Scott Westerfeld - The Last Days

“Oh, the one you had trouble with? What about it?”

“Did you see how Pearl just did it?”

He frowned, his own fingers tracing the pattern. “That’s how it’s supposed to be played.”

I groaned. “No, Moz, not how she played it. That she played it, when it was driving me nuts!”

“Oh,” he said, then waited as a garbage truck steamed past, squeaking and groaning. For some reason, there were six guys hanging onto the back, instead of the usual two or three. They watched us warily as the truck rumbled away. “Yeah, she’s pretty good. You didn’t know that?”

“Hell, no. When did that happen?”

“A long time before we met her.” He laughed. “You never noticed how her hand moves when she calls out chords?” His left hand twitched in the air. “And I told you how she spotted the Strat, same as me.”

“But—”

“And that stuff in her room: the flute, the harmonicas, the hand drums. She plays it all, Zahler.”

I frowned. It was true, there were a lot of instruments lying around at Pearl’s. And sometimes she’d pull one down and play something on it, just for a joke. “I never noticed any guitars, though.”

He shrugged. “She keeps them under the bed. I thought you knew.”

I looked down and swung my boot at the fire hydrant squatting on the curb, catching it hard in one of its little spouty things. It clanked and I hopped back, remembering I didn’t mess with hydrants anymore. “That doesn’t bug you?”

“Bug me? I don’t care if she keeps them in the attic, as long as I get to play the Strat.”

“Not that. Doesn’t it bug you that I’m supposed to be our guitarist, and I don’t even play guitar as well as our keyboard player ?”

“So? She’s a musical genius.”

I groaned. Sometimes the Mosquito could be spectacularly retarded. “Well, doesn’t that sort of imply that the ‘musical genius’ should be our second guitarist, and not me?”

He stopped, turned to face me. “But Zahler, that won’t help. You don’t play keyboards at all.”

“Ahhh! That’s not what I mean!”

Moz sighed, put his hands up. “Look, Zahler, I know she plays guitar better than you. And she understands the Big Riff better than I do, just like she does most music. She probably drums better than a lot of drummers—maybe not Alana Ray, though. But like I said, she’s a musical genius. Don’t worry. She and I were talking about you, and Pearl’s already got a plan.”

“Talking about me? A plan ?”

“Of course. Pearl’s always got a plan—that’s why she’s the boss.” He smiled. “I got over it, why can’t you?”

“Why can’t I get over it ?” I stood there, breathing hard, hands flexing, looking to grab something by the throat and choke it. “You weren’t over jack until a couple of weeks ago! And that’s only because you think that weird junkie friend of hers is hot!”

He stared at me, eyes wide, and I glared back at him. It was one of those things I hadn’t known until I’d blurted it out. But now I could see that it was totally true. The only reason Moz had been so fool lately was that Minerva had clicked the reset button on his brain.

I’d already told Moz what I thought of her. She was a junkie, or an ex-junkie, or a soon-to-be junkie, and was bad news. Even before she’d freaked out at Alana Ray during that first rehearsal, the whole dark glasses and trippy singing had been totally paranormal.

I’m not saying she wasn’t a good singer, just that I like my songs with words . And I like my skinny, pale chicks with veiny arms as far away as possible.

“Min’s not a junkie,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?”

He spread his hands. “Well, how do you know she is ?”

“Listen, I don’t know what she is.” I slitted my eyes. “All I know is that it’s something that they only let out for two hours a week! That’s why we rehearse early Sunday morning, right? And why those two run back to Brooklyn? Because visiting hours are over?”

Moz frowned. “Yeah, I don’t really know what that’s about.” He turned away and started walking again, like I hadn’t just been yelling at him. “I think Pearl likes to keep Minerva to herself. They’ve been friends since they were little kids, and Min’s kind of… fragile.”

I snorted. Junkies might be easy to knock down, but they’re never fragile. They have souls like old leather shoes studded with steel, and they’re about as much good as friends.

From the fish store across the street, a big Asian guy was eyeing us, a baseball bat in one hand. When I waved and smiled, he nodded and went back to tossing out bucketfuls of used ice, spreading them across the asphalt to let them melt. The icy splinters glittered in the streetlights, and I walked over to crush some under my feet.

Stupid Pearl. Stupid Moz. Stupid guitar.

Against the street, the ice looked black. People said that if you got black water into the freezer fast enough, it would freeze up instead of evaporating, and you’d have black ice. Of course, they never said why you’d want anything like that in your fridge. When I went over to Moz’s, I still crossed the street so I didn’t get too close to that hydrant, even though it had one of those special caps on it now to keep kids out.

“There’s something I should tell you about, though.” Moz’s boots crunched through the ice behind me. “But you can’t tell anyone else.”

“Great,” I murmured, smashing more ice. “Just what this band needs, more secrets.” Moz still hadn’t told Pearl he was paying Alana Ray, or me where he was getting the money from. And apparently Pearl and Moz had their own secret plans for me…

“Min gave me her phone number.”

I spun toward him. He was smiling. “Dude! You do think she’s hot!”

He laughed, kicking a glittering spray of hail toward me. “Zahler, let me explain something to you. Minerva isn’t hot . She’s way past hot. She’s a fifty-thousand-volt plasma rifle. She’s a jet engine.”

I closed my eyes and groaned. When Moz started talking this way about a girl, it was all over. His obsessions were like an epic guitar solo playing in his brain, endless skittering riffs without any particular logic.

“She’s luminous. A rock star. So of course she’s a little strange.” He sighed. “But, yeah, you’re right. It might be weird with Pearl…”

When he said those last words, that’s when I probably should have tried to talk him out of it, but at that moment, I was all tangled up about the guitar thing—deeply pissed with Moz and Pearl. They could have at least told me I was a worthless doofus instead of thinking it behind my back and making plans.

I opened my eyes. “So, you’re plasma-rifle serious? Jet-engine serious?”

“Yeah, man. She’s hot.”

I shrugged. It wasn’t my fault if Moz decided to screw everything up. “When did she give you her number?”

“Sunday before last?”

“Ten days ago?” I rolled my eyes, wanting to make him feel stupid. “Don’t you think you should maybe do something about it?”

He swallowed, rocking on his feet a little. “It was kind of funny, though. She handed me her number so Pearl couldn’t see, and she told me to call at one in the morning. Exactly. She even set my watch to hers.”

“So she’s weird. We knew that, right?”

“I guess. Yeah, I should call her.” He started walking again, kind of twitchy, like Alana Ray before rehearsals.

I sighed, even more miserable now. Here I’d pushed Moz into going after a weird junkie chick, and it hadn’t even made me feel any better. I stopped next to a row of mini-Dumpsters outside a restaurant kitchen door and jumped up onto the edge of one, sitting there and pounding my boot heels against its metal side.