Much to Mark’s surprise, life went on during the week that followed.
At Twenty-Nine Palms High School, preparations went into high gear for both Prom Night and the Desert Carnival. Nearly all of the posters depicting merry gray aliens were defaced by vandals, so Principal Jeffers declared a change in theme. Some leftover decorations from last year’s “Underwater Charm” dance were hastily gussied up — by the small minority of students who cared about such things.
As the big day approached, workers finished constructing a compact amusement park at one end of the athletic field, including a couple of high-intensity Hurl Rides. More carnival people arrived in a small caravan to finish preparations, with a coin-pitch booth (for fundraising) and even an animal act, with some trained dogs and a performing chimp. The same carnies — tattooed and surly, but generally harmless — had been doing the Desert Carnival at TNPHS for years.
With midterms over, seniors started gathering in clusters on the school steps, signing yearbooks and vowing to keep in touch after dispersing to various colleges, or else employed independence. Meanwhile, Mark’s fellow juniors felt the approach of their own turn at the top of the school totem pole. Some began firing up campaigns for office in the coming school elections.
Still, any resemblance to normality was superficial. Teens who never used to pay attention to current events — even those who couldn’t name a senator or governor – now rolled up their sleeves and checked their forearm web-tattoos between class, in case some news had come down from the orbiting starship.
Everyone knew that Friday would be the big day. One that might change the world. It roused a lot of contradictory feelings.
While bagging groceries at Food King, Mark felt keenly aware of how many people eyed him — not just kids from TNPHS, but townspeople in general. Some offered sour looks, as if the rudeness shown by Na-bistaka’s folk had somehow been his fault. Others scanned the tabloid magazines that lined his checkout counter. Every issue blared speculations about what The Gift would turn out to be. Conjectures ranged from cancer cures to smart pills, from the secret of life to a new weight-loss diet that really works. Sometimes, people reading these headlines would smile at Mark, or pat him on the back as they departed. Others left oversized tips at his bagging station.
The first time that happened, Mark put every nickel into the collection bin for Muscular Dystrophy. After that, he gave all the accumulated tips to a homeless lady he often saw on the corner, roaming with her possessions piled in a shopping cart. Her reaction, to mutter and look away, suited him fine.
One thing Mark knew – with a rising sense of gloom — if the aliens’ Gift turned out to be a disappointment, he was going to have to leave the town of Twenty-Nine Palms. Maybe California. Heck, was there any place on Earth where he could hide, if humanity didn’t like the Garubis’ notion of ‘repayment’?
A gift appropriate for vermin. Yeah, that boded well. Right.
Maybe it was already time to start packing.
“What would you ask for?” Mr. Castro demanded, during history class, right after that fizzled ‘first contact’ was broadcast live from New York on a fateful Saturday night. The assignment: think up your own best guess about the Gift and come prepared to defend your choice on Wednesday — just two days before the world would find out the truth.
First though, Mark was a member of an athletic team. He owed it to the others to at least show up, to do his best.
* * *
Still, it was kind of hard to concentrate at the climbing wall.
True, the girl soccer players had vanished. Even the football team was on hiatus with their playing field given over to the Carnival — and no jocks were using weights below. It seemed a good time for the X Crew to get some practice in.
Only this time there was so much noise and bustle nearby, as big roustabouts shouted, hammering pegs into the ground, setting up tents and amusement rides. In recent years, the little fair had grown much bigger than a High School homecoming dance, drawing in pretty much the whole valley on the second night. And now the carnies were adding even more, betting that the brief notoriety of Twenty-Nine Palms might draw in tourists from the coast.
I hope not, Mark thought, perhaps a bit disloyally. It was the school’s biggest fundraiser—and this year, the climbing wall would be a part of it, raising money for X Crew shirts and sweats. Even so, he didn’t hanker to see the outside world return, with its glaring scrutiny.
Speaking of scrutiny. One of the carnies, wandering by on break, had stationed himself nearby, chain smoking. A big fellow, with dusky complexion and a black bristly beard, he leaned against a wall, as if helping to keep it from collapsing. His bare arms bore inked designs of snakes and eagles. Mark wished he’d go away.
“Come on, Bamford! You’re on the clock!”
This time it was Ricardo Chavez egging him on, from just overhead. All right. Mark concentrated. Stick to the rhythm.
