Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(67)

She sat forward now, ran a hand along her leg, the way she did when she’d not shaved for a few days. Then she said, “You like school, Chris?”

“Hated it.”

“For real?” She looked surprised. “Why? Bad grades? What?”

“Marks were OK. It was—I dunno. The rules, I suppose. Don’t ride your bike, don’t go near the river, don’t—I can’t even remember now.”

She smiled, amused.

“Yeah. I can see you’d have some problems there.”

A marching band went by, down in the street. A big silver balloon, shaped like a fighter plane, bobbed and wobbled over everybody’s heads. In silence, like TV with the sound off.

Like las Sombras.

Little lights were floating in the air, high above the crowds, though still twenty, thirty feet below me. Whatever I had seen before, it had changed, congealed, until it looked like snowflakes, shining in the desert sun. They drifted, or else flowed en masse, propelled by sudden currents, swirling, spinning . . .

I glanced at Angel. Glanced down.

My phone was in my hand. I checked it one more time, then put it on the tabletop.

“Bet you were studious,” I said.

“Studious does not say half of what I was. I mean, you met my mom and dad. They’re teachers, right? I never stood a chance! Plus—and this is serious, now—for people their age, education was like, such a thing. They knew what it was like, starting out two steps back from everybody else. You didn’t waste your opportunities. And I guess some of that rubbed off on me, too. So pretty soon, it’s Angel Farthing, star student. I was into everything—music, sports, even the spelling bee. And I’ll admit—I maybe got a bit big for my boots there, just for a while. Not saying I acted like an asshole or anything. But I was maybe headed in that direction. And I would act like I was so, so busy all the time, even when I was just goofing off— “Well, long story short. I left school, found out it doesn’t matter, being best in class. Oh, sure, it’s great to have the grades, it’s great to graduate. But school is just one tiny place and all the rules are different there. It’s not real life. Besides—I was never going to be the next Cathy Berberian. I knew it, too. Lots of people got a bit of talent. I’m good enough to know what’s good, and why it’s good, and what is really good. And that it isn’t me.”

Again, she raised a hand to stop me speaking.

“But here’s the best thing, out of all this, I found it out in time. There’s people who spend half their lives, trying and trying, going to auditions, hoping for a break. All ’cause, some time in their lives, they got it in their heads that they were special. You tell ’em they’re not good enough, they dig their heels in, they fight even harder. And you know—you know they’re never going to make it.

“Well, that’s not me.

“Big disappointment, yeah. But I put it all behind me, like a big girl, and I learned to live with it, and pretty soon, it didn’t even bother me. So I go back to school, think I’ll be a teacher or researcher or whatever. I like studying. I’m good at it. Just . . . when I was young, I had these big ideas, and one day, one day, I was going to make this awesome music . . .”

“And you think that’s what you’re hearing?”

“Feels like it.”

“So it’s, what . . . frustrated ambition, or something?”

“Yeah. But you’re missing the point. I can’t be hearing it. Because there is no music. Doesn’t exist. Never did, never will. I’ve thought it through a lot, the last few days. It’s like an echo, what I’m hearing. It’s an echo, but there’s no original. That’s why I don’t remember it. You shout, you get an echo back. But with this—nobody shouted.”

“It’s been getting to you, though.”

“It has been, yeah. But right this minute? I couldn’t give a damn. Really. When it’s happening, when it’s going on—there’s a buzz. A real buzz. And when it’s done, it’s like the biggest fucking letdown in the world. I mean, this is the gods, right? Screwing with my head. It ought to be, it ought to be amazing, it ought to be—real. Something you can grab, and hold—”

I said, “You haven’t got a god in you. Not even a bit.”

“Then why’s this happening? Keeps happening? Why?”

“Because . . . they mess with you. With everyone. You’ve been near them before, you know the way it is. And when you work, you recognize it, put it on one side, and do your job.”

“You think I’m capable?”

“I’m sure. You’re just not used to it yet.”

I had told her father there were risks, but they were limited. And usually, they were.

Except for when they weren’t.

“It’s real?” she said.

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you—I’ve had times, doing retrievals—I’ve had thoughts and feelings so clear to me, absolutely clear and real. Memories I took for granted, they were just so much a part of things. But I put them on one side, told myself, all right, think about it later.” I put my face up to the window. “Half the time, I’d get to it, and—nope. Total lie.”

“Mine’s real.”