How to Repair a Mechanical Heart

Chapter Eleven


Near the mouth of the crystal spider cave, now definitively sealed by a Xaarg-generated avalanche, Cadmus and Sim huddle together for warmth. Or Cadmus huddles close to Sim, if you want to get technical about it. Sim controls his own body temperature. He turns up his own regulation switch, just behind his right ear, and then dials it back when the heat gets too much.

“Captain, I must apologize for this detour,” says Sim. “I have long suspected a malfunction in my compass application.”

“Ahhh, don’t be sorry.” Cadmus shivers. He pats Sim’s arm and gives it a squeeze. “It’s Xaarg. Either way, we were screwed.”

Some girl goes Boom-chicka-wow-wowww, and giggles erupt in the Lunar Rose Coffeehouse. That flyer didn’t mention this was a Season 4 marathon, or that 80% of their clientele are apparent Cadsim shippers. By the time the cave episode rolls around, I’ve already endured the full horror of hearing Sim’s best lines chanted out loud, like some kind of deluded shipper incantation, by a bunch of girls in costumes and homemade t-shirts that say TEAM CADSIM in blue glitter. Abel and I scrunch down on a battered velvet couch at the back of the room, hoping no one recognizes us from Screw Your Sensors. These girls would eat us for dinner.

I check the door every few minutes. No Hell Bells spies yet. Abel’s probably right‌—‌who would follow us here?

“This episode blows,” whispers Abel. He’s sipping a cinnamon latte and scarfing a second giant snickerdoodle, like he didn’t just show me his naked torso less than two hours ago. I still can’t look him in the eye. But at least we’re not fighting.

“I know,” I whisper back. “Terrible.”

“That speech Cadmus gives Sim about how his dad missed his graduation?”

“Shameless.”

“So out of character.”

“Sim’s should-I-have-stayed-human angst is a two-ton anvil, too.”

“Yeah, like, why do we need a Breakfast Club scene where they talk it into the ground?”

Onscreen, the arm touch segues into lingering eye contact and the girls go bananas: Kiss, kiss, kiss! I shake my head.

“It’s fanservice. Pure and simple.”

“It’s lazy. Snickerdoodle?”

“Just a tiny piece.”

Abel breaks a big chunk off for me and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. I move a little bit, just out of habit.

“Oh‌…‌I’m not in your space, am I?” he grins.

“Shut up.”

“You started it,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you disappeared on me. Call it even.”

“Sorry,” he mutters around his cookie.

“Why’d you just leave like that?”

“I dunno. Shandley was such a dicksmack, I couldn’t deal. You get in your bubble, you forget what the rest of the world’s like.”

“I don’t think he’s a bigot.”

“Self-loather?”

“Maybe.”

“Ugh. They should die in a fire.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Sooner they go extinct, the better. They make us look bad.”

“Don’t you feel sorry for them, though?”

Abel flicks my ear. “Quit being nice,” he says. “You make me feel like a turd.”

“Sorry.”

He takes another bite and brushes crumbs off his shirt, red with a neon old-school joystick on the front. He leans his head back and lets out a long, showy sigh. “So he hooked up with Arch.”

“Who did?”

He makes a duh face. “Kade.”

“Oh.”

“Arch. Even his stupid name tries too hard. He’s like 27 and he wears these Goth t-shirts from the mall.” Abel wipes foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand. “He met my sister once at Antonelli’s when my family was out to dinner, like right after she published the book with Mom, and he talked to her like she was a cocker spaniel. And then he was all like ‘I really admire people with Down syndrome,’ like he was in a stupid man-pageant and the world-peace answer already got used up. He asked her for a signed copy of Susannah Says. I wanted to kick him in the nuts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I really really liked him.”

“Arch?”

“Kade.”

“I know.”

“And he was all like, ‘Uh, I’m sorry, were we monogamous? I missed the memo.’ Like it’s my fault he just couldn’t wait to f*ck someone horrible.”

“That sucks.”

“Susannah didn’t like him. I should’ve known. My sister can spot a cockpunch from fifty paces.”

