I was still wondering if I had the courage to go sit near her when I realized I was already moving in that direction, as fast as my feet would carry me. As I climbed the stairs, it occurred to me that my emotions were probably not to be trusted under these heightened circumstances, but that thought was lost amid the influx of hormones flooding my brain as I made my way to the center of the row where she was sitting. I tried to convince myself that she looked like she could use some company—even though everything about her demeanor indicated the opposite.
When I reached her seat, she ignored me, leaving me standing there waiting for her to acknowledge my existence. As she continued to stare at her lap, I looked down at what was holding her attention and saw that she’d cracked open her QComm and had its electronic innards arrayed on her thighs, like she was performing an autopsy on the device—which I figured she was, since it seemed doubtful she would ever be able to put it back together.
But then she began to do just that, reassembling the QComm in seconds, with the speed and dexterity of a Marine field-stripping a weapon. When she finished putting it back together, she powered it on and watched the operating system reboot.
Then she finally raised her eyes to meet mine. I pointed to the seat beside her.
“Is it okay if I sit here?”
I know it’s hard to believe, but I improvised this opening line right on the spot.
She gave me a quick once-over before answering.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m having a private conversation with my droid. Isn’t that right, R2?” She raised her flask to her lips again, then waved it at the sea of empty seats spread out below us. “Why don’t you go find another female of the species to mack on?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Vasquez.” I nodded at her flask. “I’m just here to bum some of your booze.”
She laughed, and I felt a sharp pain in the center of my chest. She glanced down at her El Riesgo Siempre Vive tattoo, clearly impressed that I knew its origin.
“All right,” she said with an amused sigh. “Have a seat, baby face.”
“Thanks, Grandma.” I took the seat next to her and propped my feet up on the seat back in front of me, like she was doing.
“Did you just call me ‘grandma’?”
“Yeah, because just you called me ‘baby face.’ And it wounded my masculine pride.”
She laughed again, louder this time, increasing the intensity of my chest pains.
She was even more gorgeous up close, and her eyes, which I’d thought were brown, actually appeared to be more amber colored, and her gold irises were shot through with streaks of copper.
“Sorry,” she said. “You have a young face. How old are you?”
“Eighteen last month.”
She smirked. “Too bad,” she said. “I kinda have a thing for jailbait.”
“Great,” I said. “A pedophile with a drinking habit.”
That got a third laugh—a snorting, girlish chuckle that disrupted my heart rate yet again. Then she glanced back down at her flask and addressed it in a confidential tone.
“R2,” she muttered. “This dream just keeps getting weirder. Now a cute, wisecracking boy has shown up in it. What are the odds?”
I almost asked if she meant me. Disaster averted.
“I hate to break it to you,” I said. “But you’re not dreaming this.”
“I’m not? How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m clearly the one who’s dreaming all of this,” I said. “How could you be dreaming this, when you’re just another figment of my imagination, like everyone else here?”
“Well, I hate to break it to you,” she said, poking me with her flask and splashing some of its contents on my leg, “but I am not a figment of anyone’s imagination.”
That’s a relief, I thought. But what I actually said was, “Unfortunately, neither am I.” Then I offered her a smile. “So all of this must really be happening right now. To both of us.”
She nodded and took another drink. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I was afraid of.” Then she held out her flask, finally offering me a drink. But I shook my head.
“You know, on second thought, maybe I should keep a clear head for the briefing,” I said. Then, as if that weren’t lame enough, I added, “I’m not old enough to drink, anyway.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “They’re about to tell us the world is ending, you realize?” she said. “You don’t want to be stone-cold sober for that shit, do you?”
“You make a compelling argument,” I said, taking the flask from her.
As I raised it to my lips, she began to chant “Breakin’-the-law-breakin’-the-law.”
I gave her a pleading look. “Please—don’t make me shoot this out my nose, okay?”
She nodded solemnly and raised three fingers. “Girl Scout’s honor.”
I rolled my eyes. “I find it hard to believe that you were ever a Girl Scout.”
Her eyes narrowed, then she reached out and rolled down her striped knee sock, revealing a dark green Girl Scouts of America logo tattooed on her left calf.
“I stand corrected,” I said. “Are you hiding any other cool tattoos?”