LITMIR.BIZ

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      Kayla’s jeans had a hole in the knee, the edges frayed; on her smooth, pale skin was the chalky circle of a lost scab, and her name written in red ballpoint, and another word or two that were mostly hidden, that Chris could not make out. He turned away from her, stared at his own reflection in the window. His hair seemed dark, cut this short, and he looked younger, his head smaller. He ran his hand over the smooth bristles. He had gone with Leon to have his head shaved, for solidarity; the accident, just a week before, had left Leon with hair on only one side. He had to even it out. When Chris had asked the barber how much it cost to get a shave, the barber had condescended, as adults liked to do, saying For you? I could put a little cream on there, under your nose, bring my cat in here to lick it off.

      “I didn’t tell you that story because I thought it was interesting,” Kayla said. “But because someone else thought so. That’s what’s interesting about it. Pathetic.”

      “Still,” Chris said, “you see how everyone acts at school—you give yourself over to that, it forces all the thoughts out of your head.”

      “And as soon as you start copulating,” Leon said, “you can have children, of course—and then you might become a parent.”

      “It’s not completely their fault,” Kayla said.

      “They should have seen it coming.”

      “And we’ll become just like them if we’re not careful,” Chris said.

      “Maybe, maybe not,” Leon said.

      “Unless,” she said, “unless we can figure out another way to be.”

      “Right, right, right.”

      Ahead, the skinny, bearded man straightened his long legs, all the way across the aisle. He stretched his neck, twisting his face toward them, then away again.

      “It was just a stupid story,” Kayla said. “Probably wasn’t even true.”

      “Definitely wasn’t,” Chris said.

      The three sat, silent again, waiting, their skateboards propped against their knees, grip tape scratching rough against their jeans. They all skated Santa Cruz decks, but scraped off the brand name; they wrote in magic marker, and circled the insides of their Kryptonics wheels, covering the words. They all rode Independent trucks; there was no way to disguise that. Now they checked the bearings, the bolts that held on the trucks, the tension and tightness of the trucks themselves. Chris took out a wrench and loosened his; he wanted to make wide, carving turns, coming back down the hills in the darkness.

      “What about Natalie?” he said.

      “What about her?”

      “She’s not the same,” he said. “I don’t think so. Not like other adults. I mean, the way she talks to us, all business. She doesn’t shift the tone of her voice because we’re younger, she doesn’t condescend, doesn’t really care if we like her.”

      “But we never really hear her talk to other people,” Kayla said.

      “Still, she’s different.”

      “You just think she’s different,” she said. “You want her to be.”

      “You don’t?”

      “It’s not like I have a crush on her or anything.”

      The MAX stopped and started again, sliding past PG & E Park, all the dark empty seats, the black slant of the baseball diamond far below.

      “It’s been a week,” Chris said. “You think we’ll work for her again?”

      “You know the deal,” Kayla said. “I have to call her every day at the same time, and she tells me yes or no. Lately it’s ‘no, no, no.’”

      “What else does she say?” Chris said.

      “I should get the money soon,” she said. “The payment for the last time. When are we going to put it away?”

      The money was adding up; the three of them kept it, never spent it, stored it in their hiding place. One day they would all move away, and they would live together, somewhere, and they would live in a way that no one had lived before, a way they were still figuring out. The money was an important part of the plan. Crucial.

      “Maybe she’s worried because of what happened last time,” Chris said.

      “She doesn’t even know,” Kayla said. “Even Leon hardly knows.”

      Leon didn’t seem to notice she was talking about him. He was too busy adding some scratchiti to the train’s window, using a house key to mark the letters B-E-W-I- and starting on an L. The other two watched him; as he worked, he made a noise with his lips that seemed unintentional. Silver duct tape circled his shoe, holding the sole on—they were the same shoes he’d been wearing when the accident happened. Lately he seemed calmer, quieter, the set of his jaw less antagonistic than usual. He was hardly hungry at lunch, or after school; he seemed disinterested in studying. When they asked him about the accident, what had happened, what it felt like, he acted as if he could not remember it. It didn’t feel bad was all he’d say, and that was both frustrating and tantalizing. They had difficulty believing there wasn’t more he could tell them, something he was keeping back. Secrets were against the code.

      “What, Leon?” Kayla said. “What are you thinking?”

      “Hey,” he said, looking up.

      “I don’t know,” Chris said. “It seems like ‘The Bewildered’ is a good name for a band of losers, maybe, but more like the opposite of a name for people who are smart.”

      “And we don’t need a name,” Kayla said.

      “Also,” Chris said, “that makes us seem like people who join things.”

      “Joiners,” Kayla said.

      “It’s not a name,” Leon said. “I mean, saying someone is bewildered is always in comparison to what everyone else agrees makes sense, you know. So if everyone else, all the adults think you’re bewildered, then you’re actually not, you probably actually have a clue.”

      Chris looked up, out the window, at Highway 26, running parallel. A lone car, a long sedan, kept pace; suddenly, the driver opened his door—to slam it tighter or to spit something on the street—and the inside of the car was illuminated. An old man with tangled white hair, smiling to himself, driving late at night, going home or running away. He slammed his car door and the light went out, he disappeared, and in the same moment the train plunged into the tunnel, underground.

      The lights flickered; something was wrong with them. Had the pointy-bearded man moved a row closer? It seemed as if he had, but it was hard to say, because now it was dark. The three sat close together, waiting; the next stop was theirs.

      “Anyway,” Kayla said, “don’t worry, I have a plan. I’m gathering all the information we have about Natalie, in a notebook. I’m figuring how to find out where she lives, moving backward from the phone number I have for her. Then we can find out some more, find out how different she really is.”

      “Washington Park,” said the woman’s prerecorded voice from the speaker overhead. The lights returned, and the three stood, braced against each other as the train jerked to a stop.

      They exited through the sliding doors. Chris looked behind them, but it didn’t seem like the bearded man had followed. He’d stayed on the train, which was already gone, leaving them here, in the white tile of the tunnel.

      “Holy crow,” Kayla said, spitting down onto the tracks.

      “I can’t wait.”

      “Listen to you,” Chris said. “Look at you. Copying. Maybe you’re the one with the crush on Natalie.”

      “Je nai yo!” she said.

      Leon was already waiting, holding the elevator

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