“Screw him.”

“Screw him.”

“He was too skinny anyway.”

“You think?”

“He looked like a stork.” I grab another chunk of snickerdoodle. “And that name? Kade?”

“Tacky. I know.”

“Kade and Abel. Like you’re reading Genesis with a cold.”

He laughs like pffffff! and sprays tiny crumbs. “You been saving that one?”

“Since we left.”

“Well played. Hey, can I tell him we’re doing it?”

“Huh?”

“He was jealous of you. It would make him nuts.”

“Why was he‌—‌”

“Ugh, forget it. Forget it! Why bother? I don’t care.”

Abel knots his arms and sighs at the screen, his knee leaning lightly on mine. I try to refocus on the show. Sim and Cadmus aren’t in this scene; it’s the subplot with Dr. Lagarde and Dutchie fighting over the rescue mission. Dutchie yells, Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you’re right! All I hear is He was jealous of you.

He was jealous. Of you.

Then I get the shoulder tap.

“’Scuse me‌…‌hello? Hi-ii!”

I steel myself and turn around slowly. It’s this short girl with thick brown hair, a glee-club smile, and a tinfoil Xaarg hat. She’s got on these goofy glasses with pink plastic frames and a white tank top that spells out BELIEVER in little craft-store diamonds. She leans right over me to talk to Abel.

“You’re the guy from the Q&A!” she says.

Abel lights up. “C’est moi.”

“I think it’s really cool what you said to Tom Shandley. He was being a creep.”

“Aww, thanks!”

“Everyone was talking about it. You’re like, convention-famous.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Thanks for defending Cadsim.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t really‌—‌”

“Can I get a picture with you?”

“Uh‌—‌yeah. Of course!”

This is so dumb, but I figure I’ll let Abel have his moment. “Want me to take it?” I ask Pink Glasses.

“Who are you? Are you his boyfriend?”

“We’re just friends right now.” Right now?

“Oh, you get in too! Here, my friend’ll‌—‌ANNIE! Take our picture, okay?”

This stringy blonde comes skulking over. She’s got on Cleopatra eyeliner and a black tank top with a small silver Castaway Planet logo, and she looks vaguely embarrassed that she’s required to exist, let alone document the evening. Pink Glasses perches on the edge of the couch and leans into us while Annie snaps photos. Then she grabs the camera back and takes a few more herself, framing the shots and barking orders like a fashion photographer: “Smile for my CastieCon scrapbook!” “Look super-sexy, guys!”

Abel blows kisses and aims a silly grin at the camera. It’s good to see him do that, even if he’s playing it up. There’s something about his face when he smiles, like he’s a stained-glass window with sun beaming through. I have to smile too.

“Captain‌…‌I notice you are still awake.”

Onscreen, it’s time for the big Cadsim scene. The girls abandon picture-taking; clasp hands and dart off with a squeal. Abel nudges me.

“Pink Glasses and Annie,” he whispers. “I kind of ship it.”

All the girls find their seats and the room gets so church-quiet you can practically smell holy water. Abel shifts closer‌—‌not to touch me or anything, just to draw a clear line between us and them. Warmth glows in the sliver of space between us. We each train our eyes on half the TV screen: his boy on the left and mine on the right, murmuring to each other in the dark.

“I’m so tired of running. Tired of the fight.” The girls in front recite it reverently, in perfect sync with Cadmus. “You know, I’m almost glad I’m stuck here with you. I’m free here. I don’t have to hold it together.”

“Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Captain. You are always free.”

“Not like this. I only feel this way when you’re around. Maybe we should just stay here forever, huh?”

“The notion is highly impractical, though you would be an agreeable companion.”

“It’s so quiet in here, Sim.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Like it could swallow up all your secrets.”

“Quite‌…‌”

Meaningful look. Another lingering arm touch. Fade to black.

Abel pokes me and I gulp in some air.

For crap’s sake: the holy-grail scene of the world’s most ridiculous, implausible ship, and I was holding my breath with the rest of the room.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” he says.

I close my eyes and shudder. “Definitely.”

