The Ninety-Fifth Percentile.

McManus, John (American writer)

Caidin Maddox and Jeff Krause, best friends, went to a magnet school in West Houston for the gifted. To attend it you had to score above the ninety-fifth percentile in IQ, but most kids there played football and got drunk like regular stupid kids. Caidin hated football, but he did things like piss in the principal's car and slash her tires, so people liked him and trusted his ideas. That was why he could suggest following the Honduran boy to his car one day when, instead of disappearing with his deported parents, Juaco showed up with Caidin on the list for college-level calculus.

"Let's go see what he drives," Caidin said to Jeff and their friend Adam. Both he and Jeff would be sixteen soon, at which time Jeff would get a Viper and Caidin a Corvette. The three of them watched Juaco walk alone to a sky-blue Chrysler LeBaron. "I'd ride a bike before I'd drive that," Caidin said, unable to stop staring at Juaco's arms.

"Mexicans like old cars," said Adam. "They won't ride in a new car."

"Why do we care?" asked Jeff, threatening to ruin it. Searching for an excuse, Caidin realized Milo Hux, the pale waif who'd founded the gay-straight alliance, had opened the LeBaron's passenger door. "Now do you get it?" said Caidin. Apparently they got it. They piled into Adam's BMW and tailed the LeBaron to a mansion in Sugar Land whose mailbox read Hux. The LeBaron disappeared through a gate and around a curve. "You've got to admit this is some shit," said Caidin, and at first they agreed, but back at Jeff's house it was like they'd already forgotten. "Bet he's got the gay hotline on speed-dial" was as funny as Caidin's other jokes, but his friends were too busy playing Xbox to laugh. Caidin was forced to find other kids to discuss Juaco with. "Milo Hux is hiding Juaco from the INS," he told the yearbook staff, "and they share a bed."

He knew saying so was wrong, but there was no other way to be talking about Juaco. He couldn't exactly go singing Juaco's praises. He told the yearbook staff it was one thing to be gay but to love Milo more than your parents?

At breakfast a week later Caidin's mother looked up from the PTA newsletter and said, "Do you know the boy who's being deported?" Caidin asked to see the story, which stated that Juaco Ochoa Luna had been taken into custody at a classmate's home. "We respect the PTA's opinion, but he broke the lawf read the quote from an Agent Garrity, whose name was shared by Bret from the yearbook staff.

Caidin nearly threw up in his cereal, but he swallowed the puke and excused himself from the table. He rode the bus to school, sure everyone there would blame him, but it was as if no one noticed. At lunch, while Adam told him and Jeff what to expect on the drivers' test, Milo Hux ate alone in a corner. "Vipers break down," said Jeff. "My dad says Mustang."

"I'll get my Corvette when I join the Air Force," Caidin said. This was the truth: his brother Caleb, currently at Lackland training for Iraq, had earned a used Porsche by signing up. It was hard to say what was dumber: taking the bribe or settling on a used Porsche. Caidin had no intention of enlisting, but he'd been stringing his father along, talking endlessly about cars. That evening he said, "Jeff's getting a new Mustang."

"Caleb lettered in football and his car was five years old."

"I've lettered in every academic subject there is."

"Well, he called today. He wants someone to drive the Porsche while he's overseas, kind of keep it in shape."

"I'd use it to drive to Austin," said Caidin's mother, who was in the state Senate, "but there's no tape deck."

"If he's still gone when you're eighteen, you'll have to earn your own car."

Caidin felt like he'd been pumped full of amphetamines. He could hardly believe his good fortune. His sixteenth birthday was June 1, 2005, the last day of school. That afternoon he passed his driving test as his brother was landing in Iraq. "First sign you're being foolish, I'll take the Porsche back," his mother warned stupidly, as if she believed he wouldn't speed.

He drove himself and Jeff all over Houston that summer, just to be driving. Sometimes Adam came too. The faster he went, the more adrenaline his body produced. One day Adam invited Milo Hux along, "just for someone to make fun of." On the way to Schlitterbahn, the water park, Milo told them he'd lied to his parents and said he was at school taking the SAT.

"It's weird that you have parents," Caidin said, and Jeff and Adam laughed. At Schlitterbahn, encouraged by that laughter, he threw Milo's turkey leg into the lazy river. He held Milo's head underwater and told some jocks that Milo liked them. Four times he snuck up behind Milo and pulled down his trunks. In the wave pool he riffed on Milo's gayness until everyone around was cracking up. Caidin thought maybe even Milo was trying not to laugh, but Milo said, "You treat me like a dog," and started crying.

