of a Pontiac grins at them like the preserved jawbone of some Paleolithic shark exhumed from the fossilized seabed of Americana. Old photographs and press releases of classic Pontiac sedans decorate the walls. There’s a picture of a 1946 Silver Streak, several 1941 Torpedoes, a ’53 Dual Streak, and a Star Chief Catalina. Jukebox music plays in the background: Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, The Drifters, and Southern Culture on the Skids. A real trip down memory lane. The nice thing about a tourist trap like Santa Cruz is that most of the places aren’t heavily claded. Just about anyone can get into most of the shops, VRcades, and restaurants. A few exclusive art galleries and haut couture beach-apparel stores raise their noses to the riffraff. But for the most part, SC has retained its beatnik and counterculture roots. It’s a haven for the dispossessed, which is part of its charm.
“I’m really sorry,” Anthea whispers, all apologetic, when Josué trundles off to the restroom. “Malina called at the last minute. . . .”
“It’s okay,” Rigo says, only a little disappointed.
“No problem.” He’d been hoping to spend some quality time alone with Anthea. Just the two of them. But Rigo likes Josué well enough, so it really isn’t an issue. In addition, by not being pissed off, he’ll score major points with Anthea, who’s been a little cool tonight. Preoccupied, or withdrawn for some reason. Distracted.
Rigo sucks on the straw of his chocolate shake, cheeks hollowing. “Everything all right?” he says.
Anthea, slurping a cherry soda, looks up at him across the table. Nods. “How was your day?”
“We had a problem with one of the vats.” Rigo explains about the malfunctioning sensors and the datasquirt to Xengineering. How he had to recheck the sensors, confirm the data link.
“You sound tense,” Anthea says.
“Yeah. Well . . .” He offers a lame shrug, leaves out the part about the tear in the biosuit.
Anthea reaches across the tabletop, gives one of his hands a supportive squeeze with her twig-thin fingers. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so.” Rigo strokes her hand, tracing the bones beneath the skin, as if they can reveal all there is to know about her. It feels bad, not telling her everything. Wrong. He should be able to talk to her about anything, shouldn’t he? Even the delivery for Beto. But he holds back, too embarrassed. Doesn’t want to admit he might have fucked up. Doesn’t want her to think he’s a total dumbshit.
“What about your day?” he asks.
Anthea withdraws her hand, sits back, and sighs. “I got a new kid today. He’s super cute, but a mess. I mean, I could hardly get him to play. He was too grown-up—you know? Didn’t know how to have fun.”
Rigo relaxes. Tells himself this is what’s got her all out of sorts, the reason she’s distant. “How old is he?”
“Eight. A year younger than Josué. It’s sad.” A pained expression creases her face.
“Is he violent?” Rigo asks, glancing at the scratches on her arms. She’s been hurt more than once by gang kids who see her as an easy target. Someone to vent their anger or frustration on.
“No, nothing like that.” Anthea props her chin in the palms of her hands. “He’s just really scared, I think. Afraid to talk.”
Abused, Rigo thinks. These days, that goes without saying. “Any idea where he’s from?”
“No. The police picked him up at a pod station. I guess he’d been hanging there a while, trying to get somewhere.”
“Maybe you should buy him a ticket. See where he goes.”
Anthea shrugs, bony shoulders falling as she exhales. “I’ve got another session with him tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes.”
Anthea’s good at getting people to open up. It’s a gift. Complete strangers walk right up to her and spill their guts, bare their souls. Rigo feels that same tug, the urge to unburden himself in her presence.
Then Josué returns and it’s off to the Santa
“I’m really sorry,” Anthea whispers, all apologetic, when Josué trundles off to the restroom. “Malina called at the last minute. . . .”
“It’s okay,” Rigo says, only a little disappointed.
“No problem.” He’d been hoping to spend some quality time alone with Anthea. Just the two of them. But Rigo likes Josué well enough, so it really isn’t an issue. In addition, by not being pissed off, he’ll score major points with Anthea, who’s been a little cool tonight. Preoccupied, or withdrawn for some reason. Distracted.
Rigo sucks on the straw of his chocolate shake, cheeks hollowing. “Everything all right?” he says.
Anthea, slurping a cherry soda, looks up at him across the table. Nods. “How was your day?”
“We had a problem with one of the vats.” Rigo explains about the malfunctioning sensors and the datasquirt to Xengineering. How he had to recheck the sensors, confirm the data link.
“You sound tense,” Anthea says.
“Yeah. Well . . .” He offers a lame shrug, leaves out the part about the tear in the biosuit.
Anthea reaches across the tabletop, gives one of his hands a supportive squeeze with her twig-thin fingers. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so.” Rigo strokes her hand, tracing the bones beneath the skin, as if they can reveal all there is to know about her. It feels bad, not telling her everything. Wrong. He should be able to talk to her about anything, shouldn’t he? Even the delivery for Beto. But he holds back, too embarrassed. Doesn’t want to admit he might have fucked up. Doesn’t want her to think he’s a total dumbshit.
“What about your day?” he asks.
Anthea withdraws her hand, sits back, and sighs. “I got a new kid today. He’s super cute, but a mess. I mean, I could hardly get him to play. He was too grown-up—you know? Didn’t know how to have fun.”
Rigo relaxes. Tells himself this is what’s got her all out of sorts, the reason she’s distant. “How old is he?”
“Eight. A year younger than Josué. It’s sad.” A pained expression creases her face.
“Is he violent?” Rigo asks, glancing at the scratches on her arms. She’s been hurt more than once by gang kids who see her as an easy target. Someone to vent their anger or frustration on.
“No, nothing like that.” Anthea props her chin in the palms of her hands. “He’s just really scared, I think. Afraid to talk.”
Abused, Rigo thinks. These days, that goes without saying. “Any idea where he’s from?”
“No. The police picked him up at a pod station. I guess he’d been hanging there a while, trying to get somewhere.”
“Maybe you should buy him a ticket. See where he goes.”
Anthea shrugs, bony shoulders falling as she exhales. “I’ve got another session with him tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes.”
Anthea’s good at getting people to open up. It’s a gift. Complete strangers walk right up to her and spill their guts, bare their souls. Rigo feels that same tug, the urge to unburden himself in her presence.
Then Josué returns and it’s off to the Santa
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