The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

The car ride to Logan Airport is cramped. Not only am I still surrounded by luggage, but I’m also wedged in tight with Mirabelle Clark. I have never been this close to a girl for this length of time. I’ll be dehydrated from sweating before we even reach the dry air of the airplane cabin.

But it could be worse. She doesn’t smell like a girl. Few things irritate me more than the chemical scents women and girls douse themselves in. Scented soaps, perfumes, deodorants—they’re all bad. The worst ones are those made from animal pheromones. Don’t people realize what they’re spraying on themselves? Gross.

She also seems to have no interest in talking to me. Instead she’s playing twenty questions with my dad. More like one hundred and twenty questions. They’ve been talking photography since they shook hands. Dad seems to be enjoying the conversation as much as Mirabelle. The only interest I showed in photography was when I read all of dad’s camera manuals and how-to guides. As a result, there are several points in the conversation when I could correct both of them on the proper way to light, frame or filter a shot. But I learned to keep my mouth shut about such things long ago. No one likes a know-it-all.

What stinks about the current scenario is that I have yet to talk to Dr. Clark. My dad said we’d get to talk on the plane, but I’m starting to doubt it. He doesn’t seem all that interested in me. Back at the house, our eyes met and he looked quickly away, like he wanted nothing to do with me. I’m sure I read his face right. I’ve seen that look before. Several times.

But Dr. Clark is not the reason for this trip. I try to remind myself that. Unlike Larry Bird, Dr. Clark isn’t used to having young fans or being a role model. He may positively loathe children, though I doubt it. Mirabelle seems too well adjusted.

In fact, I think I’ll be okay with her joining us on this trip. I can’t stand most kids my age, but she’s well spoken, fairly intelligent, kind and pretty. Though that last quality is a drawback and will probably prevent us from ever really being friends.

I’m suddenly being ribbed by Mirabelle’s sharp elbow. At first it hurts, but then I remember whose elbow it is and it tickles so much I flinch away. But she and dad are laughing and don’t notice. Was there a joke at my expense? I’ll never know because they’re back to talking about cameras—Polaroid this time.

Before I can tune out the conversation again I’m punched in the shoulder. It hurts as much as one of Justin’s slugs and I have to fight the urge to cry out. But Mirabelle is smiling in my face.

“What do you think about Polaroid?” she asks.

And there it is. I’m in the conversation. I’m not sure how to answer. I don’t know what’s been said so far or if I’ll contradict it. Mirabelle has no patience for my pause.

“Well?”

“The first Polaroid camera was sold in 1947. It uses self-developing film that works when microscopic crystals of iodoquinine sulfate—”

“No, no, no,” she says, “that’s what you know. What’s your opinion of the cameras? Of the photos they take? What do you think?”

“Oh, well. I like to shake them,” I say. It’s true. Vigorously shaking a Polaroid photo gives me some kind of strange satisfaction. I have yet to determine why.

She’s nodding, but has a look on her face that says, who doesn’t? And she’s waiting for more.

“They provide instant gratification, which is fun I suppose, but the images are small, not nearly as clear and seem to fade quickly.”

She punches me again. “There, you see?” She’s talking to my dad. “Exactly what I said, but more intelligent sounding. Not great quality, but instant gratification.”

Before I realize it, she’s got her head on my shoulder. Her curling blond hair tickles my cheek. And a Polaroid camera rises in front of us. As my nervousness at her close proximity rises to near panic status, a flash of light blinds me. While my eyes recover, I feel a faint breeze and hear a repetitious flapping. When I finally recover, I see Mirabelle leaning over, writing on something with a permanent marker. Then she’s back up and handing me a Polaroid picture.

“The first of many memories,” she says.

I take the picture and look at it, dumbfounded by what I see. There’s Mirabelle, smiling wide, eyes unbelievably dark, head on my shoulder. And then there’s me. Despite my nervous jitters I look happy. Really happy. In fact, this might be the first photo of me sporting a genuine smile.

Beneath the photo, Mirabelle has written: Mira and Sol, 1987.

“Mira,” I say, reading her name.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she says.

“Why not Mirabelle?”

“Kind of a mouthful. Does your family call you Solomon?”

They don’t. I shake my head, no.

“Well, we’re both lucky. Our names sound just as good shortened as they do long.”