Left foot goes to the Doorknob … set it … now shift weight … right heel onto Bignose … and PUSH as left hand shoots for the Wedgie … jam it good …
He had given nicknames to every hand and foothold in the memorized route. Not very realistic, of course. In life, authentic challenge always comes from variety and surprise, especially in real rock climbing, with no ascent ever the same twice. But this route was part of the standardized prelims. A pure speed race. Moving systematically and by rote, he quickly made it to the top with only a minimum of sweat.
Ricardo released Mark’s clip and Barry Tang, who had attached himself to the crew as equipment manager, quickly coiled the rope. “Not bad,” Ricardo said, looking at his stopwatch. He showed the time to the Hammar twins.
Nick Hammar was indifferent, offering a shrug as he flirted with Alex, helping her out of her harness, Alex slapped his hand at one point, but laughed, seeming anything but angry.
“I guess you won’t shame us,” Nick’s brother Greg commented.
Mark glanced at the time. Shame us? Only Alex is quicker. And she’s half spider. We’ll do fine at the first match … if that sort of thing matters anymore.
Churning at the back of his mind was the same thing distracting nearly everybody else — how the Garubis “gift” might change everything.
Already there were voices, in the media and among leading thinkers, who seriously proposed that humanity should refuse the gratuity. And not just out of pride or xenophobia. After all, how could people trust a benefaction given by aliens who call your kind “vermin”? No matter how attractive the dingus turned out to be, you had to worry and wonder. Could it wind up being like the bait in a mousetrap? Or the honeyed ingredient in roach poison? Even some of those who had been most enthusiastic were now suggesting that the Gift be extensively tested … perhaps on an isolated island, or even the Moon … before exposing humanity and Earth as a whole.
Alex said that her parents were still in a state of shock. After all of their hard work, taking care of Na-Bistaka, clearly they had allowed their hopes to climb, like kids before a birthday. Expectations of something like gratitude. Or at least a pat on the head.
If the others were pensive, Ricardo seemed unflappable, true to the spirit of X. “Come on,” he said, after they were finished cleaning up and the Hammar boys hurried off to meet their ride.
“Bring your gear. I got a surprise for you guys.”
Our gear? Mark shouldered a rope and his bag of climbing tools, glancing at Alex, who shrugged, as much in the dark as he was. Her tank top exposed shoulders that were a tad more ripped — more muscular — than Mark generally found attractive in a girl. Still, on Alex it seemed right enough.
Perhaps sensing his scrutiny, she threw on a sweatshirt and stepped after ’Cardo, letting Mark and Barry take up the rear. Soon they were approaching the main building of Twenty-Nine Palms High, apparently empty as a ghost town, an hour after the student throng made its daily escape.
“I’ve checked carefully,” the X Boy said, stopping next to the Bell Tower — a decorative feature that jutted from one end of the two story structure, giving it a faux, California Mission feel. There had never been a bell.
“This is a total blind spot. Nobody can see us here, except from the direction we just came.”
Mark looked around. It seemed plausible. “So?”
Ricardo dumped his gear and started chalking his hands.
“So? I’m going up. Anyone else coming?”
Mark stared at the boy, and then at the planned route. There were very few holds or protrusions. “Has anybody done it before?”
“Doubt it. The tower’s only a couple years old and I figure we would of heard. ’Til a few weeks ago, there was an easy climb up the inside spiral steps, but ever since the attack, Principal Jeffers had it double padlocked.”
“Hm … so?”
“So I’m gonna carve my initials where nobody but another climber can see.” Ricardo whipped out a chisel that was almost certainly against the school’s zero-tolerance rules. “Relax, I didn’t smuggle a weapon on campus. I borrowed this from wood shop.”
Mark wasn’t sure the principal would accept that distinction. But Alex stepped up.
“I’m in,” she said.
Really? Mark blinked at her. Then Barry Tang eagerly spoke.
“I’ll go topside and belay,” he said, tucking a rope inside his bulky jacket. When the others stared, he said: “What? You’re the only people with skills? I cracked that new lock of Jeffers within two days after he installed it. Been up the spiral and into the bell tower several times since. I’ll head up now and fix a safety rope.”
