The custodian has already appeared to sweep up the mess, his broom moving steadily back and forth across the wood floor.
And there, at the top of the bleachers, is someone else. The man in the black suit.
Red eyes staring right at me.
I have never been so happy to see my dad’s white Honda Accord waiting in the pickup lane. He’d gotten the coach’s message and come after all! I double-time it over and wrench open the car door, ready to slide into the passenger’s side.
“Occupied,” says a bored voice from that seat. Black hair hanging in his face, sneakers covered in doodles, llama-face T-shirt that says I JUST WANT TO FOCUS ON MY ART RIGHT NOW in a purple thought bubble. My little brother, Mac.
“Move it, Marcus,” I say, using his full name for emphasis. “I’m oldest. I get the front seat.”
Mac doesn’t even look up from whatever art thing he’s animating on his iPad. “You’re only older by ten months, which means we’re practically twins—”
“We are not twins.”
“—which means I should get equal time in the front seat.”
I huff, irritated, but decide it isn’t worth fighting over.
“Hey, Mr. B,” Davery says from behind me.
“Hey, Davery,” Dad says, distracted. He’s wearing a crisp blue dress shirt and has a fresh haircut, his black hair carefully combed back over his ears. He’s texting on his phone, head down, and not paying attention to us. “How was the game?” Dad asks me, not even bothering to turn in my direction. “Your coach called and left a voice mail, but honestly, I can’t understand a word that woman says. She was going on and on.…”
“Fine, Dad. I’m fine.” Just covered in blood, that’s all.
I open the back door, slide the flat pile of Dad’s moving boxes up against the far side, and scoot in. I motion for Davery to get in the back seat, too, and he slides in next to me. It’s a tight fit, but we manage. “Is it okay if Davery comes to froyo with us?”
“We’re going for froyo?” Mac asks, looking up excitedly.
In the rearview mirror, I see Dad’s face crinkle up like he’s in pain. “I’d like to, Z, but my new boss is in town and he’s coming over for dinner. I really need to get home and prepare—”
“He’s not your new boss yet,” I protest. Even worse than being humiliated and seeing monsters, we might have to move from Albuquerque to Tulsa for Dad’s new job in a few months, when the school year is over.
“Nizhoni,” Dad says, sounding exasperated, “we’ve had this conversation before. If you and your brother want me to be able to pay for things like fancy basketball sneakers and art classes”—he shoots a pointed look at Mac—“then I need a better-paying job. And that job is in—”
“Oklahoma,” Mac and I finish for him, in unison.
He stares straight ahead for a minute, clearly not amused. “Landrush Oil and Gas is a major company. If they offer me the job, I’m taking it. End of story.” He looks back down at his phone and starts texting again, and I know for sure I’ve blown my chance at rainbow sprinkles.
“Isn’t Landrush that company people are protesting for putting in that pipeline?” Davery asks, low enough that Dad can’t hear him.
I nod miserably. Another reason Dad should definitely not take this job. But when I tried to talk to him about companies like Landrush ruining the water and land, he told me folks have to eat, and unless the protesters were going to pay his rent, he wasn’t interested. “He won’t listen,” I tell Davery. “And, sorry, but it looks like froyo’s a no-go.”
“It’s okay, Nizhoni,” Davery says, opening the door and sliding back out of the car. “My dad’s still at the main library. I’ll just head over there. Text me later?”
I slump in my seat and wave him good-bye.
Dad pulls out of the pickup lane to merge with traffic. Now he’s talking with the phone up to his ear, which, last time I checked, is illegal to do while driving in the city of Albuquerque, New Mexico. But it also means he’s not paying attention when I lean forward to talk to Mac.
“I saw something,” I whisper to my brother, the only person who knows about my secret. “A you-know-what.”
Mac’s head snaps up, revealing a worried expression, which immediately transforms into a grin. “Whoa! What happened to your face?”
“What happened to your face?” I ask. Because Mac has a huge black eye, which, sadly, is not that unusual for him.
“What do you think?” Mac mutters, doing his signature hair flip that drops his bangs down over his eyes, hiding the evidence.
“Adrien Cuttlebush?” That’s Mac’s nemesis. He’s a seventh-grader, like me, and Mac’s only in sixth, but they know each other from summer camp, where Mac did something to Adrien that he won’t fess up about. Ever since then, Adrien has had it out for him. Cuttlebush once flushed Mac’s entire sketchpad—a new one he’d just gotten for his birthday—down the boys’ bathroom toilet, one sheet at a time. Rip. Flush. Rip. Flush. Brutal. And another time, he tried to flush Mac himself down the toilet, but the assistant principal intervened before Adrien could get more than a sneakered foot in the bowl.
“I told you I’d help you fight him,” I say. “No way are you gonna be able to take on him and his goon squad all by yourself.”
“What are you going to do, Nizhoni?” he asks, sounding bitter. “Bleed on him?”
I wince. Low blow. I’ve been trying my best to keep Mac safe from his nemesis, but I’m not very good at that, either.
He grimaces, like he’s sorry he snapped at me. “So did the monster—?” He points at my nose.
“Monster-size basketball!” I say quickly, cutting him off. Mac tends to talk before he thinks. I don’t want Dad to know I see monsters. He has enough to worry about, what with the new job prospect and all. “Right to the face.”
“So what did you see?” Mac whispers. We both look over to make sure Dad’s not paying attention. Yup. Totally into his phone call about boring surveyor stuff—no way he’s listening to us. Or looking—he still hasn’t said anything about my bloody uniform, and I doubt he’s even noticed Mac’s puffy eye.
“Definite monster.” I hand my brother the ice pack, because my nose feels better. “Wait…” I wipe blood off the pack with the only clean corner of my shirt. “Here.”
He gives me a grateful smile and holds the bag to his bruised skin. “What did he look like?”
Mac keeps thinking the monsters are going to be covered in scales or grow tentacles or something, but most of the time, they appear normal.
They just don’t feel normal.
“He looked human, but I could tell.” And then I lean closer to whisper, “He was in the bleachers at the end of the game, and I swear he was watching me.”
Even now I feel a trickle of fear.
“Did you do anything? Make eye contact?” Mac’s face lights up. “Did he take a bite out of anyone?”
“We definitely made eye contact. His eyes were red.”