The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

“Everyone, take their places,” said Dyson. He and three men stepped onto the stage. “Showtime,” he said.

My face was stuffed against the hole in the barn. Peter fluttered his fingers. Randy slipped out of the barn without me noticing. Peter was all I could see. He shook his head like a dog drying off. “I should probably start with my mother,” he said.

Randy latched onto my shoulder. “Well, well, well,” he said. “What a pretty little fish I caught in my net.”

My heartbeat shot into my ears. I swung around. “Get inside,” I said in a paranoid hush.

“I’m pretty positive you’re not allowed here.”

“I’m allowed everywhere, Randy. There’s no place I can’t go.”

“Come on inside, then.” He dunked his eye against the peephole. “Much better view inside. I’m sure Dyson would love you to join us.”

I stuck my thumb over the hole. “Just tell me what you want, Randy.”

He assured me he didn’t want much. “Only what we deserve,” he said. “A reward for the work we’ve put in.”

“Your spot at The Atmosphere is its own reward.”

“I want to get out of this place.”

“We told you from the beginning: no one’s keeping you here.”

“Just for a day. A field trip. For us all to go out for a meal, or a concert, or maybe go sailing—I don’t really care. I want to have fun together in public.”

“There’s work to do, Randy,” I said. Though I already knew I would give in, and this filled me with a piercing shame. “We can’t quit working because you want to have fun.”

“Dyson always talks about movies.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

He returned his eye to the hole. “Looks like your boyfriend’s finishing up.”

“Spreading rumors won’t help your cause.”

“Does Dyson know? We know. All of us do. I bet Dyson would wanna know, too.”

“I don’t know what Peter told you—”

“Peter didn’t say anything. Not about you, at least. Not like he used to. One day he just quit talking about you to us. Out of nowhere. It couldn’t have been any more obvious.”

I ran my hand through my hair, settled myself. “Go back inside and I’ll do what I can.”

“You know I came out here to pee,” he said. “Been an awful long time for a piss. Dyson will be suspicious. Not saying I can’t make an excuse—but should I?”

“I’ll talk to Dyson.”

“You’ll talk to him or you’ll convince him?”

“I’ll convince him. Okay?”

“You say I don’t care, but I care. I’m sacrificing a lot for you. I’m protecting you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“With big news, I hope.” He ambled inside and joined the men as they stood in applause.

I sprinted to the cabin.

I proposed a movie to Dyson that evening. He couldn’t believe the idea hadn’t occurred to him earlier. “This is why we need two people,” he said. “This is why other groups fail. You put one person at the top and their mind atrophies. But you put two creative people together and—” He draped his hands over my temples and kissed my forehead, then quickly thumbed the skin he had kissed, as if he left a mark. “Lennon and McCartney, Jobs and Wozniak, Diego and Frida.”

“Sasha and Dyson,” I said, genuinely pleased.

Dyson smiled moonily.

It had been weeks since I’d felt this kind of kinship between us. I gulped this feeling, as if it were fresh air after being held underwater. Perhaps we hadn’t drifted as far apart as I believed.

We drew up pros and cons for every movie currently playing. Around three in the morning, we compromised on a revenge thriller starring Mark Wahlberg and Jeremy Renner as cops hunting the gangsters who bombed their precinct. Just Us.

We told the men about the movie over breakfast. Randy cheered quietly, proud but unwilling to gloat. They changed the tires on the bus and gave it a fresh coat of paint—royal-blue base, The Atmospherians in red on the sides. Dyson wanted the world to know who we were.

twenty-nine

THE MEN JAMMED together in three- and two-seaters at the front. They dangled their arms over the seats in front of them, teasing one another, shouting and laughing like a football team riding home after a win. We had given them AirHeads candies as a treat. On the highway, the men closest to the windows pressed their faces to the glass, nostrils stretched until their noses looked like snouts. They flattened their palms against the glass and stared into the blurred greens of the passing scenery.

I took a two-seater at the front thinking Dyson and I might play the role of a driver and teacher. This dynamic of adulthood had always intrigued me as a child. But Dyson was too distracted to talk. Two months had passed since he’d driven the bus. He struggled with the bare bone of the gearshift, dragged the shifter using two hands, swearing and sweating as the engine let out scraggly shrieks. I feared the bus might catch fire.

Peter sat with Gerry a few rows behind me. Whenever I swiveled my head to look at him he wasn’t looking at me. I tried summoning him with my mind. Peter, I thought, Peter, come here. I craved his company most in the moments when we needed to hide ourselves.

Randy plopped into my seat. He was chewing candy that smelled like a mountain of cherries. “You could at least give me a hint,” he said.

“Be satisfied with what you already have,” I said.

“You’re gonna jam something sappy down our throats, try making us weep in public.”

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed of crying.”

“I like to cry where I’m comfortable,” he said. “In bed. On the toilet.”

I turned to the window.

“Just name an actor. A supporting actor.”

“Maybe there are no actors.”

“Where’s it set? Just give me something.”

“Randy,” I said, in a tone of cut it out.

He gripped the seat cushion and said, “Don’t pretend I’m the only one getting something.” He spoke loud enough for Dyson to hear. “I might get a movie—but you and Petey get to keep doing