“Well… okay but don’t get seen!” Ricardo called after, as Barry hurried off, disappearing around a corner. The X boy secured his chalk bag and straightened his knit cap before stepping inside a narrow space — barely a decorative niche — between the jutting tower and the building proper.
“Chimney ascent,” Mark commented, feeling a rising sense of appreciation … against his better judgment. “It’s been a long time.”
Alex nodded. “It does seem kinda dumb to call ourselves a climbing team when all we’ve done is a wimpy, artificial knob-wall. I was gonna take you all out to some nice pipes and crevices in Joshua Tree, over break. But this is cool, too.”
Well, well, Mark thought, pondering her tone. Look at Miss Nonconformist. Alex was normally kind of proper. But maybe she felt this was her moment to prove something. “Wing stretching” as Dad called it. Teen rebellion didn’t always make sense. Sometimes, it wasn’t even clear what you were trying to prove.
Okay, he thought, peering up at the route that ’Cardo proposed. What’s the worst that can happen?
Mark instantly regretted posing it that way. He rephrased the question in his mind. How much trouble can we get into?
Like all climbers, from amateur to pro, he knew about legendary “urban ascents,” when dashing daredevils challenged skyscrapers like the Chicago Sears Tower, transfixing newscams and millions of viewers around the world. Security experts kept erecting barriers to prevent such stunts, and those who succeeded were sure to be arrested upon reaching the top. Still, there seemed to be an unwritten set of conventions about what kind of punishment you could expect. If no one else was endangered, if no property got harmed, and assuming no greedy or nasty motives were involved, it often came down to a couple of nights in jail, a modest fine, and some weeks assigned to community service. In several famous cases, that meant visiting school assemblies, preaching the value of enthusiasm and skill and being good at something.
Mark wondered. Does this qualify? Or could we all get suspended? Nowadays, there was often a blurry boundary between avid self-expression and something that deserved zero-tolerance.
“Watch out below!” A hoarse whisper floated down from the bell tower, just ahead of a coiled end of rope. True to his promise, Tang was up there in no time. Mark admitted to himself: impressive. While Ricardo clamped in with his harness, Mark hoped that Barry remembered how to tie off and belay without an autotensioner. Maybe I should have gone up to handle it.
Maybe I should now.
But ’Cardo was already inside the niche, wedging his back against one side while bracing his climbing shoes against the other, shifting one foot and then the other as he wormed his way upward along both gritty surfaces.
Mark looked closely at the wall, ready to call a halt if the surface looked damaged — one sure way to turn a “harmless stunt” into hooligan vandalism. But it seemed to be good ’crete, not crumbly stucco. There were no scars, even when ’Cardo scuffed hard.
Backing out to look around, Mark checked for anyone passing by. Mr. Perez, the campus patrolman who took the Monday shift, would be on duty until six. But the retired cop was so preoccupied, watching every move the carnies made, that he ought to be busy down at the athletic field for a while.
Then, Mark felt a nudge on his arm. He turned … Alex gestured with her thumb. The big, bearded carny had apparently followed them, finding a new wall to lean against while watching the climbers. This time, the fellow’s heavy eyebrows lifted slightly, accompanying the slightest nod. And Mark took the evident meaning.
Don’t mind me. Just watching. I won’t tell. And Mark nodded back. The carny seemed an unlikely tattle-tale.
Turning back to the business at-hand, Mark noted that ’Cardo was moving pretty quickly. Not too surprising, given his strength and small, wiry frame. He was arching and wriggling and then arching again, driving himself upward in a repetitious rhythm that would never work in a real rock chimney, with countless jagged variations and tricky surfaces that required careful evaluation and planning. Typical X-stuff, Mark figured. For all of their bravado, these urban adventurers relied on the predictable smoothness of their skateboard half-pipes and metro streets. None of nature’s wild unpredictability for them!
“Move it, Bam,” Alex said, pushing past Mark and tossing her sweatshirt at him, as Ricardo neared the top. “Use your slot or lose it.”
Dang, girl, he thought. What’d I do to you?
Violating proper procedure, Alex started bracing herself in before ’Cardo even made it over the balcony ledge. Of course, the chances of ’Cardo falling onto her were small, given a decent belay. Still.
“Almost … there …” Ricardo announced, and fumbled for the chisel in his pocket. Mark watched the process warily, positioning himself in case the boy dropped his tool. If it plummeted toward Alex, Mark would have just a split second to knock it aside. This is stupid. You don’t rush things. Not even in a dopey little stunt.