***


Across the street from the Superion Inn, within sight of the Sunseeker’s parking spot, St. Agnes is having a summer fair in its freshly blacktopped lot. The second he spots the plaster clown head from the cab, Abel wigs out and I know I’m getting dragged over no matter what.

We buy a roll of red tickets from a standard-issue church lady‌—‌billowy flowered blouse, little gold cross, glasses dangling from a beaded chain‌—‌and roam around the crowded fair. It’s pretty much like every other church fair I’ve been to. The basketball toss has the same sad shredded net, kids shriek in a red and blue bouncy castle and chuck dented ping-pong balls at goldfish bowls, and the snack stands sell sausages and roasted corncobs and cones of hot popcorn in that radioactive yellow. Everything’s familiar. Except now I’m here with a boy.

It’s weird. No one’s giving us a second glance now, but it would be so easy to attract bad attention. All I’d have to do is slip my hand in Abel’s and walk around like that, like all the other teenage couples linking arms and holding hands and kissing in line for the dunking booth. I can see the expressions now. Guys who look like my dad, chewing their tongues and hunching their shoulders up. Women who look like my mom, sighing a little and glancing away but thinking so loud I can hear every word.

And they would be right.

“What’s up, Tin Man?” Abel pokes me.

“Hm?”

“You all right? Your bolts too tight?”

“I’m fine.”

This shivery energy thrums between us. I tell myself it’s sugar and caffeine. Keep my arms folded in front of me.

We try a few rounds at the ring-toss stand and Abel just misses our shot to win a giant stuffed penguin with a half-unraveled scarf. To make up for it, he runs over to a stand and buys me a puff of blue cotton candy. Like we’re dating or something. I can’t look him in the eye when he hands me the white paper cone, so I glance past the rides and snack stands to where the blond stone wall of the church is, but I can’t let my eyes linger there either. It’s like looking at a house you don’t live in anymore. You wish you could go in again, but strangers live there now and you aren’t welcome, and it wouldn’t be the same anyway.

“So what were we talking about?” says Abel. “Back in the cab?”

I tug off a small neat piece of cotton candy, the color of Sim’s hair. “If they were on Earth. Their jobs.”

“Right, right.” Abel helps himself to a big bite of fluff; a fleck of it melts on his nose. “Sim would make a perfect priest.”

“Nooo. No no no. Absolutely not.”

“How come? The self-denial thing would be cake.”

“I don’t see him like that.”

“So what do you see?”

“Cadmus. As a bartender.”

“Pardon me.”

“Mmm, like some super-cheesy creeper from the seventies. He’d unbutton his shirt and make‌—‌you know. What’s like, an old drink no one drinks anymore?”

“Harvey Wallbangers.”

“You made that up.”

“I did not. You need to come to my theme parties.”

“No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to wake up in your bathtub with my eyebrow shaved off.”

“That only happened once, and Alex deserved it.”

We stop in front of the Tilt-a-Whirl. A light summer breeze unsettles our t-shirts and lifts all the hair on my arms. The cotton candy’s left this cute little blue spot on his nose. I can’t help myself. I lick the tip of my index finger and rub at it: gently, like he’ll crumble if I touch him too hard.

He giggles. “What’re you doing, freako?”

“Sorry, it’s driving me nuts.”

Be careful, says Father Mike.

Abel catches my hand and twirls me around. “Let’s get on.”

“What?”

“The Tilt-a-Whirl.”

“Nah.”

“Why?” He cocks his head at me. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“No! No, I love rides,” I lie. “It’s just‌—‌I just ate, you know?”

“Oh, come on. Pretend it’s the Starsetter. We can write our very own horrible Cadsim fic.” He’s edging us close to the Tilt-a-Whirl line. “I’m a rogue captain on the run‌…‌I steal a starship and kidnap you, the hot navigation android programmed to do the right thing‌…‌or are you?” Couples step up on the creaky platform, settle into identical half-shell cars. “How should our fic start? We get stuck in an elevator‌—‌”

“No no. We meet in your bar,” I break in, ducking away from the line. “It’s an alternate-universe earthfic.”

