Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(11)

“There’s no time to talk about it—Agatha might be in trouble!” I wasn’t planning on saying this, but then I did, and it wasn’t a lie. She really might be. Historically, she has been.

Then Micah said, “It is a day ending with ‘-day,’ isn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you not believe that Agatha’s in danger?”

“No, I believe it. Agatha’s in danger. And Simon’s hit a rough patch. And Baz has a dark secret. And there’s probably some conspiracy that you can’t tell me about. The whole World of Mages is probably at stake!”

I decided to pretend Micah wasn’t angry. So that he could stop being angry at any moment without it being a big thing. I said—“Well, I don’t know that there’s not a shadow conspiracy.…”

And he said, “Whatever, Penelope. Do what you want to do. You will anyway.”

“I’ll do what I have to do,” I said, “not what I want to do.”

And then Micah didn’t say anything.

“Micah? Micah, are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you think I’m making all this up?” (There’s a difference, I think, between making something up and exaggerating.) “No.”

“Micah…” I tried to make my voice softer, smaller. “Maybe you could go to California with us. We could use your help.”

“I have my internship.”

“Well, we’re flying into Chicago anyway. If you change your mind—”

“Agatha might be in danger, right? You should fly straight there.”

“I suppose that’s true.…”

“And we’ll talk when you get back,” he said. “When things settle down for you.”

And then he hung up.

And that convinced me that I was right to plan this trip. It’s been far too long since Micah and I have touched base. Whatever we need to talk about, it will be better to do it in person.





11





BAZ


Bunce’s boyfriend lives in a subdivision inside a suburb.

“The houses are so far apart,” Snow says. Now that we’re off the motorway, we can hear each other speak again. “It seems a bit greedy, doesn’t it? Just to take up as much space as you can?”

“They’re not that far apart,” I say.

“Not to you; you grew up in a mansion.”

“I grew up at the top of a tower,” I say. “With you.”

“It’s that one!” Bunce says, pointing.

I park in the driveway and start to get out of the car, but Bunce pushes me down and climbs over me. “You guys wait here.”

“I want to see Micah!” Snow says. “Are you embarrassed by us?”

“Yes,” she says, “but I’ll come back for you anyway. I just want to see him alone for a moment.”

She smooths down her T-shirt, but she still looks like she spent the night on a plane—and Bunce tends to look a bit absurd, even at her freshest. She dresses like she’s still in Watford uniform, or wishes she was. Short, tartan skirts. Knee socks. Mary Janes or brogues. The only concession she’s made to civilian life is a series of oversized T-shirts. I wonder if she even realizes she still wears so much purple and green.

Bunce gets halfway up the driveway, then turns back, holding out her hands and mouthing, “Stay there!”

“We get it!” Snow shouts. “We embarrass you!”

She throws her hands in the air, and runs up to the house.

Snow and I are alone. He reaches out and touches the gear stick. “It’s still warm.”

I nod.

“Does it feel different?” he asks. “Than your car at home?”

“Hulkier,” I say. “Harder to control.… Do you want to try it?”

Snow’s still holding on to the gear stick. “I can’t even drive an automatic.”

“I—” I shrug. “I could teach you?”

“Here?”

“Why not here? No one will notice. There’s no traffic.”

Snow looks very young, his eyebrows scrunched down, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to try this. I open my car door. “Come on.”

I get out, and he climbs across to the driver’s side, rubbing his hands on his jeans. (Simon Snow in America: jeans and a white T-shirt, skin already pinking up from the sun.) I take his place in the passenger seat. “All right,” I say, sounding a bit like Coach Mac, “the handbrake is on, so we’re not going anywhere.”

“Right.”

“Now, press down on the clutch. It’s the pedal on the—”

“I know, I’ve played Gran Turismo.”

“Fine. So, the clutch is always down when you start and when you change gears. Feel it out for a minute.”

He pumps the clutch harder than he needs to, but I don’t correct him. Easy does it isn’t in Snow’s behavioural vocabulary.

“Now put your hand on the gear stick.”

Snow grabs it. I lay my hand over his and try to shake his wrist loose. “Relax. We’re just practising. The car is off, and the brake is on. We’re just seeing how it feels.…” I move the gear stick back and forth. “This is neutral.” I push his hand over and then down. “And this is reverse.”