Mireya? At the ranch, I imagined this moment over and over—what I’d be wearing when I saw her again, what she’d be wearing, what we’d say. Now it’s all happening much too fast, and my throat cinches shut, leaving me speechless.
Mireya steps out from behind a porch pillar, raising her sunglasses. Her hair is gorgeous, glossy black, falling well below her broad shoulders. “Hey, Hedda.”
Behind me Erika says in a low voice, “I asked her to come by one of these afternoons; I meant to tell you. Hope it’s okay.”
I nod a little too hard. “Of course, but how did you…?”
“How’d she know about me?” Mireya says. “I watch Clint sometimes. Erika said you were coming, and I told her how tight we were in kindergarten and first grade. How I gave you the rock candy you lost your first baby tooth on.”
Warmth floods my chest as I remember a little girl with satin ribbons streaming from her barrettes, laughing wildly and dominating every conversation. I always hoped she’d remember me, too, but I’m not sure I believed it. I had a real life here. I was real.
Erika unlocks the door and shoos Clint upstairs to take a shower. “I’ll let you girls reconnect,” she says. “Can I get you iced tea or something?”
“I’m good.” Mireya has a forthright, forceful way of talking—nothing like Shannon at the fair, who made every sentence into a question. It scares me a little, because forceful people make quick judgments. What if she decides I’m a freak?
We sit down awkwardly in the living room, Mireya stretching out her legs, which are athletic with no shaving scars. Her T-shirt is faded and ripped, but everything else about her—eyeliner, earrings, even her brand-name flip-flops—makes me feel sloppy. She’s holding a phone.
“So,” she says. “Your dad and Erika told me you were out in Arizona, but not much else.”
That’s an invitation, I know, but all I can do is laugh nervously. “There isn’t much else. I mean…” What can I possibly say about the ranch? “We’re off the grid. We make cheese. And preserves to sell. We raise goats.”
This is not going well. She’s staring like I just told her I live in New Genesis. She wants to know what regular things I did in Arizona, like dates or parties or high school debate team, and the answer is zero regular things. “I’m homeschooled,” I add.
“That’s so cool.” She nods like she’s trying to think so, fidgeting with her phone like she might abandon the conversation at any minute for something more interesting.
I take a deep breath; this has to be faced head-on. “Did, um, Dad tell you about my mom and her rules?”
Mireya’s hand closes over the phone protectively. “Erika did. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I—”
“No!” It comes out too loud, and I modulate my voice. “I mean, I don’t mind, I’m totally fine. My mom has the issues with technology, not me.”
“Oh!” Mireya seems to take a moment to absorb this before flipping her hair back, eyes wide in her light brown face, her posture relaxing. “That makes more sense. Erika told me you don’t go online, and I was trying to imagine it, but I couldn’t. When we were little, you never went anywhere without your tablet. It was like a third arm.”
I visualize myself with a third arm—a monster. If Mireya remembers me going off-kilter, she’s giving no sign of it. “I barely know what a tablet is now,” I admit. “Or what you do with one. I haven’t used a computer in years.”
“No? Really?” Her frown is back. “Well, maybe you’re better off. Anyway, you used your tablet to game—hard-core, racking up levels. You always had the best games ’cause of your parents.”
“I played Dad’s games?” I wish I could remember; it would give Dad and me more to talk about.
“Your mom’s, too—she was an awesome designer. My friend Rory says she designed phone games that were, like, cutting edge back then. It’s too weird that she gave it all up.” A wistful look softens Mireya’s face. “That’s actually how I started designing games myself—I saw your mom doing her work, and I figured, hey, this stuff isn’t just for boys; maybe I can do it.”
Mom’s energy can be inspiring when there’s a project to do, but the thought of her inspiring Mireya or anyone to design Glare-games sends a shudder down my spine. The old memory comes back: the babysitter sitting in blue light, telling me to look away from something that wasn’t for children.
To hide my reaction, I stand up. “Want to see my old room?”
Upstairs, Mireya’s voice echoes stridently off my walls. “This place totally takes me back.” She picks up a sparkly-horned unicorn from the bookcase. “We used to fight over this one—who got to do his voice. Remember?”
“Of course!” I’ve basically admitted I don’t remember the Glare, but I don’t want her to think I have full-blown amnesia. “Remember that time your dad was away, and you were sad, and Mom made us a tea party?”
“Yeah, my dad was away a lot. Now he’s away permanently.” Mireya plunks herself down on the bed and grabs Raggedy Ann. “She was at the tea party, too. You stained her poor mouth.”
My hand darts out before I can stop it, as if to grab Ann back. I let it drop quickly, hoping Mireya won’t notice, but how could she not?
“Wait, wait, what happened here? Who de-eyed her?”
I shake my head helplessly, but before I can come up with an explanation, Mireya flips Ann over, rucking up her pinafore. “And what’s this?”
She peels off the pinafore, revealing writing on Ann’s cloth chest. Sitting down beside her, I see a childish ballpoint scrawl, a string of disconnected letters and numbers followed by a period and the word “onion.” Beside it is a crude drawing I recognize instantly: a square black tower.
I can’t breathe. The tower has to be the one from my dream. The writing is mine, too, but why? It’s pure nonsense, like someone speaking in tongues.
“I don’t remember doing any of that,” I admit. “But it must have been me.”
I’m so sure suddenly that Mireya’s discovered evidence of something hideous I did, something forbidden, that it takes me a few seconds to absorb the words coming out of her mouth:
“Why were you on the Dark Web?”
“The dark what?” The words evoke oily black strands strung between gnarled trees, a giant spider waiting for unwary travelers.
Mireya smooths Ann’s pinafore and sets her back on the bed. “Onion addresses are on the Dark Web, the part of the internet where innocent little children aren’t supposed to go.” She whips out her phone. “But I’m not an innocent little child, and I have Tor, and I’m going to find this address for you—if you want me to. If you’re curious.”
Address? Foreboding sneaks up my spine, but I am curious, and a little excited. “You could do that? It won’t be dangerous?”
“You’re so intense!” She gives me a teasing shove. “Just like old times. Trust me, whatever’s out there, I can handle. When I do find it, I’ll text you—wait, can you get texts?”