"Hey, we were just having fun," said Jeff.

"It's like an initiation" said Adam.

"And it's just getting started," said Caidin, worried his friends were pussying out. "Anyway, I'm nicer than this to dogs."

It was hard to stand out in the ninety-fifth percentile, but even in such company Caidin excelled at two things: making fun of gay people and driving fast. He intended to be the best at both. "I won't slow down till you cry uncle," he said on the drive home, weaving through traffic at 100 mph. Even when he saw Jeff palely clutching the door, he felt sure it would be Milo who spoke. He swerved onto the shoulder to pass a truck. Veering back into his lane, he stole a glance in the rearview. Milo, as tranquil as a monk, gazed serenely out at the blackland prairie. In a state of sublimity he watched them barrel forward, and Caidin watched him watch. "Caidin!" shouted Jeff and Adam. They were about to hit a semi. Panicking, Caidin stomped on the brake, skidded, regained control as they all caught their breath.

"Why didn't you say uncle?"

"I wasn't paying attention," said Milo dreamily, as if he didn't know where he was.

After that, Caidin told Adam not to invite Milo anymore. Without him they drove to Dallas, Austin, Galveston, never mentioning him. There were bands to talk about, cars, girls to claim he liked. But then one morning his mother looked up from the PTA newsletter and asked, "Do you know a Milo Hux?"

"No, why?"

A Milo Hux had flipped his car on the highway and died. "He was going a hundred. Tell me you know it's stupid, going that fast."

"Mom, in Germany--"

"It's stupid there too! You'd throw your life away for a fast car ride?"

"I promise I won't die," he said, which made her angrier, so he amended his words: "I mean I promise I won't drive like what's-his-name."

He went off to play Xbox but couldn't concentrate. Only later would he consider that he'd been in shock. He decided to avoid his friends awhile in case they blamed him. In college he could make smarter friends. He'd go to either Harvard or Princeton or Yale, one of the three. He got in the Porsche and sped south on the highway, jerking off while he drove. He was willing to bet Caleb was jerking off in his fighter jet. A few miles from Surfside Beach his phone rang, and it was Jeff.

"Hey, faggot," he answered.

"I bought Poisoned Wasteland. Can you be here in a half hour?"

"I've got to take a shower and stuff," Caidin said, already doing the math. He was eighty miles away, and the speed limit dipped as low as thirty. He jerked the wheel hard left, screeched across the center line, and set a new course. He hoped his body would never run out of adrenaline. No one understands me, he thought, grinning instead of ruing the thought, and he aimed his focus like a laser in Jeff's direction and was at his house fifty-seven minutes after they'd hung up.

"Took you long enough."

"Wait till I get my Corvette."

"Yeah, with what money?"

"My parents are rich."

"You're not joining the Air Force."

"You're jealous cause you didn't get a Viper."

"You know, you were fun until you turned sixteen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean cars are all right, but they're not my whole life."

"What's your life, then? Video games?"

"My life's bigger than one thing."

"Yeah, that's really gay?'

"You're really gay?

"Great comeback, douche."

"No, you really are. It's why you go so fast: to prove you're not."

"Why would the speedometer say 120 if you're not supposed to go 120?"

"That might be the dumbest thing you've said yet."

Caidin didn't see what was dumb about it. The speedometer really did say 120. Whatever, he thought, sitting down to play the game, in which mutants wandered a dead zone looking for gold. The fastest you could walk was four miles per hour. To walk around the world took ten real hours, which was a thousand game hours, and he began to hate the character he controlled. Last year, on the class trip to the Texas History Museum, it had been hard not to think pioneers had been stupid for their slowness. He chuckled again at the ignorance of those dumb, trudging men. "I guess you don't like Poisoned Wasteland,'" said Jeff.

"Did you hear about Milo?"

"It was in the news."

"Sorry I made fun of him so much."

"Well, he was gay. Folks will think you are too, if you don't slow down. Plus, cut your hair."