“Bold choice,” Abel follows me, grinning. “Okay. You be Cadmus.”

“Noooo.”

“Why not? Stretch yourself.”

“No way.”

“Okay, fine.” Abel slips on his Cadmus shades and makes wiping motions above a picnic table. “Hey there, customer. What can I pour you this fine evening?”

“Oh, ah, I am unsure.” My ears get hot. Why did I start this? “I am an android, and as such I have no need to imbibe.”

“So how come you’re at my bar?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps a malfunction in my compass application.”

Abel narrows his eyes, like Cadmus does when he’s negotiating with Xaarg. “I smell a lie,” he says. “You came to get laid, didn’t you?”

Two nuns stroll by. My face burns. “Negative,” I murmur.

“Aw, why not? Makes you feel like a real boy.”

“I am uninterested.”

“Uninterested? You smooth like a Ken doll down there?”

“On the contrary. While I have had many, ah, high-quality partners, the simple fact is‌—‌”

Flirting can seem like harmless fun‌—‌Chapter 8, Put on the Brakes!‌—‌But that person you’re teasing is a vessel of the Holy Spirit. Should you really be treating them like a carnival ride?

“Ye-es?” Abel’s grinning. Waiting.

I clear my throat, scramble for Sim words.

They’re gone.

“I can’t do this.”

“Why not? You’re good.”

“No, it’s just‌—‌you know.”

“What?”

I gallop my fingers on the picnic bench. Think. Think. Lie. “Um, well, Zander and I used to joke around like this all the time, so‌—‌”

“Oh my God!” Abel slams his hand on the picnic table. An abandoned paper boat of French fries tips off the edge, splatters ketchup in the grass. “Will you shut it about Zander already!”

“But it’s true.”

“I don’t care!”

“It’s just part of who I am. I can’t change it.”

“Christ.” He shoves both hands in his hair. “You know what, Brandon? You know what? That is IT!”

His hot hand locks around my wrist and before I can open my mouth again he’s yanking me through the crowd, past the Tilt-a-Whirl and the candy-striped tents and a bunch of kids playing that balloon-dart game that rattled my nerves as a kid. Pop pop pop. My insides crackle. He could do anything with me now, take me anywhere.

We stop behind the funhouse.

He slams me up against it.

I turn my face fast, fix my eyes on the funhouse mural. Creepy clowns, sword-swallowers, Mardi Gras masks.

“Look at me,” he hisses.

“Why?”

He grabs my face and turns my head slowly. My eyes press shut.

“Look at me,” he says.

I hear my dad: Never ever stare directly at the sun.

“Fine, then. Don’t. Just listen. Listen to every single word, okay?” He grips my shoulders. “Zander. Is. Gone. G-O-N-E. No more!‌—‌I’m serious, Brandon!” He shakes me. “This is total insanity and I want you to repeat after me: I. Am. Damaged.” Screams from the funhouse. “Say it!”

I whisper, “I am damaged.”

“I am acting like a pathetic irrational loonytunes in direct opposition to my actual awesomeness.”

“I’m pathetic,” I admit.

“I need to be punched in the face repeatedly and then kissed until my lips hurt.”

I open my eyes. Across from the funhouse, a mini-freefall jerks a carful of kids off the ground. They shudder to the top, right under a clown’s gruesome red mouth. The car stops a second, just for torture, and then drops them down with a mechanical whoosh like when Cadmus stole Sim, the door of his charging dock sighing open in a white breath of steam.

“Go ahead!” Abel prods. “Say it.”

“I need to be‌…‌”

“Say it! You know it’s true.”

“Punched‌…‌”

“In the face.”

“In the face.”

“Repeatedly.”

“And then‌—‌”

He kisses me.

It’s not gentle, the way I picture it with Sim. It’s rough and hard but in a funny way, like in old movies when their faces desperately smash together and then they break apart and breathe their poetic devotion. Abel’s hands are firm and warm around my face. The rest of the fair dissolves; I’m on another planet that’s spinning so fast I can feel it. The three silver moons of Castaway Planet dazzle in the hot black sky and his lips are Sim-blue and he smells sweet and dangerous, like liquor and cotton candy.

