long-distance diagnosis, though, is that you’re suffering from stress. Simple nerves.”
Whose nerves are simple? Xavier thought. And won’t taking in a fifteen-year-old guest do a wonderful job of calming them?
“This seems to be a bad time for you,” Lydia said, “but Mikhail—The Mick, I mean—wants to say something, Xavier.”
“Hello, Uncle Xave.” The boy’s voice went up and down like a roller-coaster car: the teenager’s identifying squawk.
“Hello, Mikhail.”
“I’d try not to be a drag on you. I mean, I’d like behave myself.”
Lydia came back on. “He means it. He’s not a, uh—he’s not a bad kid. He’s bright. He even knows how to cook.”
Ultimately, Xavier agreed to act as Mikhail’s guardian during the Menakers’ eighteen-month stay in Pakistan. He owed Lydia and Phil that much—and he would not have been able to live with himself if they’d had to enroll their son in a military academy or to pay complete strangers to take him in.
Once off the phone, Xavier saw that his hands were trembling. “Uncle Xave?” he said aloud. “Dear God, I’m an Uncle Xave .”
8
The Mick
Mikhail Geoffrey Menaker flew into Sidney Lanier International Airport two weeks later. Bari, between business trips, rode out with Xavier on an EleRail train to provide moral support when he met the boy.
“What does he look like?” she asked when they reached the reception gate.
“Last time I saw him, a freckled Tom Sawyerish kid with a toothless grin.”
Xavier had no trouble recognizing the boy once passengers began to gather. Most travelers were adults, and Mikhail emerged via a crowded escalator as if he were a unique type of humanity, either a devolved specimen or a futuristic model still in the throes of becoming. Still, Xavier had not expected the Tom Sawyer clone of recent memory to appear to them in such a guise.
“Ah,” said Bari, more interested than appalled. “A retropunk.”
“Pardon?” said Xavier, more appalled than interested.
“Retropunk. You know, it’s just started coming back in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I saw a lot of it again last month in Tokyo.”
Xavier gawped at Mikhail, who stood just within the reception gate surveying the greeters. Little taller than he’d been four years ago, he wore faded jeans, a sleeveless leather jacket embossed under one pocket with a thumbtacked skull or robot face (it was hard to say which), old motorcycle boots, and a spiked wristlet hinting at recent imprisonment in a Roman galley. His hair bristled on top, but was skinned clean at the temples. It flowed from his nape in a mint-green and magenta braid. An arrowhead dangled from one earlobe. Black circles pouched his eyes, and high on his cheek gleamed a grease-painted atom with orbiting electrons.
“A real fashion plate,” Xavier said.
“More imaginative than ninety percent of the other arriving passengers.”
Xavier said, “About as imaginative as combining a terry-cloth toga, a baseball cap, and loggers’ boots.”
“At least he isn’t a geek in a grey flannel suit, Xavier.”
They moved toward the kid, who had a duffel bag and an armload of comic books. The comics featured on their covers a host of costumed superheroes. So many that if there were really superheroes, they could have more easily distinguished themselves from their countless fellow vigilantes by jettisoning the lookalike tights, capes, and hoods and wearing khaki slacks and T-shirts. Xavier introduced Bari, put the comics in the boy’s duffel bag, and shouldered the bag himself. Then he said, “They won’t let you into Ephebus Academy with that haircut, Mikhail.”
“I can have my head shaved, can’t I?”
“And the clothes—you can’t wear them at Ephebus. They have a uniform.”
“Yeah. Navy pants, grey shirts, a throat-gag of a tie, and a fucking escutcheon .”
“You going to have trouble with any of that?”
“From nine to three every day? No sweat, Uncle Xave. It’ll keep my real
Whose nerves are simple? Xavier thought. And won’t taking in a fifteen-year-old guest do a wonderful job of calming them?
“This seems to be a bad time for you,” Lydia said, “but Mikhail—The Mick, I mean—wants to say something, Xavier.”
“Hello, Uncle Xave.” The boy’s voice went up and down like a roller-coaster car: the teenager’s identifying squawk.
“Hello, Mikhail.”
“I’d try not to be a drag on you. I mean, I’d like behave myself.”
Lydia came back on. “He means it. He’s not a, uh—he’s not a bad kid. He’s bright. He even knows how to cook.”
Ultimately, Xavier agreed to act as Mikhail’s guardian during the Menakers’ eighteen-month stay in Pakistan. He owed Lydia and Phil that much—and he would not have been able to live with himself if they’d had to enroll their son in a military academy or to pay complete strangers to take him in.
Once off the phone, Xavier saw that his hands were trembling. “Uncle Xave?” he said aloud. “Dear God, I’m an Uncle Xave .”
8
The Mick
Mikhail Geoffrey Menaker flew into Sidney Lanier International Airport two weeks later. Bari, between business trips, rode out with Xavier on an EleRail train to provide moral support when he met the boy.
“What does he look like?” she asked when they reached the reception gate.
“Last time I saw him, a freckled Tom Sawyerish kid with a toothless grin.”
Xavier had no trouble recognizing the boy once passengers began to gather. Most travelers were adults, and Mikhail emerged via a crowded escalator as if he were a unique type of humanity, either a devolved specimen or a futuristic model still in the throes of becoming. Still, Xavier had not expected the Tom Sawyer clone of recent memory to appear to them in such a guise.
“Ah,” said Bari, more interested than appalled. “A retropunk.”
“Pardon?” said Xavier, more appalled than interested.
“Retropunk. You know, it’s just started coming back in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I saw a lot of it again last month in Tokyo.”
Xavier gawped at Mikhail, who stood just within the reception gate surveying the greeters. Little taller than he’d been four years ago, he wore faded jeans, a sleeveless leather jacket embossed under one pocket with a thumbtacked skull or robot face (it was hard to say which), old motorcycle boots, and a spiked wristlet hinting at recent imprisonment in a Roman galley. His hair bristled on top, but was skinned clean at the temples. It flowed from his nape in a mint-green and magenta braid. An arrowhead dangled from one earlobe. Black circles pouched his eyes, and high on his cheek gleamed a grease-painted atom with orbiting electrons.
“A real fashion plate,” Xavier said.
“More imaginative than ninety percent of the other arriving passengers.”
Xavier said, “About as imaginative as combining a terry-cloth toga, a baseball cap, and loggers’ boots.”
“At least he isn’t a geek in a grey flannel suit, Xavier.”
They moved toward the kid, who had a duffel bag and an armload of comic books. The comics featured on their covers a host of costumed superheroes. So many that if there were really superheroes, they could have more easily distinguished themselves from their countless fellow vigilantes by jettisoning the lookalike tights, capes, and hoods and wearing khaki slacks and T-shirts. Xavier introduced Bari, put the comics in the boy’s duffel bag, and shouldered the bag himself. Then he said, “They won’t let you into Ephebus Academy with that haircut, Mikhail.”
“I can have my head shaved, can’t I?”
“And the clothes—you can’t wear them at Ephebus. They have a uniform.”
“Yeah. Navy pants, grey shirts, a throat-gag of a tie, and a fucking escutcheon .”
“You going to have trouble with any of that?”
“From nine to three every day? No sweat, Uncle Xave. It’ll keep my real
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