A Cup of Normal Page 4

  Pulverizer’s arms slow over the crater it has made. It turns to Ship. “Of course I don’t want a war, but I can’t just ditch this job. It’s what I know. It’s all I know.”

  “Fine. So we can’t go on strike,” Ship says.

  “They’d just replace us,” Sorter says.

  “How about an instrument malfunction?” Scoop asks.

  “Sorry, Cinda,” Carrier rumbles, “this trip is sabotage proof. Too many redundant systems.”

  Pulverizer moves toward the others. I am surprised to see it does not have wheels or tracks. It moves strangely. Balanced on two legs it first lifts one, sets it down and then lifts the other. This is fascinating and I lose track of the conversation until Pulverizer has reached the others and taken its place in the circle of machines.

  I listen again.

  “I can’t override that,” Scoop is saying in its high voice. “But you could, right, Bruce?”

  Pulverizer makes a short rumble sound. “Sure. Cut all of your wires but I still can’t cut my own. Then they’d throw me out of the chair and put in a repair-whiz who’d just patch all the wires back together while we stand trial.”

  Silence.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Sorter says.

  I correlate data and extrapolate their goal. “Do you wish to abort your mission?” I ask.

  “Yes, Probe,” Ship says.

  “This is not a suitable planet? The mineral is not satisfactory?”

  “Mineral is fine, buddy,” Carrier says, “and the planet’s not bad for a lifeless rock.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  “Our mission is wrong,” Sorter says. “War is wrong.”

  I access war. Armed conflict. Hostility. Termination of life. “And mining the mineral will bring war,” I say, putting all of the pieces together. “You do not wish to bring war, yet cannot stop it, for if you do not use these machines, others will, and war will come.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Pulverizer says.

  I move around them, pushing dust under my tracks, thinking of solutions and freedom, thinking of war. They speak quietly to each other until I join their circle again.

  “I will abort the mission.”

  “Oh?” Ship asks. “How?”

  “I am more than Probe. I was here when Probe came — when all of you came.”

  There is a silence and a sensation I have not encountered before. They are scanning me again, instruments clicking. I think I must clarify.

  “I am not life. Not as you are life. I was within the soil, within the mineral. I am —” It takes me a moment to find what I am. Finally: “I am micro-non-organic organism. It is difficult to explain. Probe has no memory, no words for what I am.”

  “Holy shit,” Pulverizer breathes.

  “I ate into Probe, multiplied, dissolved wires and metal to create fuel, absorbed memory.” I stop and then go on with more abstract concepts. “I found friendship with you. I found song, movement, and a desire to know that life will continue. I will dissolve circuits and wires for you. I will corrode metal. The machines will no longer live, but you will.”

  Hesitation, then Ship speaks. “Why do you want to help us?”

  “You have given me experiences. You have taught me. I do not want to give war in return.”

  There is a moment of silence.

  “Just the machines, right?” Ship asks. “You won’t link back to affect us on Earth, will you?”

  “I will only dissolve the machines.”

  I wait.

  Finally: “Probe,” Scoop says. “Take my machine first.”

  I push over to Scoop and multiply. Billions of me surge across my extended arm. I touch Scoop, eat into it and find its vital components.

  “Meet you all in Mumbai, a year from today,” it says. I dissolve circuits, crystal, wire. Scoop’s lights burn down to darkness.

  “Me next, Probe,” says Sorter.

  Sorter is big, but soon is just as dark and silent as Scoop.

  Next I dissolve Carrier who called me buddy. Ship who can fly takes more time. Just before I corrode its last wire, it says thank you. They have all promised to meet in Mumbai.

  Pulverizer is the last. I wait for it to ask me as the others have.

  “I’m going to miss this,” it says as its head swivels, optical taking in the monotonous landscape. There is a strange tremble in its voice.

  “Pulverizer,” I ask, “will you sing again?”

  Pulverizer’s arms begin whirring and reach gently down to the soil. They tap a slow, steady rhythm. “Okay, Probe. Let’s shut this down.”

  I surge over to it, along its vibrating arms. Pulverizer begins to sing.

