Shimmer

1

The refrigerator was empty, and Emma Driscoll groaned, because it meant she’d have to buy something from one of the vending machines at school. What good was having a chef for a mother if the woman never brought food into the house? Well, Emma didn’t have time to worry about it; she was running late for the bus.

Grabbing her black parka with the faux-fur-lined hood, she ran to the door and threw it open in time to see the bus easing toward the corner. Oh, crap, she muttered, fumbling with the house keys. She managed to lock the door and get her parka on before the bus came to a stop, but she was going to miss her ride if she didn’t run. Emma juggled her books, secured them against her chest, and started running.

She hated taking the bus, but she figured she’d hate missing the bus more. School was two miles from the duplex her mother rented. It was already snowing and the wind was picking up. There was no way she was walking, so she ran.

But running wasn’t easy. Deep snow slowed her steps no matter how hard she willed her legs to move. The bus door began to close though Emma was still two houses away.

Hey! she cried. Wait!

She poured on the steam. The bus’s doors closed, and her heart sank, but she kept running, grateful the vehicle wasn’t yet pulling away.

In any other city the school board would have already declared a snow day, but not in Winter. Apparently, snow was so common that half the school year would be forfeited if they let a few inches of accumulation close things down.

Wait! she repeated, gasping in a lungful of icy air.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the bus. Normally, she could have run ten times as far and not even broken a sweat, but the freezing cold and the thick snow exhausted her prematurely. She leaned on the side of the bus and knocked on the door with a flat palm.

Oh great, I forgot my gloves, she thought.

The door opened and a wall of welcomed heat poured out. Thank you, Emma told the bus driver, a heavy man in his late forties whose name she did not know.

Welcome, he said, slapping the doors closed behind her. Find a seat. I can’t move this crate until you’re sitting down.

I’m on it, Emma said, still out of breath. She looked down the aisle of the bus, trying to ignore the glares of disdain she received from three quarters of the kids.

In Winter, Colorado, there was a feud underway. It had been going on for some time now, and it was between the longtime residents of the city and a bunch of newcomers. Though always a retreat for the wealthy, Winter was not a full-blown resort like Vail or Aspen, but that was rapidly changing. Not so long ago, ranching and copper mining were the money games in Winter, but now it was tourism. In the last three years, new condominium complexes and boutique hotels had sprung up in the village along with a number of high-end shops. The new hotel, where Emma’s mother would be a chef, was pretty much the nail in the coffin of the old ways. The Hawthorn Resort and Spa was a twenty-two-floor building the color of sandstone. Emma thought the place looked cool, really chic compared to the old lodge-y looking hotels on the edge of the village, but she knew the locals thought it was awful, like a statue built to the gods of progress.

Since her mother was employed by this evil enterprise, naturally the town kids hated her: She was part of the problem, part of the invading force, climbing their mountain to destroy them with iPhones and flat-panel LCD televisions—not that Emma or her mother could afford either of those. As if moving to a new town wasn’t hard enough, she’d walked into class that first day feeling like a convict headed to the lethal-injection gurney.

Near the back of the bus, a hand shot up, and Emma was thrilled to see her only friend. She waved back and moved faster down the aisle.

Christina Brown insisted on being called Betina. Betina wore all-black outfits, giving her an overly serious look. As Betina explained it, she was neo-goth. She admired the despondence of the goth movement, but thought the overall look was for crap, so she accentuated her dark attire with simple jewelry and almost no makeup. She also resisted dyeing her hair black, preferring it to remain a natural dirty blond.

Emma walked a little faster over the wet floor where clumps of snow melted into the narrow grooves of the rubber mat. The air in the bus was humid, and it smelled of damp wool and cotton. It was a familiar, even pleasant, scent, Emma thought. Just like in elementary school and middle school. So many other things changed, but not the funky scent of a school bus on a snowy day.

She took the seat next to Betina and noticed that her friend had written School Blows in the condensation on the window. She also noticed Betina had excellent penmanship.

You shouldn’t have run, Betina said dryly. He wasn’t going anywhere.

No reason everyone should have to wait for me.

That’s so not goddess. It’s reverse goddess. Anti-goddess, if you will.

You get weirder every day.

I’m a calendar of the bizarre.

Emma laughed and leaned back in the seat. I figure most of these kids hate me enough without adding to the problem by holding up the bus.

They’d hate you, anyway.

Thanks, Betina.

Look, it’s tribal. They had something and now other people are coming in to take it away from them, and most of them are too stupid to realize it wasn’t all that great to begin with.

So they hate what I represent?

No, Betina said. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

Emma laughed again and slapped her friend’s shoulder. Did you get your assignment done for Dickinson’s class?

