They came out laughing, giggling, happy.
“Hey, Big Sam,” one of them said.
Another said, “You should go in, dude, it’s great.”
Sam just nodded in acknowledgment.
The decision could no longer be put off. Close down the club or let it go. If he didn’t close it down he was giving ground to Albert and would probably have another stupid fight with Astrid, who would feel as if he’d ignored her.
Not for the first time, or even the hundredth time, Sam wished he had never, ever agreed to become anyone’s leader.
Sam stole a glance at the watch on Albert’s wrist. It was almost nine P.M.
“Close it down,” Sam said firmly. “Close it. At ten thirty. Kids need sleep.”
Inside the club Quinn relaxed into the beat. Some ska-punk, sure. Maybe later some hip-hop. Some classic old tunes, maybe.
Give it up for Albert: the guy had turned the Mac’s into a decent dance club. The main lights were all off, just the menu boards were illuminated. But they didn’t show Happy Meals and combos. Albert had covered them with pink tissue paper so they gave off a mellow glow, just enough to light the whites of people’s eyes and their teeth when they smiled.
Hunter, what was he, seventh grade? He was the one spinning the CDs and scratching the turntable. He wasn’t exactly a professional, but he was good enough. Cool enough kid, Quinn thought, even though the rumor was he was developing some killer powers. Time would tell if he would stay cool, or turn as arrogant as some of the freaks. Like Brianna, who was suddenly calling herself “the Breeze” and demanding everyone else play along. Like she was a comic book superhero. The Breeze. And he’d kind of liked her, once.
Speaking of which, there she was, dancing like a crazy person, speeding herself up, feet flying, bouncing up and down so fast, she looked like she might start flying around the room.
She’d been telling everyone who would listen how she beat a bullet. “I’m now officially faster than a speeding bullet. Me and Superman.”
In another corner the weird little kid named Duck was peddling some crazy story involving fish-bats and an underground city or whatever.
And then there was Dekka, sitting by herself, nodding almost imperceptibly to the beat, eyes on Brianna. No one really knew much about Dekka. She was one of the Coates kids, one of the ones who had been rescued from Caine and Drake’s cruel cinderblock torture.
She had a vibe to her, Dekka, a feeling she gave off that she was strong and a little dangerous. There was some history there, Quinn thought, something in her past, like with almost all the Coates kids. Coates was known as a school for troubled rich kids. They weren’t all rich, they weren’t all troubled, but the majority had some serious issues.
Quinn slid between two fourth graders, a guy and a girl, dancing. Together. When Quinn was that age he would never have danced with a girl like they were on a date. In fact, he still didn’t. But things were different now, he supposed. Fourth grade was like . . . like middle-aged or something. He himself was old. Old, old, old at almost fifteen.
Birthday coming up. The question was, what would he do? Stay or step outside?
Mostly, ever since Sam had survived, kids who had hit the Fatal Fifteen had survived. Sam had told them how to do it.
Computer Jack, who back in those days was with Caine, had used high-speed photography to record a captive kid up at Coates hitting the moment, the AoD, the Age of Destruction. Jack had come to Perdido Beach with the tale of the tape, the great revelation that in that fateful moment your world would slow down, slow down to a crawl as you approached infinity. And there, in that moment, would come a tempter to beckon to you, call to you, ask you to cross over.
But the tempter was a fraud. A liar. Like a devil, Quinn thought, like a devil. He backed into someone and turned to apologize.
“Hey, Quinn.” It was Lana, shouting over the music so that it was halfway to lip-reading for Quinn. The Healer actually speaking to him.
“Oh. Hi, Lana. This is cool, huh?” He indicated the room with an awkward motion.
Lana nodded. She looked a little bleak, a little forlorn. Which seemed impossible to Quinn. Lana was second only to Sam in hero status. And the difference was that some people really kind of hated Sam, while no one hated Lana. Sam might make you do something—pick up garbage, take care of the prees at the day care, shoot someone with a machine gun—but all Lana ever did was heal people.
“Yeah. It’s kind of cool,” Lana said. “But I don’t really know anyone.”
“No way. You know everyone.”
Lana shook her head ruefully. “No. Everyone knows me. Or at least they think they do.”
“Well, you know me,” Quinn said, and made a kind of slanted grin so she’d know he wasn’t trying to get above himself and act like her equal.
But that wasn’t how she took it. She nodded, so serious that she looked like she might cry. “I miss my parents.”
Quinn felt the sudden, sharp pang he’d felt about every hour back when all this started, and now felt only a couple of times a day. “Yeah. Me too.”
Lana held out her hand, and Quinn, after a moment’s amazed hesitation, took it.
Lana smiled. “Is it okay if I just hold your hand and don’t, you know, heal you of anything?”
Quinn laughed. “Whatever’s wrong with me, it isn’t something even you can heal.” Then, “You want to dance?”
“I’ve been waiting to talk to Albert, standing around here for like, an hour, and you are the first person to ask me,” she said. “Yeah. I would kind of like to dance.”