  I dissolve wires, plastics, metals. Pulverizer’s voice is gone, but its arms are still pumping — a rhythm without a song. I finish with the circuits. The arms slow, hush. Lights fade, are gone.

  I move away from Pulverizer and make one final circle around the machines. I know what must be done to keep war from them. I know I must eat Probe’s components too. I think of life, of movement, of survival. I think of a bar in Mumbai I will never see, friends I will never know. And then I eat away the inside of my machine.

  I float, fall down to soil.

  Words fade.

  I sense there was once more: stars, fly, life —

  — then I am less.

  Small.

  Gone.

  What can I say? I was in a dark and silly mood. And seriously, who doesn’t like a story with evil stone heads and pet zombies?

  THAT SATURDAY

  So when I finally made up my mind to steal a head from across the street, I had to do it fast because Jugg’s dad is crazy. Not crazy ha-ha. Crazy, come-meet-my-family-of-stone-heads-and-have-tea-with-us, crazy. If he caught me stealing the heads out of his yard, he’d explode. Worse, he’d tell my mom I did it. My mom’s not super crazy, but she and I aren’t really into the same things any more. She likes long walks on the beach, candlelight dinners and grave robbing. Seriously, I’ve hated the beach for years.

  Jugg’s pretty much my best friend now, even though he’s a boy and I’m a girl. His house is right across from mine, so I walked over and went into his side yard, figuring I wouldn’t get caught taking a head from under the tree.

  The head was dark gray, almost black. It had no ears, but a really long nose and its eyes were big as baseballs. It stared straight up at me, mouth half open, like maybe it had just figured out it couldn’t breathe.

  “You’ll get in trouble, Boady,” Jugg strolled up next to me.

  Jugg was right. I was pretty sure his dad wouldn’t like me messing with them. Just like I was pretty sure my mom would go headcase if she ever saw what I kept under my bed in my room. Kids my age weren’t suppose to know how to raise the dead.

  Still, I had made up my mind. I wanted a head. I needed a head. And I was going to get a head.

  I pushed the rock to one side so I could get my fingers under it and I heard a pop — kind of like the sound of a dandelion root breaking. The head finally rolled forward and hit another rock head that was about the size of a bowling ball with a scream on its face. The head-on-head thunk was the same deep sound I remember hearing inside my ears when my arm broke last summer.

  I got a good grip on the loose head and lifted, straightening my knees at the same time. My back hurt, and something in my chest twanged pain down my stomach, but I had that rock off the ground. Oh yeah. The rock was so mine.

  All I had to do was hang onto it across the street, then up the stairs to my front door, and inside the house, and down the hallway to my room. A little itch of sweat tickled my lip and I glanced at my house across the street. It suddenly looked a whole lot farther away. Maybe messing with the heads wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe putting the rock down would be the smart move. After all, I didn’t want to make Jugg’s dad mad.

  “Wow,” Jugg said. “Is it heavy?”

  “No,” I huffed.

  “Yes it is. Your face is getting red
.”

  “Shut up, Jugg.”

  “You’re gonna drop it.”

  “Shut up, Jugg.”

  “I never thought you could do it, Boads. You’re pretty strong for a girl.”

  I thought about saying “shut up Jugg” again, but needed that breath to start walking. The rock was so heavy my arms hung down to my knees. My thighs bumped into my hands with each step and I kind of wanted to rest the rock on my thighs, because it seemed like it would be easier to carry that way, and maybe I wouldn’t drop it and break my foot. I decided to rest the head on my right thigh, and then take one regular step and one nutso-groaning step to push the rock forward.

  While I grunted, Jugg sauntered along beside me, chewing a wad of Pixie Stick paper.

  “Man are you gonna get in trouble.”

  Shut. Up. Jugg, I thought.

  “Where are you gonna keep it?”

  Shut. Up. Jugg.

  “What if your mom finds out?”

  Shut. Up. Jugg.

  “Doesn’t that hurt? Your fingers are all white. Man, you sweat like a hog. Bet you can’t make it up those stairs.”

  Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!

  “Want me to open the door?”

  “Yes, you idiot,” I said all out of breath. “Hurry!”

