My eyes pop and I cough, covering my mouth while I try and wipe the shock from my face.
I hold up a finger and swallow in a weak attempt to compose myself. “
Lo siento.
¿
Qué
?”
But that’s not what I said, either! I turn away and cough again before giving it another try.
Sorry. What?
“
Lo siento
. ¿
Qué
?”
He smiles and rephrases the question. “Do you need a lift?”
I dig a finger in my ear. Time traveling? Not a big deal. Lightning whips? Surprising but cool. Auto-translation? A little freaky.
Guess it’s helpful, even if it is unnerving. I scratch my head. Magic seems to be the flavor of the day.
I shrug, return his grin, and find it only slightly worrisome when my statement flows in a perfect native tongue. “I can’t remember how far it is to town. I could use a ride.”
He kicks the bike and cranks the throttle down. In a choking cloud of blue-gray smoke, the engine roars to life. I puff up at my assessment of the bike. A Fusté only smoked until it was broken in—a replica wouldn’t.
I almost laugh that my random bike knowledge is the solution to this mystery. Since Julius Fusté manufactured his bikes in Barcelona from 1924 to 1929, I’m spot on about it being a ’27. An original ’27.
“Don’t laugh,” Hector says with a hint of embarrassment.
I bite my lip. Who knows what the culture is here, but men are men and it’s never good to insult their toys. I learned a long time ago, guys have specific perceptions of what skills girls are allowed to have. Some of our long-time customers won’t let me near their bikes. Even guys who think they’ve evolved still have instinctual reactions.
I lift my hands in surrender and reassure him. “No, I really like it. Really.”
You have no idea just how much.
Hector walks his Fusté forward to the middle of the street where I meet him.
I glance back at the women. They seem satisfied with my decision. Not sure yet if that’s a good thing or a bad one.
With my hand on Hector’s shoulder, I shift my weight and balance against him. As I lift my left leg and swing it over the seat, a stabbing pain shoots through my stomach.
I double over and curl against my outstretched knee perched on the seat of the bike, fingers clawing at my belly. My position half on, half off the bike leaves me badly unbalanced. Hector turns. His movements wiggle the bike, and now I’m pretty sure I’m going to do a giant face-plant onto the cobblestones. I can’t suck in enough air to tell him to knock it off.
I twist my head around and search the sky, straining my neck from my balled-up state. Lightning isn’t likely on such a sunny day, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel pain like this. Though never this bad.
I’m going to die.
I moan. “Off.”
Hector slides off the bike and wraps his fingers tight around my waist. I’m useless to help him. He lowers me to the ground, and my ears are deaf to whatever he’s telling me. There’s a loud roaring in my right ear. His anguished face disappears as another bolt of pain wracks my entire body. Behind my tightly shut lids, blackness rimmed with bright spikes of color radiates outward, pulsing with the pain. I’m pretty sure Hector’s making a break for it, and I’m going to be left to die by the side of the road.
Time travel is considerably less fun right now.
The roaring stops after Hector turns off the bike. He’s bending over me again, and I pry my eyes open a crack.
“Lightning,” I whisper through my parched lips.
He points to the blue sky. I don’t know how to explain it. I ease myself up to my elbows and search for anything else that could be causing this much pain. There’s nothing else it could be. The abuelas are gone, but I never saw them leave. It’s like they vanished.
Hector kneels in front of me and brushes the hair from my face. Concern and shock mingle on his features. Bet he didn’t plan on playing nursemaid when he hit on me. I have to toughen up and stop scaring this poor guy. With careful, measured movements, I push up a little higher until I’m sitting. There’s no way I can manage the rest on my own. I wince. “Help me up.”
He puts his hands around my ribcage and drapes my arm around his neck, then gently supports me until I’m upright. I lean against the bike, one hand on the seat to steady myself so Hector doesn’t have to take all my weight.
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an idiot. I’ve always been able to manage my lightning pain, but after last night’s episode on the bike, and now today . . . something is making it worse.