Status: All systems suspended.

Then it starts again. The thing that happened after Ryan Dervitz, in the Dairy Queen bathroom with my head between my knees. A rush of memories‌—‌Mom’s eyes welling up when I told her, Dad alone in the backyard staring up at my old treehouse, his hands stuffed in his pockets. And then Father Mike calmly crashing through my consciousness, like some movie hero busting down the door to a burning house. His face fills up the whole screen in my head. It isn’t an angry face. He never needs to be angry, not really, because he’s so sure he’s right.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I shove Abel away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing‌—‌just‌—‌”

I have to walk. Which way is the hotel parking lot? I don’t even know. I just start moving my feet. I dart across the street on a green light; a red car swerves and honks. My eyes flick over a sea of cars and lock onto the Sunseeker’s roof in the near distance. I pick up the pace. Abel’s big boots clap the blacktop behind me.

“What, you’re mad again?”

“No.”

“You are!”

“Stop talking, okay?”

“Brandon, look.” He swings in front of me. “I just‌—‌I was trying to help. I thought I could snap you out of it. Hey!”

He grabs my arm. The Sunseeker’s three rows away. His breath warms the side of my face.

“It’s not a big deal,” he whispers. “Okay?”

It’s not such a great exchange, is it? A few moments of pleasure, in exchange for‌—‌

“So is this how you act?” I shove his hands away. “Like, the day someone dumps you?”

“What?”

“You know.” I have no clue what I’m doing, but it’s too late now. “It’s kind of gross, that’s all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your ‘relationship.’”

“I’m not in one.”

“You were this morning.”

“I don’t live in the past.”

“I’ll say. You trying to get back at him?”

“No! No. That’s not what‌—‌”

“I think that’s exactly what it is.”

“Brandon, I swear‌—‌”

“You think you’re so much better than he is? I think you just got lucky.”

“Lucky?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “That he cheated first.”

“Well, f*ck you very much.”

“No thanks.” I start for the RV again.

“Right. Riiiiiight. Because anyone who touches precious little you has to be completely pure, oblivious to all others, a paragon of‌—‌”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh, fine. It’s fine. I mean, if we did it and you liked it, then you couldn’t feel sorry for yourself anymore, and then where would you be?”

He ducks in front of me again, sticks his hands on his hips.

“Get out of my way,” I mutter.

“I’m not good enough for you anyway, right? Like, who knows what I’ll make of myself? You want a med student with perfect hair and a wine cellar. ‘Ooh, look at us! We’re pre-engaged! He gave me his promise ring and someday we’ll get married and adopt an orphan from Zimbabwe and name him Aiden!’”

“Are you done?”

“Plus what would the rest of the Thumper family think?”

“My parents are not Bible thumpers!”

“They sure had it in for me.”

“Right.”

“I saw them. The way they looked at me when I met them? Tell me they weren’t judging me.”

“Maybe you deserve to be judged a little.”

He flinches like I’ve punched him. I want to take it all back, tell him there’s a monster snarling in my throat right now and he’ll say anything, anything to keep Abel away from me.

He steps close. I feel his breath feather my forehead. He touches his finger to the tip of my chin and tilts my face to his.

“I get it,” he says. “I’m a sinner. Is that right?”

“No‌—‌”

“You’re just like them. Just like your parents. You hate yourself, don’t you?” His fingers brush the side of my face, skate the curve of my jawline. “Or do you just hate me?”

“I didn’t mean it. I was just‌—‌”

“See, I knew something was off. Right? When you said you used to be an altar boy, I was like ‘how does he not have issues?’” He claps my shoulders. “Stellar job pretending, young man. Very convincing pantomime of sanity. I was fooled.”

“Abel.”

“Like, I can’t even be mad. You know? I just feel sorry for you.”

I wriggle away, speed-walk for the Sunseeker.

“Hey!” he calls. “Brandon!”

I walk faster.

“There’s no Zander, is there?”