Caidin's blood turned to mercury and sank as Jeff's avatar crawled west. Heavy and near tears, he stood, swung his foot. The Xbox hit the wall as the screen turned blue. "NO INPUT? it said. Jeff was staring at those words as Caidin slammed the door behind him. A minute later he was speeding down I-45. He considered that Jeff might have been protecting him from seeming uncool. Well, Caidin would show him cool. He used his dad's card to buy subwoofers for the Porsche. He called his brother's dealer, bought a quarter-ounce of pot, and drove around smoking it. It made him feel better than he could have ever imagined. He was high the first day of school, and he sat in the back of every class with crossed arms. When teachers called his name, he waited a few seconds before saying "here." People liked it. There was a blond girl named Astrid who looked like a seahorse, and she stared at him. After a week he was holding her hand. She was friends with some jocks who'd recently gotten into drugs. They smoked Caidin's weed and asked if he'd dropped acid. He said he'd always wanted to try, so they ate sugar cubes and went to the Galleria. Frank, the second-string quarterback, climbed the Water Wall with his girlfriend Izzy and laughed as the cops pulled them down. That was the trick--not to care. They piled into the Porsche. The wheel felt alive: Caidin had only to think of steering, and it turned. Here was his chance to show how little he cared. "Want to go to the beach?" he asked, thinking he'd get them there in a half hour, like before, but Izzy said they should go naked.

She was already pulling her clothes off as he sped onto I-610. "I'll hold the wheel for you," said Astrid, taking off her blouse.

"It's a dumb idea."

"Come on, don't be a prude."

If he drove so recklessly naked, they could wind up in jail, but if he objected he was a prude. He gave her the wheel. When he took his shirt off, they cheered as if he'd just shed his training wheels. They left their underwear on and played Twenty Questions, and Izzy went first. It was an animal, it lived in Texas, and it was bigger than the car. "Your mom," he said, but no one laughed. He wasn't on their wavelength. It was so tempting to show what he was made of, but he set the cruise control at seventy and restrained the urge.

"Shamu," said Frank, and Izzy said yes and they kissed.

"Every SeaWorld has a Shamu," said Caidin. "When one dies, they buy another one and name it Shamu."

"There's more than one SeaWorld?" said Astrid, who didn't look like a seahorse to him anymore. She looked like a dumb naked blond girl on acid. But he wanted to be on their wavelength. He forced himself not to stare in the rearview mirror. At the beach they sat in their underwear watching oil derricks sway, and he thought of telling her he was falling in love. Her hand felt like warm dough as they stared out to sea. "There's a hurricane out there," Izzy said, which he took to be a metaphor.

"Did you know Juaco?"

"Yeah, he kissed me," said Izzy. "Frank, I'm dumping you if he comes back from El Salvador."

"He's from Honduras, and he's gay. You're thinking of someone else."

Izzy said the storm was entering the Gulf. Say what you mean, he thought, but it turned out not to be a metaphor. It was real, and when they got home they ate mushrooms and watched it assault Louisiana and Mississippi. New Orleans was five hours to the east, three if you drove like a man, and Izzy said they should go see it. Instead they smoked pot and lay on the bed. Pretending to like it when Astrid touched him was easy: he just touched her back in the same places. After several days of watching the storm and fooling around, he asked when they'd return to school.

"School's out of the question," Frank said.

"We're in the ninety-fifth percentile."

Frank and the girls looked at each other and giggled. "My dad got me in, just like your mom got you in," he said.

"No, I'm in the ninety-eight point fourth percentile," said Caidin, but Frank had stopped listening. He'd changed the channel, and now it was on a movie about kids who dealt coke. Everyone stared blankly at the TV. Abruptly Caidin said bye and drove home. He intended to tell his mom sorry for being gone so much lately, but when he arrived, he found that his parents had left a note for the maid that they were in Dallas.

He lay awake all night fearing something vague but huge, like infinity, and in the morning he went to school. For first period the principal had called an assembly. Refugees were pouring into Houston, she said, and some would be at their school from now on. These weren't people to be trifled with. At lunch they hung out in the parking lot by their cars. When Caidin sauntered over, it was out of loneliness as much as anything. "How fast will that thing go?" he asked about a gold Cadillac.

"You are?"

"Caidin Maddox."

"And you drive?"

"A Porsche Carrera."

Their glances at one another seemed to say, White people are the same everywhere you go. "Guess you want to race?" "Sure," he ventured, "that sounds fun."

"This is a Cadillac. You'll drive circles around me. Anyway, when we go fast the cops stop us: take a look."

Caidin wasn't sure what he was meant to look at, unless it was their skin color, which he'd noticed. "Forget it," he said, because these evacuees weren't in the ninety-fifth percentile. He headed to Astrid's, where she and Izzy lay on her bed packing a bong.

"How was school?" they asked. "What did you learn?"

"There's these refugees from Katrina."

"They can have our books. We're joining the Rainbow Gathering."

"Then they can have my books too."

