She chose to let it go at that. Let them wonder, she thought.
The next day, she had her parents buy her an airline ticket west.
“I have to visit Michael,” she told them. The mention of his name always filled her parents with an apprehensive awe. They knew that somehow that strange boy, Michael Lipranski, had played a major part in the miraculous transformation of their daughter. Her father was dead set against letting her go, yet he found himself lifting the phone and making the reservations, as if his hands were not under his own control.
Her brother and sisters were devastated by the thought of her leaving.
“You can’t leave!” her brother and sisters cried, for so much of themselves revolved around Lourdes now. She had slipped deep into the center of all of their lives. Lourdes was going to help Lita choose a college, and Gerardo buy a car, and Monica pick which boys to go out with. Although they were all older than her, they now looked up to her as if she were the eldest in the family.
“This is a good thing,” Lourdes told them. “I’ll be back. You’ll see.”
The next morning, with little more than Michael’s street address, Lourdes said good-bye to her family at the gate, and boarded a jet. As the plane lifted off from JFK, Lourdes filled her mind not with thoughts of finding Dillon, but with images of Michael.
Michael Lipranski was not obsessed by images of Lourdes. He had far too many thoughts and feelings to maintain these days, without sorting through his feelings for the girl who had shared his misery.
He stood at dawn in a flurry of snow, on a beach in southern California, which hadn’t seen snow during his lifetime, until this week. As he stood at the edge of the pounding surf, Michael slipped on his Walkman’s ear-phones, and listened to the rhythms and riffs of Insurrection, one of his favorite bands. The music helped him to dig deep within himself and find the bright, warm emotions that had been chased away by his nightmares. He thought of peaceful days stretched out on the beach. He thought of cycling down Pacific Coast Highway, and feeling the warm, ocean-scented breeze on his face. Then he turned his eyes upward, and as his spirits began to lift, they punched a hole in the dense cover of clouds.
A pinpoint of blue appeared, and as the clouds peeled back, the hole widened. The last of the snow wafted down through the air, and a chill breeze blew, but it rapidly turned warm.
Michael brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, and looked toward the horizon. He didn’t have to push back the cold that far—only about five miles, for that was as far as his mood reached. He pushed forth strong, sun-filled thoughts, and struggled to roll back the cold layer of clouds pressing in on him.
Those clouds had first rolled in on the morning of his dream about Dillon. That was three days ago—and even though Michael did his best to ignore it, each night the dream would replay itself over and over, with greater urgency, bringing a morning snowfall that he had to chase away.
Well, what am I supposed to do about Dillon ?
Michael knew there was an answer, but he chose to roll that away with the clouds as well, keeping it far from his thoughts.
Soon the retreating clouds were forced back to the edge of Michael’s reach, leaving a narrow rim like a smoke ring, ten miles wide, in the middle of clear skies. He could already feel his new mood begin to infuse not only the skies, but the people in the neighborhood around him. His gift was one of emotional resonance—a resonance so strong it seized the very skies around him, putting them in his control, forcing them to mimic the weather patterns of his own powerful emotions. It was a force so strong, it affected the nature of anyone he came in contact with, filling them with joy, or consternation—whatever was in Michael’s heart at the time.
The sun climbed out from behind Saddleback Mountain, and Michael turned to let its rays warm his face.
“What’s with you?”
Startled by the voice, Michael stumbled, nearly falling into the high-tide surf. He ripped the headphones from his ears, and turned to see the face of his friend and running partner, Drew Camden. Had Drew seen him change the weather? How would Michael explain it if he had? “How long have you been there?” Michael asked.
“Long enough to see you staring at the sky like a psycho,” said Drew casually. He didn’t seem concerned or confused; he just stretched his arms and legs, preparing for their morning run. Good, thought Michael. He didn’t make the connection. Michael glanced at his watch. It was already seven o’clock. He always lost track of time whenever he futzed with the sky.
“So what’s the deal with this weather?” said Drew, zipping open his running jacket. “It was freezing when I left my house. How did it get so warm?”
“It’s called the sun, Einstein,” said Michael.
Drew began jogging in place. “So, are we running or not?” he asked. “Let’s go; it’s time to get some color into that pasty face of yours.” Which was easy for Drew to say. Years running track had left Drew well tanned, and the sun had worked his hair enough to leave it various shades of bronze. It was a look Michael would have wanted to duplicate, but his own hair never lightened, and his pale skin just burned. Drew loved to rub it in. “C’mon, get moving,” he said. “Just because you look embalmed doesn’t mean you have to act like a corpse.”
Drew took off across the sand, toward the paved path that ran the two miles between Newport and Balboa Piers. Michael followed, filling his lungs with the fresh air, and his mind with the pleasant sights and sounds of the morning.
It was good to have a friend like Drew, who arrived like clockwork to drag him out to run. It was good to have any friends at all. The parasite that had laid waste to his soul since sixth grade, had left him friendless for four years. It had twisted people around him, turning them into bubbling cauldrons of their own most base natures. Girls lost themselves in a lust for him so powerful he had to fight them off, and guys became angry and aggressive, wanting little more than to beat the crap out of him.
But now his life had filled with others who actually thought he was worth having around. Even his father liked him. Both Drew and Michael were juniors on the track team, and although Michael had no real aspirations in track, he didn’t mind the comradery.
The beachside path was already becoming crowded now that the weather had changed. Rollerbladers in skintight Lycra wove around men and women propelling their babies in jogging-strollers. Bicycles sped past joggers and power-walkers.
This was where Michael wanted to be—not beating the bushes looking for Dillon again. He had seen enough of Dillon in the short time he knew him, and there were the constant reminders to boot: like news reports on the cleanup in Boise, and expert opinions on the mysterious “virus” that had driven people insane in the Pacific Northwest. No, Michael had no desire to think of his soul mate Dillon Cole—or for that matter, any of his other soul mates. Life was good without the Scorpion Shards. Life was a walk on the beach.
“I’m feeling prime today,” Drew said, picking up the pace as they neared Balboa Pier, and Michael kept up with him. This is a good day, thought Michael. And he was determined to keep it that way.
Michael did a pretty good job of holding up the sky that day, through the rigors of school. Afterward, at the mall, he worked his part-time job with a smile and a pleasant air that brought joy to everyone who came to the Dog Kabob.
It was around five that he began to give in to the crushing weight. The skies beyond the atrium windows were beginning to clog with clouds. Michael still felt pretty good, if somewhat tired—but his resistance was low, and he wasn’t expecting a “customer.” At least not one like this man.