Betina pulled a notebook out of her black bag and opened it. She searched its contents for a moment and yanked out three sheets of paper that had been stapled together. Across the top of the front page, printed in eighteen-point bold font, were the words: Written Under Duress.

You didn’t.

What choice did I have? Betina asked. An end-of-semester book report? Come on. How lame. It was obviously Dickinson’s attempt to manipulate our time with irrelevant busywork. The reading list had nothing to do with our course of study. It’s a blatant power play that I for one will not let pass unnoted.

He’s so going to fail you.

He can’t fail me. I did the work. It’s how you change the system from within.

Emma had worked really hard on her report, both its content and its presentation, but she liked Mr. Dickinson and loved his class, so she didn’t see the report as a burden. It was hard, but only because she wanted it to be good. Her mother always told her that grades were the only asset she would have when she applied to colleges. They’d never had much money, and certainly not enough to fund Emma’s higher education, so she needed to keep the grades up and apply for every academic scholarship she could find. That meant playing by the rules.

Betina’s parents had probably put more than enough away for their daughter to attend whatever college she wanted. Knowing Betina, though, she was more the type to bum around for a year or two before settling into anything as normal as college. She might not even want to go.

So what are we going to do during the break? Betina asked. I so can’t bear the idea of spending two weeks with my family.

I don’t know, Emma replied, feeling a flash of relief. She’d worried that since she was new, she wouldn’t have anyone to hang out with over the holiday break. The Hawthorn Resort was opening on Christmas Eve, so her mother would be working long hours, and their duplex wasn’t really close to anything. She was grateful to know that Betina was staying in town, though she had no idea what they’d do.

What do you usually do around here? I’m new, remember?

We do nothing, Betina said blandly. We are nothing. We watch the snow fall and then watch the snow melt. This year, we’ll watch ten thousand tourists descend on us, and we’ll laugh at their false joy, knowing happiness is merely a rest stop on the long, hellish road of life. Sound like fun?

Totally.

They both laughed, completely oblivious to the other kids around them. Finally Betina resumed her sullen expression and stared out the window. We’ll figure something out, she said, poking the glass with her finger. But nothing really happens around here.

2

Justin Moore paused in the hallway and peered into his dad’s home office. He wasn’t snooping, because the door was wide open. Besides, he didn’t really care what his pops kept in the room. Still, he paused, because there was a strange box sitting on the desk. It was small, like if you made a cube out of CD cases, and it seemed to be carved from some deep gray stone. Weird, he thought.

Ahead in the kitchen, his stepmother called for him to hurry up: Breakfast is getting cold.

Justin left the doorway and continued on to the kitchen, where he found his stepmother, Brandy, leaning over the stove. Justin liked Brandy well enough. She was cool, if a little out there. Today she wore her lavender running suit and her matching running shoes. It must be Thursday, he thought. Pilates.

Whatever she was cooking smelled awful, but then it usually did. Brandy always experimented with food, like a mad scientist with a Cuisinart. She spent hours watching cooking shows, taking notes, and nodding her head as if those bozo chefs were speaking directly to her, but she somehow never quite got the hang of fixing a meal that could slip easily past his gag reflex.

Just once he’d like to come into the kitchen and discover bacon and scrambled eggs that hadn’t undergone one of Brandy’s insane experiments. Hell, he’d be happy enough with cold cereal or Pop-Tarts. He supposed it was cool she tried; he just wished she’d find another guinea pig.

Hey, Justin said.

Morning, honey, Brandy replied. Breakfast is on the table.

Justin passed through the kitchen to the dining table, where his baby brother was already strapped into a high chair. Brendan was ten months old, and Justin loved the little guy.

How’s the rock star? Justin asked of Brendan.

Goo-aw, Brendan said.

That’s right, keep it real. Justin leaned over and kissed the top of his kid brother’s head, then looked down at the table, where he was greeted by a plate of…well…he really didn’t know.

It’s huevos rancheros, Brandy called cheerfully from the kitchen. Italian style.

Not knowing exactly what to make of the description, Justin thanked his stepmother and sat next to his brother.

Goo-aw.

I couldn’t agree more, Justin said in an imitation of his father’s voice.

Goo-AW!

Justin laughed and turned to the nightmare on his plate. He knew eggs were somehow involved in the Technicolor sewage, though their exact whereabouts eluded him. A thick red paste flecked with green and brown covered a substantial lump at the plate’s center. Chunks of sausage, bright pink against the crimson sauce, stuck out like bits of lung from a gaping chest wound.

Nice imagery, he thought. As if it wasn’t going to be hard enough to eat without that nod to slasher flicks.