“No!” Someone cries from over my shoulder, and I turn and cringe at the fresh wave of pain. An older man about Papi’s height stands to the right of the barn door in an outfit so out of place it’s obvious he’s just appeared there in the moments I’ve been distracted by the pain. No way I’d have missed his obnoxious blue pin-striped suit that screams tightass. But even if I had, it would have been impossible to overlook his glare.
Shock and incredulity fuse with a scornful accusation. Like he caught me shoplifting.
“Who are you?” I brace myself for an onslaught of pain.
“Who are
you
?” he asks threateningly, as if my existence personally pisses him off.
I straighten, though each movement threatens to ignite me. I put every bit of steel I’ve ever touched into my words. “None of your business, old man.” A coil of lightning flares in my palm.
His image flickers, and he staggers back, a hand against his chest. “This can’t be.”
He vanishes, and my pain does, too. But in its place is a heavy unfamiliar weight in the pit of my stomach. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid.
Not a good time to be in a strange land, strange time, with strange people.
Still, with the pain gone, I feel better than I have in months. I step away from Hector and peer at the building, then down at my hand. The lightning is gone, but I feel recharged, like it turned its power inward or something. My fingers twirl an invisible drumstick. I’m on a crazy beefed-up adrenalin rush.
But people don’t flicker. They don’t vanish. Though if I’m going to tread down that path of reasoning, they definitely don’t time travel. But that guy showed up with no warning and then just . . . evaporated. No lightning, no nothing. Maybe I made him disappear with
my
lightning.
It’s not exactly comforting to get blindsided by a stranger out time-traveling today. At least, I’m assuming that’s what he was doing. Not a lot of transportation options will let you pop in and out of thin air. He almost seemed to know me or recognize me . . . or at least my power. That can’t be good.
I steal a glance at Hector and feel guilty about his look of confusion. Do I play it off like it’s normal? I need Hector’s bike, with or without him. Even without the abuela’s guidance—or lack thereof—I need to get out of here. I don’t like that they didn’t stick around when Mystery Guy showed up. But honestly, now that he knows my location, I don’t want to stick around either.
“What the . . . what . . . who?” Hector stutters, his arms gesturing toward the empty spot near the barn.
All I can offer is a head shake. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Closing the distance between us, he cups my elbow. “Are you okay?”
Nervous laughter erupts. I can’t help it. Lightning is coursing through me, I’m a thousand miles and maybe decades away from home, I have no idea where my papi is, and some stranger is following me. “Yeah.” I take a big breath. “I am. But I need to get home.”
He walks to the barn and stands over the spot, as if hoping for an answer.
I need to figure out where I’m going to find mine. And quickly, before the questions keep multiplying.
I need that book. Surely something like this happened to one of my ancestors.
Hector returns and we walk back to the bike.
I take a deep breath and press both palms against the seat. Nervousness wiggles in my belly, but a surge of mega-adrenalin extinguishes it. I straighten and glance at Hector. He’s eyeing my ass and recoils when I catch him. I raise an eyebrow, and he looks away, confirming my earlier assessment that this guy wouldn’t make a move even if I handed him an engraved invitation. Ready, I take my hands off the bike and step toward the tail.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He cocks his head like he wants to argue. “You sure?”
Double-checking the area surrounding the barn, I nod, noting how fast my emotions are flip-flopping. I take a risk. “Where am I?”
He watches me for a moment, then climbs on the bike and starts it. Glancing over his shoulder, he says, “Spain.”
“Good guess,” I whisper to myself. Settling my hands against his shoulders, I mount the bike behind him, squished in the leather cradle built for one. Once I slide into position without incident, I exhale and link my hands around Hector’s waist, awkwardly trying to hang on and not press my body against him at the same time.
Emerald hills speed past us as the village fades away. Less than an hour ago, I was at the base of a mountain range. What a strange day. A normal person would be totally messed up by today’s corkscrew path. I’ve never been scared of anything else, and I suppose I’m not surprised I’m taking a little time travel in stride.
An uneven patch of stones jars the front tire, and the bike leaps in the air. I squeeze Hector’s ribs as he lands the bike. I catch a glimpse of his grin in the mirror and scoot my butt to the back end of the seat to put a little space between his back and my boobs.