Astrid kissed him and said, "We didn't think you'd come." Fuck it, he answered, knowing no one would be joining a damn thing. Frank showed up with some ecstasy. An hour after they ate the pills, he told her he loved her. It was an intense, beautiful love that he could feel rolling across his shoulders and down his arms. "Let's take bets on when my folks realize I've dropped out," he said, and Izzy bet next week and Astrid bet never.

"I bet my eighteenth birthday?' he said. "That's when they'll learn I'm ineligible for the Air Force."

Now he was on their wavelength. He stared in Astrid's mirror at the cheekbones that lurked threateningly under his skin. The less you cared, the better you looked. He suggested going on a drive. Frank and Astrid only stared up from the bed, so he and Izzy took the Porsche west out to some ranch land. It was a crisp September day. "You don't love Astrid," Izzy said as they raced along, "and I don't love Frank. Let's go to Boulder."

Scared that Izzy was about to profess her love for him, he said, "Boulder?"

"Milo's parents moved there when he died. I can't find their number, so I figured I'd just show up."

The memory of her words about Juaco came flooding back. "How would you know who I don't love?" he snapped.

"Have you done salvia?"

"Huh?" he asked, stupidly.

"It's a drug that makes you high for thirty seconds. It's legal." She got a pipe out and packed it with what looked like parsley. "Here, it'll calm you down."

They were still careening south when she lit the pipe for him. With a finger she covered the carb as he pulled smoke into the chamber. He inhaled, still feeling jealous. She put the pipe to her own lips and faded away. It was nighttime now, and he was climbing the outer wall of a glass skyscraper. He'd nearly reached the top, but there wasn't much glue left in his fingers. He was gripping a window through which he saw his parents, his brother, and the people he called his friends. A cold wind swept these heights, but they looked cozily warm as they chatted. "Let me in," he cried. Only a few bothered to shake their heads no. The glue was gone. They crept toward the edge to watch him fall into the abyss, screaming in terror of landing and dying alone.

When he came to, everything was upside down: water for grass, dirt for sky, a herd of cattle dangling from that dirt. Izzy vomited and the vomit fell up. Now he got it. They crawled out through the windows and called Frank. As they waited, he scraped off the vehicle ID. "Do you think God saved us?" Izzy asked.

"I think God tried to kill us," he said, knowing they'd tried to kill themselves. They'd done a piss-poor job of it too: neither he nor Izzy had suffered even a scratch.

The next day he borrowed Astrid's Volvo and went to school to find that there weren't seats for him in his classes. Some of his teachers didn't know him, but worse was when the teachers who did know him asked no questions about where he'd been.

"Hey? Jeff said in the lunch line.

"Sorry for skipping so much school."

"Do you think it bothers me?"

"Jeff, come on."

"Come on what? Be your best friend so I can die in a wreck?"

"How'd you hear about the wreck?"

"You had a wreck?"

"You said you'd heard."

"Was it the Porsche?"

"There was no wreck. Screw you."

He walked away and for the rest of the school day spoke to no one. Afterward he went home in the Volvo to his own house, not having seen his parents in a week. The first thing his father said was, "Where's the Porsche?"

"This is my girlfriend's car."

"Is that who you've been spending your time with?"

"Yeah. I think I love her."

"Good for you, kiddo. Good for you."

He drove to school in Astrid's car again the next day and drove home afterward. She left him a voicemail that said "We miss you," and he erased it. He went to school a third day. The teachers were getting used to him. Maybe it was too late for the Ivy League, but in Texas the top ten percent of each class got into UT. In calculus he scored a hundred on a test. "Cheater," Jeff said afterward.

Caidin stood there paralyzed, his feelings hurt. "I've never cheated on anything," he said, wanting to point out that he was a whole percentile point higher than Jeff.

"There's a new hurricane. Does that mean you'll skip another week?"

"I haven't heard about it."

"Yeah, I doubt your new friends watch the news."

Caidin hadn't cheated, but Jeff was right about the storm, which was category three. It was called Rita, and his mother was watching it on TV when he got home. Their house was sturdier than some Ninth Ward shack, she said, but the next morning it strengthened to category four. The highways were gridlocked by midday when the school board canceled classes. As kids wandered the halls in a daze, Caidin happened upon Adam. "Since you hate going slow, this evacuation will drive you crazy," said Adam.

"I've slowed down."

"The girls have been talking about you."

"Do they know I killed Milo?"

"What does that mean?"

"Are they saying I'm hot?"

"I mean, yeah."