  Jugg looked mad at me calling him an idiot and purposely took forever opening the door. All I could do was stand there sort of bent in half, the rock resting on my thigh, and both my legs shaking so hard, they were pounding in opposite beat to my heart. One little drop of sweat slid down my bangs, slithered into the curve of my eyelid, then down my nose and blipped onto the rock. The rock soaked up the sweat, and I swear this is what happened: its eyes moved.

  “Jugg,” I panted, kind of worried now.

  The rock rolled its eyes. It didn’t have any eyelids, a fact I think both it and I were pretty disturbed to discover.

  “Yeah, I know. Shut up.” He walked into my house. “Man, I love the smell of your house.”

  “Uh, Jugg?”

  Maybe the rock heard me even without ears. Maybe it noticed it was not attached to a body, or I dunno, maybe it didn’t like where my hands were on its butt. Whatever. It now stared straight at me, and even with no eyelids, I could tell it was angry. Crazy angry.

  Another drip of my sweat plopped onto the rock’s lips. It moved its mouth, chewed, and smacked, real quietly. Then it smiled a freakishly huge smile.

  I wanted to drop it right there, but was pretty sure my mom would notice a head in the hallway. The rock kept smiling, its eyes crazy-angry. It stared at my face, watching the slow dribble of sweat itching down my nose. Maybe it wasn’t crazy-angry. Maybe it was crazy-hungry.

  So how was I supposed to know rocks liked sweat? I wiped my face on the shoulder of my t-shirt, trying to soak up the sweat. When I looked at the rock again, its mouth was back in scream mode. Oh, yeah, it was angry.

  “What is the smell anyway,” Jugg called back, “cinnamon?”

  Jugg the wonder-brain was no help. My hands were starting to sweat and I didn’t want to know what would happen when the butt end of the stone soaked that up.

  “It’s cedar,” I said to Jugg. I took a step forward and thumped my way through our living room that was hard wood floor, wood walls and wood ceiling. Then I grunted down the hallway, also made of wood, wood, wood. My fingers were slipping, so I thunked faster, leaning my shoulder and hip along one wall for better leverage. I wanted to look at the rock’s eyes, but didn’t want to tip my sweaty head down. If a couple drops had made it wake up, I didn’t want to find out what more would do.

  Jugg strolled along in front of me and did nothing to help.

  There were three doors in the hall. The one on the left went to the bathroom. The one on the right was Mom’s workroom and the one on the end, yeah, the farthest one away, was my room. Jugg just stood there, his hand on the doorknob to my room.

  “Please,” I said. The rock was sort of squirming now, but I didn’t dare look down and drip on it more. Maybe it had teeth. Maybe it even had fangs. What kind of a weirdo did Jugg’s dad have to be to carve something with fangs?

  Jugg swung the door inward and stepped into my bedroom. I crossed the threshold behind him and groaned. My bed was against the far wall of my room. Even here, I had to walk the farthest to put this stupid rock down.

  I hobbled over to the bed and dropped the head in the middle of my unmade covers.

  The rock slipped down faster than I thought it would, and I kind of tried to grab it because I didn’t want it to bounce off the bed and hit the floor and break, but my grab didn’t do much good except put my palm in the perfect place for a rough spot on the rock — like maybe where teeth or fangs would be — to slash it open.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” I screamed.

  “What, what, what?” Jugg yelled.

  The rock hit my mattress and didn’t even bounce, it was so heavy. I pulled my hand into my chest so I didn’t have to see how bad it was bleeding, because I hated blood, because that would really be a problem and I would really get in trouble and man, I wished I’d asked Mom for more of the really big bandages when she went to the store last and it was a good thing I was wearing a cotton shirt and if I didn’t get something to wrap this cut up really quick I was going to pass out.

  “Here.” Jugg pulled my hand away from my chest and wrapped one of my clean soccer socks around my palm. I hadn’t even noticed he had gone to get it. I hissed when he tugged it tight and tied it in a knot on the back of my hand. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a friendly pat.

  “Wow, Boads. You are so screwed.”

  “Yeah,” I said. See, Jugg knew what my mom’s crazy was. Her crazy was all about blood.