Brandy strolled in with her own breakfast: two pieces of dry toast and a mug of coffee.

Now, your father and I will be gone when you get home from school, Brandy reminded him.

Yep, Justin said. And the orgy will start promptly at six.

Well, you play safe, Brandy said.

You didn’t think I was serious?

Brandy shrugged and took a bite of toast.

She had thought he was serious. Justin shook his head and returned his attention to the mess on his plate. He cut a forkful of the solid substance loose and jabbed it with the fork. He took a bite and felt his cheeks flush. Nasty.

Look, I know your father has his rule about parties, Brandy continued, but it might be a good way to make some friends. I still feel really bad that we dragged you out here away from your friends in Houston, so I left a little something for you in the microwave. If you decide to have a few kids over, you can at least have something to eat.

Justin was afraid to ask what Brandy might have left in the microwave. He knew damn well the last thing he would do if anyone actually came over was feed them something of her creation. Poisoning didn’t exactly make a guy Mr. Popularity.

Thank you, he said, nearly choking. What the hell was in this stuff?

Not with your mouth full, honey.

Justin nodded. Next to him, Brendan was gurgling and slapping at the tray of his high chair, seeming as happy as could be.

Are you sure you don’t want to come along, Justin? Brandy looked too serious and a bit pouty—always big with the drama.

It’s your second honeymoon, he said. Besides, you’ve got the rock star to take care of. I’ll be skiing the whole time. Don’t sweat it.

Well, try to make some friends.

His dad wandered into the kitchen. He was a burly man with thick dark hair brushed straight back. His face was round, and if he’d had a neck, Justin had never seen it. This morning he wore a blue sport shirt and black slacks, looking like an extra from The Sopranos.

Brandy turned and looked over her shoulder. Let me get you something, she called.

Don’t bother, Jim Moore replied.

Suit yourself, but I made huevos rancheros, Italian style.

Yeah well, I’m sure I can get diarrhea in New York.

Brandy turned back to Justin and said, Tell him how good it is.

He’d managed only three bites the whole time he’d been sitting at the dining table, but he figured he shouldn’t have to suffer alone. Yeah, Dad. They’re pretty damn good.

Really? his dad asked, leaning back to peer into the dining room. He looked hopeful for a moment, then must have seen through the lie on Justin’s smiling face. Yeah, he said. I’ll just grab something at the hotel.

You’re missing out, Brandy said.

Eh. Oh, hey! Justin. Jim Moore hurried into the dining room and crossed to the far side of the table to face him. I got this thing in my office. Someone is going to come by tomorrow to pick it up. Jim pointed his finger at Justin and wagged it as he spoke. Now, I don’t want you mucking around with it. Just leave it on my desk until the guy gets here. He’s some professor from D.U.

Is it that box thing?

His dad scowled. You been in my office?

No, Justin said. Your door was open. I saw it when I was coming down the hall.

Looking suspicious, yet convinced, his dad nodded. Yeah, that’s it.

What is it?

Don’t know. The blast crew found it Tuesday night. It was in a cave near the peak. They opened up a whole maze of the damned things blasting that snow away. Anyhow, they brought it down, and it looked strange enough to be worth something. Teddy eyeballed it and thought we should have an expert give it a look. He emailed a few shots of the thing to this professor he knows, and now the guy wants to come out and give it a closer look.

I have school tomorrow, you know.

I’m fully aware of your schedule, sport. He’ll be here around four. Just give him the box and be done with it. Now, do you have everything you need before we go?

I got the plastic.

Good. And what is my rule about parties?

Justin sat up straight and crossed his hands in his lap, then somberly said, If I have a party, it will serve as my funeral and my wake.

I’m serious.

No kidding, Justin said. He stood up and rubbed the top of Brendan’s head.

Goo-wa-wa-phft.

He’s serious, Justin whispered, watching his dad’s cheeks turn red. Thanks for the grub, Brandy. I got to get my groovy on.

You’re welcome, honey, Brandy said, apparently not noticing that he hadn’t eaten even half of the meal.

Justin walked down the hall to his bedroom. Inside he crossed to the printer and lifted the stack of pages from its rack. He read the headline and nodded, thinking it looked good enough.

It read:

AVALANCHE PARTY!

3

Russ Foster heard the front door click closed and opened his eyes. He gazed at the ceiling, wiped the sleep away, and rolled over to see what his alarm clock had to say. A flash of fear ran through his chest as he read the digital display, but he couldn’t focus yet. At first, it looked like he’d slept two extra hours, but that number wasn’t a nine; it was a seven. He wasn’t late for school.

Coffee, he groaned, rolling out of