Alex seemed oblivious to any danger … or to a sprinkle of concrete shavings that floated down, as ’Cardo carved a quick pair of initials into his chosen spot under the cornice ledge, visible only to those who would follow their path, in coming years. Hardly a case of immoral “vandalism”. But if that chisel fell toward Alex —
Mark braced himself, anxiously ready to swat it out of space …
… till ’Cardo Chavez grunted with satisfaction, twirled the tool, and jabbed it hard into a wooden eave, leaving it for the next person. Pretty deep. Mark relaxed a little.
“Gritty,” Alex commented as she set her back and feet in place, testing her strength against both walls of the chimney. Without sleeves, the girl abraded her shoulders every time she arched her back to shimmy higher.
“You should wear this.” He offered the sweatshirt and she seemed to ponder for a moment … ’til a hoarse laugh from above announced ’Cardo’s final arrival, scrambling over the rim with Barry’s help, into the bell tower cupola. The rope soon tumbled down in a loop that uncoiled all the way to Alex. Forgetting any discomfort, she eagerly connected it to her harness, then took three deep breaths, as Mark checked all the connections. The moment he nodded, she started up — taking one short footstep, another, then heaving her pelvis upward and wriggling to bring her shoulders and back along … all without ever losing contact with either side of the narrow slot.
For some people, it might seem an awkward process. But Alex made it look natural. In fact, she appeared more graceful right now than she did while just walking around … a wry observation that made Mark smile … and that he decided to keep to himself.
We are, each of us, many people inside.
The thought seemed to rise within his mind, as if out of nowhere. Watching Alex push her way up the chimney, Mark felt like at least a dozen different individuals.
A protective older friend, or brother, wary in case she slipped —
A comrade who was charged with guarding this little band against discovery, by keeping a lookout for anyone passing too close, while also wary about their not-very-welcome observer —
A student with a B average, who did not need a black mark on his record for college applications, wishing he had found the nerve to say no —
And a rebel who was sick of always being Mr. Responsible … as if that trait ever paid off in any big way —
Plus yet another guy, stirring inside, who — almost in spite of himself — found that Alex’s athletic ascent, writhing and grunting and far from feminine, nevertheless had an alluring and strangely attractive quality. A fascination to the eye, as well as to some of those damned, inconvenient hormonal drives that had lately …
He pushed those thoughts aside, calling upon an image of Helene Shockley. There. Now that was an obsession. It felt more naturally erotic and far less confusing.
“Half of the decisions you’ll make in life, son —” his father once said to Mark “— the good choices and the bad ones, will often boil down to one thing. Picking which of your inner selves shall get to be in charge, at any given time.”
Mark shook his head, sharply. The whole world had been lecturing him, for months now. The last thing he needed was to get it from his own damn mind.
There was one antidote to uncomfortable thoughts. Action. Motion and the satisfaction of actually getting something done! So, before Alex was more than halfway up, he decided on impulse. Stepping into the niche between the bell tower and the main wall, Mark settled his back against one wall, feeling sharp grit poke through the fabric of the flannel shirt.
Well, if Alex could take it, he sure could.
Here goes. Alex will be done before I’m halfway up. They can drop me the rope at that point.
First one foot met the opposite wall and pressed hard … then the other. It was a tighter fit for Mark than it had been for the other two, requiring more lateral force and muscle tension, but also offering him greater range of movement than ’Cardo or Alex had. This shouldn’t be too hard. Settling in, he took a short step, wriggled his back upward, moved the other foot, and looked up.
Alex was quite a bit higher, only about two meters short of the top. Her arms and legs glistened with sweat and there were abrasion marks — scratches — from her shoulders to her elbows. She had slowed a bit, but seemed to have things under control.
Of course, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be here in the slot. Not with another climber above and no rope of his own. But it would only be the first few minutes and this really did feel pretty easy.
It was easy, at first. Step. Step. Arch and press with the arms. Wriggle higher. Then repeat. Step. Step. Arch and press with the arms. Wriggle higher. Then repeat. As he had expected, it was pretty mindless, without any of the tricky variety of a natural chimney. In fact, Mark soon found he was catching up with Alex. One of the less mature corners of his mind took some satisfaction. This’ll show her.
