A History of Glitter and Blood by Hannah Moskowitz Page B

and stuff. There’s an office just for planning rebuilding. Selling paintbrushes and stuff.”
    She finds the light of their cabin. “That’s us. I live nearly outside the city now. But I grew up right in the middle.” She tries to point, but doesn’t know where to start. There’s a yellow glow rising up, as if something underground is breathing out gas. “What is that?”
    â€œSomething the gnomes do,” he says. “No idea what. Every few days it pops up. Glittery smoke, look at it.”
    â€œYou can’t see it from down there. . . .”
    â€œHmm. Dunno.”
    She shakes her head a little.
    â€œYou’ve never seen them do anything weird?” he says.
    â€œI . . . go to one room down there. I don’t wander. I don’t even know what’s on the other floors. Scrap does.”
    â€œI guess he would have mentioned if it were important.”
    She nods, though she isn’t sure.
    â€œBecause, I mean, he clearly told you exactly what it’s like up here.”
    She realizes he’s being sarcastic.
    â€œHe’s my friend,” she says.
    â€œOh, yeah, he seems like a good guy, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    Now she can’t tell if he means it. There’s something about his voice that catches her in a place that isn’t prepared to be touched. He talks too quickly or too steadily. He doesn’t trip over his words. He possibly doesn’t think enough.
    The last one she knew who didn’t think enough . . . well, it didn’t work out well for him.
    As if reading her mind, Piccolo says, “I saw him, Scrap. And you. The day the gnome king died. And that other one, Cricket?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI just . . . I’ve been interested in you guys since then. I don’t know. In you.”
    And she doesn’t wonder
why her
, and she doesn’t wonder what his watching means, and she doesn’t spiral into flashbacks about that day (she doesn’t she doesn’t) she just thinks,
What kind of interested?
    â€œAnyway, I just wondered what you were like. And there’s the tall one. Josha? Same color as you. Is it okay to say this stuff? The color thing? I’m not trying to be controversial.”
    â€œNo, it’s fine. That’s Josha.”
    â€œHe’s the one who applied for our army.”
    â€œHe wanted to be helpful. He doesn’t trick like us.”
    But it wasn’t just that. Josha was desperate and detached and alone and all he wanted was a gun on his shoulder and someone to stand beside him and squeeze his arm and tell him he was doing a good job.
    Instead he was alone every day in that cabin.
    â€œThey didn’t give him a fucking chance,” Piccolo says. “Laughed him away. Just ’cause he’s not a tightroper. Fucking moronic, all this racial stuff, the prejudices . . .” He shakes his head. “I look exactly like all the other tightropers, and I don’t think anyone’s ever felt less like . . . anyway. Less like anything but a messboy. Anyway. Do you like it?” He gestures out toward the view.
    â€œYes. Absolutely, yes.” She shakes her head a little. “
Yes
isn’t the right word.”
    â€œTry
yeah
.”
    She laughs. “We say
yeah
. Just . . . not when we’re talking to strangers.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    She bites her lip and looks at him.
    â€œYeah,” she says.
    Something stirring underneath them breaks the moment, and she sees Scrap walking toward home, alone. He looks small but not scared. He’s limping a little.
    â€œI have to go,” she says.
    â€œNo problem.” He doesn’t try to help her stand. She doesn’t need it.
    â€œI’ll . . . see you again?”
    â€œI’ll be here. You ever want to come back up . . . you know? You should come back up.