My mom drives for Metro. When I was little and I was home sick from school, she would have Pete wait with me at a bus stop for her. I’d get on her bus and ride with her all day and she’d talk to me about the things she passed and the people she met each day. She could have gotten in trouble for that, but she did it anyway.
When she left for work this morning, I wanted more than anything to sit in the seat right behind her and reach my hand through the gap in the screen so I could hold her elbow while I slept like I used to. I felt safe on her bus.
I didn’t even ask if I could go with her. She’s really mad about the time capsule. She says I ruined something beautiful. I tried to tell her I didn’t do it but she called me a liar.
My dad hasn’t looked at me since he got home yesterday. All he said was, “You disappoint me.” Then he went to my room and collected the TV remote, computer, controllers, and even the old pod I only use for music, and locked them all in the toolbox in the bed of his truck.
He took my pod and screen, too. I panicked when I thought he was going to lock them, because I wanted the picture. He didn’t, though. Instead, he set them on restricted. I’ll only be able to make and get calls to and from him, Mom, and my aunt.
He didn’t take my guitar, which is good, and he doesn’t even know about my lyric book. I don’t know if I could live without those. Playing guitar keeps my fingers attached to my brain, which keeps me from exploding.
This morning before he left, he told me to scrub the kitchen until it shined.
They forgot to lock up the ancient tablet in Pete’s room, though, so instead of cleaning, I’ve been searching the internet for people who hear music that isn’t there. Pete would have known what to do. But he’s not here, and there’s nobody who can help me.
And nothing I’m learning is making me feel any better.
There’s something called Musical Ear Syndrome, but it’s for people who are hard of hearing and they hear actual music that isn’t there instead of random guitars.
And they don’t hear voices that tell them what to do.
I start looking up things like schizophrenia and psychosis, but that just ends up being scarier, even though I don’t have many of those symptoms.
It’s scary because they’re the ones that hear voices.
The only person I can think of to talk to is Julio, but he’s at school, and when he gets home my mom’ll be home, too. I look at my phone. It’s a little after eleven. I could be at County Arts in time for his lunch period.
I email myself the picture and print it off on Pete’s ancient printer.
I throw on some clothes, toss my lyrics book in my backpack, and look for my board. Damn.
The mailman’s at the gate when I leave. He’s an old guy, weird but generally cool. “Hey young mister,” he says when he sees me. He always calls me young mister. “You got yourself a letter today.” He hands me an envelope, then stuffs the rest of the mail into our box.
It’s a regular white envelope. The address is handwritten in big blue block letters:
ALEX MATA
1562 LAVETA TERRACE
LOS ANGELES, CA 90026
There isn’t a return address, but I hardly notice because I recognize the handwriting. It’s mine.
I mumble thanks to the mailman, who says, “No problemo, young mister,” and walks back out the gate.
I don’t think I can handle one more weird thing happening.
“Get ready runaway boy.” The Skywriting Voice drowns out the guitars momentarily. “Your ride’s about to begin.”
“What ride?” I say the words out loud even though I don’t mean to.
“Your wild ride, scared boy. You’re about to run away, gotta be brave.”
“Shut up!” She’s so loud in my head there’s no way the world doesn’t hear her and I can’t explain her. “You gotta shut up!”
She’s quiet again. I think for her, search inside, but she’s left my brain for the moment.
My wild ride. I look back at the letter in my hand.
I’m sweating. My fingers slip as I try to open the envelope, but eventually, I manage to pull out the sheet of lined paper inside.
The handwriting on the paper is mine, too. It’s terrible because I’m a lefty, and this is it right down to the smears where my sweaty hand ran through the ink. I unfold the paper, but it’s hard because my hand’s shaking, and it’s hard to read because my head is lousy with guitars:
Hey Alex,
This is you. Really. Please listen up, man, your stupid life depends totally on it. Can you please open your ears right now? Listen, I know it’s not cool what’s all happening, but you need to stop doubting and lift your ugly eyes up so you can see what’s happening around you. You’re not crazy, man—all this is real. You’ll understand when you get to Seattle and I can’t even begin to tell you about it now, because you’d think I’m crazy, but you’re not.
Yesterday you got suspended from school and you were nearly killed by a driverless. You’re hearing guitars in your mind and you just spent the morning on Pete’s tablet reading about Musical Ear Syndrome because you think you’re going insane. You’re going to find Beems and tell him about this, and he’s going to call your parents and they’re gonna try and 5150 you. It all started a couple days ago when you and Beems were writing on the stairs. You know what happened and no, you’re not crazy. I should know since I am you.
OPEN THE PACKAGE WHEN YOU GET HOME TONIGHT.
Anyway, it’s really important that you get out of town. Take the bus to Seattle. Keep this letter. You’ll need it when you get there—you’ll understand why when you’re at the bus stop.
The Incursions are real and it’s gonna get worse if we don’t stop them.
You’re gonna save the world.
Seen time is the only truth.
Alex AKA Plugzer
PS. Even though you won’t believe it, there are some things that happen no matter what and when they tell you that of all the ways things could have happened, this is the least bad way, it’s really true.
I’m standing there, stupidly holding the letter like it’s going to change or something—like it’s suddenly not going to describe exactly what’s been happening to me. I look at the envelope again and fold it open. Inside there’s a paper ticket for a Greyhound bus from LA to Seattle attached to a small stack of twenty-dollar bills with a paper clip.
“Don’t be a scared boy, Plugzer.”
“Go away.” It comes out halfway between a squeak and a growl.
“You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. You’ll see it’s true.”
I’m trying to think about the letter, trying to think about what it says, what it means, how it’s real, but every time she talks, my mind shatters and I’m left with only scattered pieces of thoughts.
“Shut. The. Hell. Up!”
She laughs at me. “Oh, Plugzie’s mad now, but when you’re ready, you’ll come find me. You’ll dig out the drain under your brain.”
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I don’t say it, just think it, but it doesn’t matter. She’s gone.
Fuck her. I’m done with her. I’m done with all of it—the only person I know I can trust is me.
The letter warned me against going to Beems and I start to rethink my plan but then it occurs to me: If I’m crazy, I wrote the letter because I’m paranoid. I may not remember doing it, but I must have.
Plus, I’ve got no other play.