I frown. “Answer the question.”

“Beats me. Google him if you’re so hot for him.”

“I’m not hot for him. He might be the guy who set me up.”

Sam shrugs. “Heard from your date yet?”

“He’s avoiding us,” I say. Dad talked to Trish and Konrad about Friday night’s events, but Preston and his parents have been AWOL.

“You must have really pissed him off or—”

I wave my hand at him, barely hear Dad say, “That can’t be possible.” His tone has changed from angered to stunned. “You’re sure about this? None of my research . . .”

When I lean harder against the door, it creaks. Sam and I share a wince.

“I’ll call you back, Colonel,” Dad says.

Sam darts into the hallway bathroom, leaving me stranded as the door opens. Dad’s wearing his dragon camos and a dragon-sized scowl. “Were you listening to my conversation?”

I stare at the carpet. Eavesdropping may be bad, but lying’s on the short list of Dad’s cardinal sins. I’m about to cop to the charge when the toilet flushes.

Sam steps from the bathroom with the fakest yawn. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s all yours, sis. Word to the wise, it’s gonna be toxic.”

I quickstep past him, whisper a “Thanks,” and close the door behind me.

I emerge from the bathroom, hair done and makeup applied, and head into the kitchen. Dad’s at the table. He gives me his don’t-dare-lie-to-me look. “How much did you hear, Melissa?”

“Something about a dermal signature and research, but nothing that made sense. Why are the All-Blacks here, Dad?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Does it have something to do with the Diocletians?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Melissa.”

“How can you say that? First the D-men show and now the All-Blacks—”

He slams his fist on the table. “Dammit, Melissa!” Sam hesitates in the doorway, starts to turn around. Dad snaps his fingers at him. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

Sam trudges into the kitchen, head bowed. “Sorry about listening in. We’re just worried.”

“You let me worry. You could learn a lesson from your brother, Melissa. If you apologized—”

“Bullshit. You—”

“Watch your language, missy.”

“Bullshit, bullshit, bull—”

Dad bolts from the chair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Melissa Anne Callahan, but you’d better get your act together real fast.” He takes a deep breath. “Your mother would be so disappointed in you.”

“Well, she’s not here anymore, as you so like to remind us,” I say, blinking back wet anger.

“Get out of here!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

I’m halfway to the sidewalk when the front door opens. I spin around, expecting to deflect Dad’s next volley, but it’s Sam. “Wait up.”

“Can’t you walk yourself today?” It’s been three weeks since school started, but Dad still insists I take him with me because “He’s your brother.”

He falls into stride beside me. “I thought you might want some company.”

“Nope.”

“That was really cool. You almost gave Dad an aneurysm.”

“Sam, shut up,” I say, scanning the area for D-men. I come up empty, but my unease remains, and not just because I expect an Escalade to appear at any moment.

Though it’s an hour before school, kids stream from Mason-Kline’s identical manufactured homes—one story, black siding, black roofs, small windows. Fathers or mothers stand in every doorway, most talking on cell phones or examining tablets, all in uniform.

The entire scene reminds me of a horror movie. Mason-Kline’s very own Children of the Corn . The moment right before everyone becomes zombies.

Ten houses down, I see Trish waving at me. She’s the last person I want to deal with right now. Part of me knows the past few days aren’t her fault, but if she hadn’t begged me to be her wing girl for her date with Konrad to Dragon Hill, I wouldn’t have thought Old Man Blue talked to me, I wouldn’t have gotten in those fights with Dad, and I wouldn’t be on the Bureau’s insurgency watch list.

Sam waves back.

“Stop that,” I say.

“Just being polite. Man, does she ever not look hot?”

“Sam, if you want to live to see your next birthday, you better stop annoying me.”

“I didn’t see you at the play,” Trish says when we reach her house. “I tried calling. You get my messages?”

I nod. A dozen to my phone, a dozen to my internet accounts. “I’ve been busy.”

“You totally rocked Lady Macbeth,” Sam says.

Trish ignores him. “Your father called yesterday to ask about our trip to the Hill. He was acting all secretive and pleasant. Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Other than a brief little run-in with a couple of D-men in our driveway,” Sam says, like he’s proud of me. I want to strangle him.

Trish’s eyebrows shoot up. “The Bureau came to your house? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s no big deal.”

Sam grins. “They think she’s a Diocletian. They’re these wicked-ass insurgents who—”

Trish shoos him. “Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Sam. Scurry along and let the grown-ups talk.”

Sam reddens before falling in step behind us. Normally, I wouldn’t give a second thought to his sullen embarrassment, but today it’s the cherry on top of the anxiety, frustration, and anger that’s consumed me since my trip to Dragon Hill.

I wheel on him. “Stop acting like a baby, Sam. Trish doesn’t like you. She’s never going to like you. You can’t even walk yourself to school like a normal person. Why don’t you grow up and get a life!”