Soon, the sophomore girl was in reach of ’Cardo’s chisel. Setting herself solidly in place, she reached for it —
— when suddenly a sound floated upward from below and not too far away. Mark halted his writhing ascent to listen.
Footsteps on the nearby path. Someone whistling a nondescript tune.
From overheard, Mark heard Barry Tang’s unmistakable, worried whisper. “Sh! Everybody quiet!”
What do I do? Mark pondered. Drop back down, step out and try to distract whoever it is?
Remain where I am, keeping as still as possible?
The footsteps drew nearer. The whistle, louder. Mark decided.
Hurry on up. That way, I’ll be well above eye-level, even if someone glances inside the niche.
Somewhere inside, a little voice complained. This was probably the wrong choice. Still, Alex seemed to agree. Even as Mark shimmied higher, the girl stopped wrestling with ’Cardo’s chisel and turned instead to finishing the climb, stretching out her right arm and reaching for the X boy’s extended hand. Their fingers brushed, grabbed for each other, found a grip. ’Cardo started to pull her up …
“Give her slack!” He whispered over his shoulder at Barry.
No, don’t! But Mark’s voice would not come. Caught in an awkward position, his chest had no room to push the words out.
’Cardo’s grip on her arm did not look —
It all happened in a blur. Alex surrendered her chimney bridge, letting herself swing outward and dangle, giving ’Cardo’s hold more trust than it deserved. ’Cardo groaned at the sudden weight. Alex reached with her other arm and scrambled for the lip of the balcony, where Barry was trying to help clutch at her …
… letting go of his rope belay ….
… just an instant before Alex lost her grip and fell.
Letting out a cry as he twisted aside, Mark shot out his right hand out to grab at her, mid-plummet. He felt a crashing impact and, for an instant, Alex was actually in his arm, caught and held, swinging wildly as her eyes briefly met his. Mark’s right shoulder felt yanked half from its socket and the other burned from pressure against the gritty wall, desperately holding them both up.
But it was only for a second. Then his hold broke. She fell away, resuming her rush to the ground. Mark let out a sob and braced himself to hear a crunching noise.
But the sound of impact came much softer than expected. Was it adrenaline or the pounding in his chest, that muffled the blow when she struck ground? Mark wriggled back into some kind of stable position and then — through speckled vision — forced himself to look down.
There was Alex. Safe, it seemed. In the arms of a burly man with wiry, tattooed shoulders and a dark, scraggly beard. The chain-smoking biker… now holding Alex as if she weighed almost nothing.
UP-CHUCK read a patch on the big fellow’s denim shirt. After a moment or two, while the girl caught her breath, he slowly released Alex, depositing her on her own two feet, then scanned Mark and the other two boys, gaping down from the tower.
The fellow slowly smiled. At first it seemed a friendly expression … that turned wry and disdaining … followed by a dismissive snort. Then, before anyone could breathe a word of thanks, the man turned and was gone.
It took some minutes for Mark to worm his way back down the narrow chimney-niche between the tower and the main building. By that time, ’Cardo and Barry had rejoined Alex and were dabbing at her scratched shoulders with some alcohol pads. Nobody said a word. Mark wasn’t even aware that he had injuries of his own, ’til Alex tugged at his shirt to wipe away streaks of blood. The garment wasn’t going to be good for much more than the rag box, now.
Everybody was a bit subdued, avoiding eye-contact as they returned their climbing gear to the lock box. ’Cardo managed to quash any sense of elation over his own accomplishment, though at school tomorrow he would doubtless lead all the other X kids to see the chisel, poking into view under the eave of the bell tower. His signal of priority and a challenge to those who might follow.
Big deal, Mark pondered, sharing a final glance and nod with Alex. Perhaps neither of them would ever mention what had happened here. Or what it meant. But on his way home, he could still remember the mixed feelings and confusion. The arguments within, that should have led to different decisions. The sense of being many people, all of them terribly perplexed.
Maybe the Gift will be something to simplify it all. To cut through the puzzle of life and let people quickly see what’s true.
If so, well, it sounded pretty cool … and yet …
And yet, casting his mind back to the intensity of those moments — and the look on Alex’s face when she silently said thanks — Mark wasn’t sure that he really regretted the confusion of growing up. Or anything at all.