Hardhat—T.T. Taszycki—leaned against the counter. "Makes you wonder what the fuck is next, don't it?"
Hive just wouldn't let up. "Look at it this way—that farce back there was highly entertaining. It should get us a lot of air time."
Curveball turned on him. "Would you shut up? There was nothing entertaining about that! We were awful!"
Curveball and Hive faced each other down across the too bright kitchen, and any friendly sparks that had lit between them over the last week vanished. The others lurked around the edges of the room. Even Drummer Boy, all seven feet of him, managed to slink out of their way.
Jonathan Hive was too slick. He had a studied detachment, a journalistic objectivity that went a little too far—he was always an observer. He'd put himself on the outside, and he was used to commenting on everything.
He regarded Curveball and said with wry amazement, "You're actually taking all this seriously, aren't you? That's kinda cute."
He'd failed to observe that she'd already taken a marble out of her pocket and gripped it in her fist.
Ana spotted it. "Kate, no—"
Too late. Curveball wound up her pitch and threw the missile at him.
"Whoa!" His eyes went wide, and his shoulder—where the marble would have struck—disintegrated with the sound of buzzing. The cloth of his shirt collapsed as the flesh dissolved into a swarm of tiny green particles, which scattered before the marble as he flinched away. A second later, the hundred buzzing insects coalesced, crawling under his collar and merging back into his body. The marble didn't touch him, but hit the wall behind him. A faint insect humming lingered.
To her credit, Curveball hadn't thrown the marble hard. She hadn't put all her anger into it. It would have only bruised him. But it did embed itself in the wall behind Hive and send cracks radiating across the paint.
He glared at the wall, then at her. "I guess this would be a bad time to ask if you, ah, wanted to have dinner with me. Or something."
She stomped out of the kitchen and through the French doors to the redwood porch. A moment later, Drummer Boy followed her. No doubt another camera would capture them and whatever heart-to-heart conversation they were having.
Back in the kitchen, Hive shrugged away from the wall, straightened his shirt, and for once seemed uncomfortable that he was the center of attention. Without a word—uncharacteristically without a word—he hunched his shoulders against their stares and stalked to the back of the house to hide away in his bedroom.
Seemed as good a plan as any, Ana thought, and did the same.
Break to commercial.
This was all Roberto's fault.
A month ago, back home in New Mexico, Ana lugged bags of groceries into the trailer where she lived with her father and brother. Seventeen-year-old Roberto lay stretched out on the sofa, reading a magazine and watching the evening news in Spanish.
"You should watch in English," Ana said. "They want you to speak English in school."
"Being bilingual looks really good on the college applications. It shows I'm in touch with my roots. They like that. Makes 'em look all multicultural."
She unloaded the bags on the kitchen counter, shoving aside a newspaper, mail, and other trash. Roberto immediately sat up and protested.
"Hey—you're supposed to look at that!"
"What?" She'd started unloading groceries: cans and boxes in the cupboard, hamburger and juice in the fridge.
Roberto grabbed the newspaper and shook it at her. "This—I put it out so you'd see it."
"See what?" she said, losing patience.
"This!"
She took the paper and looked at the half-page ad he held in front of her.
Wanted: Contestants
AMERICAN HERO
Auditions in Seven Cities:
New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Houston, Miami,
Denver, and Atlanta
The Search for the Next Great Ace Begins!
The ad was simple, but the words screamed with purpose—somebody's crazy idea. What was Roberto thinking?
"What's this?" she said.
"Ana," Roberto said, clearly exasperated. "The next great ace? They're talking about you! You have to go to the audition."
She shoved the paper at him and went back to the groceries. She had to get dinner started. Maybe Papa wouldn't feel like eating, but if he did, she'd have supper ready.
"Ana!"
"I don't have time. I can't take time off work. I can't get to Denver. Besides, they're not talking about me. I dig holes, that's all I do. There'll be people there who can do big things. Flashy things. Fireworks, you know? They won't want me." She was just la brujita.
She expected more whining from him, her name spoken in an almost screeching voice. She didn't expect him to turn quiet, and very, very serious.
"You're wrong. The things you can do—you're an ace. You can move the world if you thought of it. You have to try. It's your chance to get out of here."
Get out of here? She'd never even considered it. Roberto had the better chance of that. And someone had to take care of Papa. "Roberto. I can't."
"Ana. You have to." A tricky smile grew on his face. "I already called Burt. He gave you the week off. I got Pauli to loan me his truck. I'll drive."
This was definitely a setup.
They left the night before the auditions, packed a cooler with sodas and sandwiches, and stopped at a rest area near Pueblo to get some sleep. Before dawn, they continued for the final three hour drive to Denver. Ana spent most of the ride listening to Roberto's chatter.
"So maybe you don't make the show. But even if you do nothing else but dig wells for the rest of your life, you can do better than Burt. You oughta be getting paid more than what he's paying you."
Burt didn't pay well, but he paid under the table, saving everyone a lot of trouble. She put away as much as she could for Roberto and college.
"I hear you can make a ton of money in off-shore oil rigs. You should try that."
"I don't think I could do that kind of drilling."
"You could try, couldn't you? Or maybe houses. You could dig foundations for all the houses they're building around Albuquerque. Don't you think?"
It was flattering, how earnest he sounded. He should have been the one born with the ace. He'd have made better use of it. "Maybe," was all she said, and he finally dropped the subject.
When they arrived at the stadium at around 8 A.M., the parking lot was already full and a line stretched along the sidewalk. She and Roberto stared, amazed. At first, she'd been surprised auditions were being held at the football stadium—surely, that many people wouldn't show up.
"Wow. This is crazy," he said.
Even a brief glance at the line revealed that these were potential contestants, not spectators. Ana saw a woman with four legs and diaphanous green moth wings, a seven-foot-tall man with long, sharp-looking quills sprouting along his head and down his neck like a Mohawk, and another man with green skin and glittering red eyes, faceted like gems.
Among them stood dozens who looked entirely natural—but what could they do?
Roberto said, "You get signed up. I'll find somewhere to park."
She didn't think she'd have the guts to stand in that line without Roberto backing her up. But he'd gone through all the trouble to get her here. He'd be disappointed if she chickened out. She climbed out of the truck and watched her brother drive away.
A petite Asian woman holding a clipboard and wearing a headset with a microphone marked the end of the line. She had tribal tattoos crawling up both arms. Ana couldn't be sure, but they seemed to shift, literally crawling. She tried not to stare.
She asked Ana for her name, then asked, "What can you do?"
"I dig holes," Ana said.
The woman raised a brow, but gave a tired shrug as if to say that wasn't the worst thing she'd heard all morning. She handed Ana a square of paper with a number on it—"68". "All right, Ana, we'll be getting started soon. We'll have chairs set up for you on the sidelines. When your number is called, you'll talk to the judges, then show us your stuff. You need any props? Any kind of target or anything?"