He knows. He knows. I confirm it when I stop too short in front of the Sunseeker steps, as if the labyrinth monster from Episode 3-8 just reared up in front of me and peeled its black lips back from eight dripping fangs.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s true.”

Sweat prickles my neck. My stomach rethinks the lattes.

“I thought all those stories you told me sounded like bullshit but you know, I was like, ehh, his first love, you always remember it in such glowing terms and all. God, everything makes sense now!”

“Shut up.”

“That’s why you never had me over. Your stupid graduation party‌—‌that wasn’t family-only, right? You were just too chickenshit to invite me.”

“Abel‌—‌”

“What a coward. Unbelievable. You’re a virgin, right?”

My fists curl up.

“What is it? Do you like, see Jesus weeping on the cross when some guy tries to kiss you?”

“Stop talking.”

“What about when you fap? You’re not supposed to do that either, right? Do you have to flagellate yourself? Wear a hairshirt to bed? I bet you confess your‌—‌”

My hands crash into his chest and he staggers two steps backwards. This weird strangled sound punches out of him and he tugs down his t-shirt, gasping in a breath.

“What’re you doing?”

Crazy. He’s staring like I’m crazy. My palms smack his shoulders this time.

“Oh God, you’re ridiculous!” He catches both my wrists. “You’re seriously going to fight me?”

I yank free, answer him with another shove.

“Great.” He’s laughing. He shoves me back a little. “Do it! Get it all out, baby. Maybe then you’ll‌—‌”

I don’t hear the rest. I run right at him, ramming him with my whole upper body until his legs give out and we’re falling together and when his back hits the pavement it sends a rude jolt through my body: oh God I’m on top of him what do I do? How do I fight? I’ve only seen it on TV. I don’t want to punch him, Dad says one punch can kill someone if you know the right spot and I don’t but what if I hit it by accident? Abel lets out this nasty snicker then, like I’m some pathetic little kid, and my whole body lights up with rage and I feel my hand shoot out and Abel grabs his face, twisting away from me.

“Owww!” He shouts at the pavement. “Son of a bitch!”

My hand tingles. Blood trickles between his fingers.

“You slapped my nose, dipwad!”

“I‌—‌”

I made someone bleed.

“Son of a bitch!”

He kicks my leg with his heavy boot, hard. I kick him back. He lunges at me and we roll over and over, scratching and pulling, a cartoon cloud of elbows and hands and knees. He won’t give in and neither will I so we scuffle like that on the pavement until we hear the Sunseeker door swing open somewhere behind us, and Bec yells: “Guys. GUYS.”

I roll off him. He shoves me once more. I spit out gravel.

“What’re you doing?” Bec says.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing,” I say.

We glare at each other.

Bec studies us, shaking her head. She’s changed: cutoffs and a red soccer shirt. She sits down on the bottom step and crosses her legs sloooowly, like she’s teaching a preschool class how it’s done.

“In case you’re interested,” she says, “I know what that Hell Bells thing is.”

The fight blips out of my head. We scramble over, attack her with what and how.

“Dave and I did some research after dinner. He was really sweet and concerned, Brandon, so I think you can cross him off the America’s Most Wanted list.” She takes out her phone, starts navigating. “Membership’s closed right now. I had to write to this hey_mamacita woman to join. I convinced her I had inside information on you. My icon’s your senior picture, Brandon; do you think that’s too on the nose?”

“Bec,” I say.

“Yes, Brandon.”

“Tell us.”

Her eyes flick across the little screen. “What would you like to know?”

“Are they just hating?” says Abel. “Or are they like, actively plotting?”

“Neither, you idiots.”

She holds the phone out to face us. I see the Gothic header first‌—‌THE CHURCH OF ABANDON‌—‌and then a tagline that says “Because love is like the Hell Bells: it comes when you least expect it.” Between the header and tagline is a doctored screencap from one of our first vlog posts. Abel’s hand is on my shoulder and we’re gazing at each other, halos bursting saintlike from our heads and a blue heart blinking between us.

“They’re shipping you.”