“Wow! Like, glowing red? Or just, um, bloodshot like he didn’t get enough sleep?”
“I don’t remember. It happened pretty fast, and then I got injured.” When I say it like that, it sounds pretty weak. But I know I’m not wrong. I just can’t explain the way it feels.
“Was he staring at you before you got face-bombed?”
I shiver as a million tiny ice-footed ants march down my spine. “Do you think he knows I can…?” It never occurred to me that the monsters might be able to single me out the same way I can identify them, and now I’m extra freaked.
We turn onto our street and our house comes into view. I blow out a breath, relieved to be safe.
We only live a five-minute drive from school. Most of the time I just walk home, since Dad’s too busy to come get me. But I guess that call from Coach did work. And he even picked up Mac from art class. Probably because he needed to make sure we were home for this dinner.
“Your monster spotting seems to be happening more and more lately. Maybe we should tell someone,” Mac says quietly.
“What am I going to say? There was a guy who looked like a pretty normal guy but was really a monster? And get this, he was staring at me? You think anyone will believe me? Or care?”
“Too bad there’s not a real-life Ghostbusters hotline, but for monsters! With the cool hearse and the plasma boxes and…Hey, who’s that?”
We pull into the driveway in front of our pretty basic and totally average-looking modest adobe house. But the car parked out front—a big black Cadillac Escalade—is not basic or modest at all. Tinted windows, oversize rims…it looks like something out of the movies. The kind of car the government sends to pick you up, and then you’re never seen or heard from ever again.
It gives me the creeps.
“Did the neighbors get a new car or something?” Mac asks.
No way that’s our neighbor’s car. Ms. Abeyta drives a lime-green Prius with a bumper sticker that says YOU CAN’T FART WITHOUT MAKING A LITTLE ART. I don’t really see her upgrading to a Caddy.
“Let’s go back, Dad,” I say, suddenly sure we don’t want to be here. I can’t say why, but I know that car means nothing good. “I—I forgot my homework in my locker. Gotta go back!”
“What?” Dad asks as he swipes to end his call. “Don’t be silly. That’s my new boss, Mr. Charles. I was texting with him before. He arrived early, and he’s going to take us out to dinner. So I don’t have to cook! Isn’t that great?”
I can’t see anything through the SUV’s dark windows, but I can feel an evil presence nearby, just like at the game. The hairs on my neck rise. The chill puts goose bumps on my arms. I squeeze Mac’s shoulder.
“Ow!” he whines.
I point with my chin to the car, making Something is not right eyes. Unfortunately, Mac thinks I’m making I need to go pee eyes, so he says, “Just hold it, Nizhoni. We’re almost inside.”
I try again, but now he’s looking at the SUV.
Someone gets out: a Black man with a shaved head and deep brown skin like Davery’s. He’s wearing a white suit, and a holster is showing under the jacket. “Is that a gun?” I squeak.
“Bodyguard,” Dad says, laughing a little nervously. “Mr. Charles is very high up in the oil and gas industry, which makes him a target for protesters. In fact, it’s kind of strange that he would come all this way just to interview me, but he said he was in town and he really cares about all his employees, even the lowliest surveyors.” Dad’s forehead wrinkles up, like he’s just now realizing how unusual this is. “I, uh, guess they do things differently in Oklahoma,” he says with another little laugh.
A second person gets out of the car. This one’s a Native American woman, but not Navajo like us. Maybe from a Plains tribe. She’s just as tall and muscled as the first bodyguard, with the same white suit and the same gun.
“Two bodyguards,” Mac says incredulously. “Who is this mysterious Mr. Charles?”
I make a little hiccup sound when I see there’s one more person getting out of the car. Tall. Blond. Unusually red lips. Black suit. Mirrored sunglasses.
“That’s him,” Dad says as he unbuckles his seat belt. He exhales, like he’s preparing himself for battle. He puts on a bright fake smile and opens the door. “Come shake hands, kids.”
“Mac!” I whisper, squeezing his shoulder harder. “Stop him!”
“Stop who? Dad?”
I nod, frantically. Dad’s halfway across the yard, hand outstretched. Seconds from contact.
“That’s him!” I whisper.
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“The one I saw at the gym. The guy who was watching me.”
“But…” Mac frowns, confused. Then he goes all bug-eyed as he finally understands.
“Dad! Noooooo!” we both scream, banging on the window glass. But it’s too late.
He reaches out, and we watch as our dad shakes hands with a monster.
“What do we do?” Mac squeaks.
I’m not sure, but I do know one thing. “We remain calm. We have the upper hand right now.”
“How do you figure?”
“He won’t want to blow his cover in front of Dad, right? So as long as we play it cool…” I glance over at Mac. His expression reminds me of that time we went to the amusement park and he insisted on riding the Cyclone right after he’d eaten three chili dogs. Part super-excited, part terrified, and part ready to barf. “I said play it cool, Mac. C-O-O-L. Right now you look decidedly uncool.”
“I’m trying,” he says. He takes a few deep breaths, nervously shuffling the ice pack between his hands.
Dad is eagerly waving us over.
“We better go,” I say. “Dad’s waiting.”
“He’s going to want us to shake hands,” Mac reminds me.
Dad always wants us to shake hands with everyone. Once, we went to this honoring ceremony for Native American veterans. There were at least thirty of them there from all different tribal nations, and Mac and I had to walk the entire line and shake every single hand. I was really annoyed at first, because I was hungry and everyone knows that elders get to eat first, so it was going to take forever. But then it turned out to be kind of cool to meet all those people and see their medals up close. One grandpa had even been a Navajo Code Talker in World War II. I think he must have heard my stomach growling, because he slipped me a chocolate chip cookie on the sly. I was so grateful, and ever since then, I haven’t minded shaking hands so much.
However, this time I mind a lot.
“No way I’m touching a monster,” I protest.
“What else can we do? Run for it?”
“Yeah, that’d be real cool.” I sigh. “Come on. I’ve got an idea. Just follow my lead, okay? And whatever you do, don’t touch him.” I don’t know much about monsters, but it seems like common sense. Who knows what could happen? They could slime on you, suck out your soul, eat your eyeballs. The terrible possibilities are endless.
We get out of the car together and walk slowly over to Dad, Mr. Charles, and the two bodyguards in white. I see Dad focus on us and his eyebrows shoot up. Looks like he’s finally noticed my bloody shirt and Mac’s black eye. But he doesn’t have time to say anything before Mr. Charles speaks.