Mac takes a moment to process it all. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’s going to believe me. Finally, he says, “If Dad said so…”
I smile, relieved. I stand up, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. Then, before he can ask any more questions, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t help you beat Adrien Cuttlebush. All I did was make it worse.”
He slides his backpack over his shoulders. “You did great. Plus, I didn’t need you to save me,” he says, standing up straight. “I took care of Cuttlebush on my own.”
I grin, happy for my little brother. “You sure did. But how did you end up out here with them, anyway?”
He groans. “It’s a long story, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
It must be embarrassing. I don’t know how Mac gets himself into these situations, but I know not to push too hard. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with bullies. I don’t need to pile on him, too.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Davery.
Davery
Are you at the train station yet?
Nizhoni
No, but I found Mac.
Davery
Well, you better hurry. Everyone’s looking for you. They even have school security out now.
Nizhoni
Whoa! The ICCS cops?!
Davery
Mrs. Peterson just walked into the library. She’s talking to Maya now. GTG. I’ll join you as soon as I can.
I swipe my phone off and drop it back in my pocket.
“What is it?” Mac asks.
“Time to go.”
We make it across the field and off the school grounds surprisingly easily. I’m starting to think school security is really lacking. I’ll have to give Mrs. Peterson some helpful pointers on improving it, assuming we survive. At the very least, I’ll have Davery write her a strongly worded letter.
Mac and I pool the change in the bottom of our backpacks. Between the two of us, there is just enough for bus fare downtown. The ride is quick, and we make it to the Albuquerque train station twenty minutes before our train is scheduled to leave. I’ve only been to the station once, to pick up my cousin coming in from Flagstaff, and the big adobe building and the rumbling trains are both exciting and intimidating. The air is bright and hot and a little humid, like a rain shower came through recently. Sure enough, little puddles of water have gathered in the corners of the courtyard, the dark rocks around the tracks glisten like shiny black and gray diamonds, and everything smells like wet concrete. Plenty of people mill about, some in business clothes and some in tourist T-shirts, all crisscrossing the terra-cotta tile floor. We get a few curious looks, but most folks don’t even notice two kids on their own waiting for a train.
Mac’s stomach growls. I’m starving, too. I’d totally kill for one of Davery’s dusty cookies right now.
Kill. I swallow around a hard lump that suddenly rises in my throat. I can’t believe someone wants to kill me. Not a someone—a monster. But I’m not helpless, I remind myself. I have a power all my own that will let me know when he’s near. And I can figure out the fighting thing. I won’t let him get close enough to snatch me or Mac.
“I’m so hungry,” Mac whines. “Can we get something to eat?”
I look around. There’s a bright neon sign to our right that says TACO TOWN, and at the thought, my mouth waters. But there’s one big problem. “We don’t have enough money,” I admit. “We spent the last of our change on the bus.”
“Not even enough for a bag of Hot Cheetos?” he moans.
Flamin’ Hot Cheetos are Mac’s favorite. I once saw him eat a family-size bag all by himself. Dad said if he did that again, he would ruin the plumbing in our house, but Mac vowed that nothing would stop him, even busted toilets. Mac may have some kind of power over water, but Hot Cheetos are definitely his weakness.
“I hate this,” Mac mumbles.
“I didn’t plan this, you know,” I say, feeling like he’s being unfair. Here I am risking my life to save him from monsters, and all he can think about is lunch.
“Maybe you should have planned it better if you were going to drag me along.” Mac sniffs. “I think I want to go home.”
“We can’t!” I say, outraged that he already wants to give up. I clutch my turquoise necklace, the one my mom gave me, and take a deep breath. “Look, Mac. You’ve got to stay strong. Think about Dad. He needs us. He needs you.”
“I still don’t get why he wants us to run.” He scuffs his shoe on the ground. “I mean, maybe you’re wrong, Z. Mr. Charles was nice to me last night.”
“Because he wants to steal you and your powers.”
He shrugs. “If he had some food, I might just go with him. I can’t think past my stomach.”
Mac’s right. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re hungry. “Okay. Wait here. I’m going to try and find us something to eat. Maybe someone will give me their leftovers.”
Mac flops onto a bright blue bench and hugs his backpack to his chest. “I’m probably going to die of starvation before the monsters can even find us,” he mutters. “Here lies Mac Begay. RIP.”
Confident that Mac will not, in fact, die of starvation, and even more sure that he’ll wait for me on the bench—out of exhaustion brought on by too much drama more than anything else—I head into the main area of the train station. People rush back and forth, shoes clicking on the tile floors. Someone bumps me from behind, making me stumble. I look to see who it was, but they’re gone, without even an Excuse me. More passengers are coming in through the doors, from a train disembarking on the platform outside. I squeeze into a corner to get out of the way, and I feel trapped. I stare up at the beamed ceilings overhead, trying to stop an onset of dizziness. The train station is huge and overwhelming, and I feel so, so small. Mr. Charles could be in this crowd right now and I might not know until it was too late. What good is monster sense when the enemy is already staring at you from only ten feet away? And, suddenly, I hate this, too.
“This was a bad idea,” I say aloud to myself. “Mac’s right.”
A squeaky sound, like a mouse on an exercise wheel, catches my attention. I look through the crowd and see a lady pushing a cart, the kind they roll down the aisle on an airplane. On the side someone has written in a loopy cursive:
Station Snacks!
The lady parks the cart right in front of me. I watch as she scratches her butt, looks around, sniffs loudly, and then walks away.
Leaving the cart completely unguarded.
All by itself. Loaded with snacks. And not just any snacks. Bags of Hot Cheetos hang from plastic clips on the side. Cans of soda pop are stacked on the lower shelves. A veritable rolling feast of junk food is sitting inches from my face. The other passengers pay it no mind, walking around it as if it were just a big rock in their way.
Now, it’s one thing to break a school rule, but it’s a whole other thing to steal. I have never stolen anything in my life. I once thought about shoplifting a Milky Way from a Bashas’ grocery store and was so overcome with guilt at the thought that I cried for an hour. My dad thought I was sick and took me to the Indian Health hospital, where I confessed my thought crime to a baffled doctor. He sent me home with a lollipop and a shake of his head.