Houses reappear along the edge of the street, mashed together until there’s barely room for walkways or roads. The bike growls between my thighs as we climb a steep hill. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t driving, and it’s easy to slip away on my thoughts while Hector guides us along the winding street. Three small girls play with dolls and wave as we pass. I wave back.
Houses crowd each other on the crest of the hill, concealing the horizon before the drop-off on the other side quickly comes into view. An impossibly narrow bridge spans a deep gorge, and we hurtle toward it. To the left of the bridge, a viaduct chokes the river at the top of the gorge and squeezes it through a simple hydro plant. The water plummets to the river hundreds of feet below. The canyon here is narrow, and the spray washes the road. Tiny wires connect the coils harnessing the water’s power.
Fear rises in my stomach, and I flip-flop again, wrapping myself tight around Hector, no longer caring what he thinks it means.
Now I mind being a passenger. I do not want to cross that bridge. I do not want to go anywhere near that waterfall. I want to go home. If I were driving, I’d turn around and get as far away from the power plant as possible. My stomach tightens.
Oblivious to my issues, Hector tips the bike down the hill on the backside of the gorge and lets gravity propel us beyond the engine’s capabilities. We hit the bridge and rocket halfway across it before I can make myself speak, but by then it’s too late. The wires from the power station are thick black snakes splitting the gorge in half. The coil of emotion in my belly intensifies.
This hot space inside me isn’t fear anymore. I ignore the wind whipping me and the road’s rumble beneath us. I’ve misjudged the emotion. It part adrenalin, but there’s more. Way more.
It’s power. And it’s responding to the hydro plant.
It’s my lightning.
The moment I make the connection, I’m yanked off the bike by invisible fingers. I instinctively curl into a ball to lessen the impact, but it never comes. Though I’m terrified to watch myself die, I force my eyes open. I hang suspended above the road, three hundred feet above the bottom of the gorge, and watch as the Spanish landscape fades. Terror shuffles with excitement. The dark red tiles atop the houses become pink rooftops, and dark vines become a washed-out yellow, like spring has turned to late fall in less than three heartbeats. The comforting warmth of the sunshine intensifies to such an uncomfortable fire, I think I hold enough heat to birth a star.
As the earth beneath me fades to transparency, I lean into the sensation of weightlessness and ready myself for this skydive into the unknown. My blood pounds through my body, pulsing in melody with the light.
A blinding flash.
It obscures everything. Then I’m plunged into a darkness so absolute only remnants of the flash remain. As the blackness consumes me, one small question rises on a sliver of panic. One I should have asked in the beginning.
How will I find home?
Chapter 4
Accompanied by a sudden rush of wind, color impales me from every direction. I stagger and throw my hands out to steady myself. It takes me a second, but I recognize the furniture in Mami and Papi’s living room. Air whooshes from my lungs, and I bend over, gasping.
I did it. I made it back to where I started.
Time travel just topped BASE jumping on my list. Spain rocked, too. Tiny sparks of lightning crackle in my palm.
I race back toward the bedrooms. “Papi?” I push his door open to an empty room. As I walk down the hall replaying the trip, a memory that isn’t mine sweeps over me.
I’m another little girl and my friends and I are playing with our favorite dolls when a loud motorcycle roars by us. We wave at the boy and girl on the bike. The pretty girl on the back waves back.
It was me. I was the pretty girl on the back of the bike.
Something crashes at the back of the house, startling the quasi-memory away.
“Papi, are you here?”
Another crash and a curse. “Evy? Are you okay?”
I bounce up on my toes and pat myself down. Seems like everything made it back to all the right spots. I dance a quick rumba step through the kitchen door.
I freeze, my left hip pushed outward. A stranger stands in the kitchen, a fistful of bills in one hand and Bimni nudging the other. I trust her judgment—dogs don’t come any more discriminating than she is. She sits, tongue lolling, slimy ball at her feet.
“Uh,
hola
.” I rotate my hips back to normal and take in the whole scene, smiling that Spain is already rubbing off on my lingo. And that my day is filling up with super spicy guys. He must be one of Papi’s workers, come to get cash for the upcoming library job. They’ve been in and out of here my whole life, but none this chiseled.