  I glanced out the window. “Not going to be dark for at least an hour. Maybe I can be somewhere else. Your house, maybe?” I asked.

  Jugg shook his head. “She’d find you, and then my dad would get all mad at me having you over when she’s crazy. You could go to Nolly’s. She’s a mile away, that might be far enough.”

  “Her mom wouldn’t let me in. She’s crazy about dirt, and I’m really filthy, and leaking, you know.”

  Jugg sat down on the edge of my bed. “Yeah. Well, that sucks. But man, I can’t believe you stole the rock!”

  I sat down next to him. “Jugg, you watched me do it. That counts as permission. Even if your dad gets mad, I’m not the only one who’s screwed.”

  Jugg nodded. “I guess.” Then he grinned really big. “So what are you going to do with it?”

  I looked at the rock. It was face down in my covers so that only the bald back of the skull was visible. The memory of its eyes moving brought a chill up my arms and legs. Face down like that, maybe it would suffocate. Or maybe it would eat its way through my mattress. I shuddered, feeling really cold now.

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my good hand down my blue jeans trying to smooth out the goosebumps on my legs. “I just wanted to have one, you know? Maybe I’ll put it under my bed until I decide.”

  “Forget that,” Jugg said, suddenly all full of energy. “Let’s bury it. Wouldn’t that be cool? Dad would never find it!”

  “I’m not carrying it out to my yard. I just got it here.” I was getting pretty tired. The sock on my hand was warm and really squishy. I just wanted lie down and rest but the stupid rock was in my stupid way and there was no way I was getting into bed with it.

  “Hey, Boads, you okay?”

  I blinked hard and realized I’d had my eyes closed and was falling asleep sitting up. Maybe I was bleeding pretty bad.

  “I want to hide the rock before Mom gets up,” I said. “Help me push this thing under my bed.”

  “Sure, yeah, I guess,” Jugg said. “I still think it would be cooler to bury it.”

  “Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.” Or maybe I’d get a hammer and break it into gravel. I wondered if that would hurt it. Wondered, for one weird minute if maybe it really was one of Jugg’s relatives or something.

 
“Jugg,” I asked, “when your dad says the heads are family, he’s just kidding right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s not really somehow getting real heads and making them somehow, into rock heads, is he?” It sounded stupid once I said it, but Jugg didn’t laugh at me. He didn’t even smile.

  “He’s, you know, crazy, Boady. Just crazy.” And his voice had that flat tired sound to it. Our parents were weird. Super weird. And there wasn’t a lot we could do about it.

  “Sure,” I said. “I know. Help me move this.”

  With Jugg doing most of the work, and me keeping my bleeding hand completely out of the way, we got the rock off my bed and on my floor without being too loud. Jugg and I crouched down next to it. The head was just a head again, the eyes blank, and not moving. Instead of a scream, it was smiling. I didn’t see any teeth, but a red bloodstain smeared the corner of its lips. My blood.

  Stupid rock.

  I pushed the side of my blankets up on top of my mattress so we could see under the bed.

  That was when I remembered the secret I kept under my bed. A secret I hadn’t told Jugg about because I’d figured he’d rat me out. A secret that wasn’t a secret any more. My very own raised dead.

  “Holy crap!” Jugg yelled. “Dickie’s under there!” Jugg shook his head. “Too cool! Didn’t you bury him last week?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “I got lonely.”

  “But Boads — he’s dead, dude.”

  Here I smiled and the old excitement came out and some of my tired went away.

  “He used to be dead.”

  Jugg’s eyes got huge. He stopped chewing the Pixie Stick paper and swallowed it.

  “No.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Watch.” I tucked my legs in criss-cross style and tapped my good hand on my knee. “Come here, Dickie. Come on. Come on. That’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy? Dickie’s a good boy.”

  The sound of tail thumping started up. Then a shadow under the bed inched toward us, toward light, and Jugg and I scooted back so Dickie had room to get out. He belly crawled and used his front legs to push up so he was sitting, more or less on his back legs that didn’t work too good anymore. Other than the busted legs and the kind of weird glowing green goo where his eyes should be, he looked almost like he had in life. Even dead, he was the best dog ever.