"And Jeff's jealous?"

"I mean, I guess."

"Tell him to kill someone, and he'll be hot too."

At every intersection the roads were bumper-to-bumper in one direction, and Caidin chose the empty way. Soon he was on the far side of town from his house. When he happened to see the entrance to Milo Hux's neighborhood, he turned left onto its main street. It was easy to rehearse what to tell the Huxes: thanks to his knowing they'd gone, Caidin could pretend like he meant to confront them. It was my fault, he was telling them aloud when he saw a man standing in their yard. He stepped on the gas to speed away, but mistook the brake for that pedal. As the halt thrust him forward, he saw it was a teenager, tall and slender, with toffee-colored skin.

The speedometer didn't stop at 120; it went all the way to 180, yet Caidin found himself stepping on the brake, rolling down the window, and saying, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for Mr. and Mrs. Hux."

"They moved to Colorado."

"Colorado," Juaco repeated.

"It's in the Rockies."

"I know where Colorado is."

"I mean, I don't know the states of Honduras."

"My family's from El Salvador."

"I don't know those states either."

"It's as small as Houston. There's no states."

"Milo crashed his car and died."

"Yeah, I guess that's why they moved."

Shouldn't he be getting upset? How could you love someone and not be sad when that someone died? Caidin needed to know this like he needed to touch Juaco's lips. Their shape was designed to seem mired in a painful, constant memory, and he couldn't bear not to touch them. Instead he asked, "Why'd everyone think you're Honduran?"

"I guess it was just the guy who turned me in," said Juaco, and Caidin's heart gulped blood the way his lungs gulped air. "Where's the LeBaron?" Caidin asked, realizing as he spoke that it must have been the car Milo died in.

Juaco saw Caidin's clouding face and shook his head. "It's not wrecked" he said. "It's impounded."

"Then I'll drive you to pick it up."

"I've heard how you drive," Juaco said, but then after looking around as if for another driver, he got in. Caidin drove them steadily forward, gripping the wheel to still his shaking arms.

"Who told you about my driving?"

"Milo had this crush on you. He wrote me and said, 'If I die, tell Caidin I know the truth.'"

They were inching along a leafy boulevard, the skyline of the city girding itself against gathering clouds. "Give me a break," Caidin tried to say, but he had to focus on breathing.

"How'd Milo know your address in El Salvador?" he finally asked. "He posted a comment to my blog."

Caidin took his foot off the gas, remembering the time when he'd held Milo underwater. Maybe he'd have strangled a boy to death if it meant getting to touch him. He couldn't stop himself from crying. As they coasted to a halt, Juaco put a hand on Caidin's leg and said, "Milo was kind of a bitch. I get why you teased him."

"Then why'd you live with him?"

"His parents helped my parents in the war."

"Izzy Baxter says you're coming back for her."

"I mean, she's cute, but she's a pothead."

"I'm sorry I used to talk about you."

"Do you want to kiss?"

"Are you making fun?"

"No, for real. But just once."

Juaco leaned over and let his lips meet Caidin's above the gear shift. He tasted like cherry Kool-Aid, and his hot breath made Caidin feel like they both had fevers. A truck sped around them, shaking the Volvo. Juaco was squeezing his thigh. Caidin was still crying. When one of his tears touched Juaco's cheek, Juaco withdrew himself and sat upright. "You're hot" he said. "You'll find someone."

"I doubt I'll live that long."

"Everyone hates high school. Don't be dumb. I mean, look at Milo."

He steered them back into the lane and said, "Come home with me." When Juaco said sure, Caidin figured Juaco was planning some kind of revenge, but he didn't care. "You know there's a hurricane."

Juaco nodded. "I figure I'll hitch a ride out of town."

"No, I'll take you to get your car," he said, but Juaco turned to the window and didn't answer.

When he arrived home, he knew his parents had changed their minds: the sprinklers had been put away, and his dad was nailing boards up to cover the front windows. Inside his mother was throwing out food from the refrigerator. "Mom, this is Juaco," he said. "He's spending the night."

"Hi, Mrs. Maddox," said Juaco.

"His parents have evacuated. He'll leave tomorrow with his aunt."

"The newsletter said a Juaco was deported."

"It's a common name. There's like four Juacos."

"At the time you said you didn't know any?'

"It was me," said Juaco. "I left, but I'm back."

Caidin's mother briefly narrowed her eyes at Juaco like he was a rapist or spy, and then smiled and said, "Please help yourself to anything in the fridge."

Caidin led him upstairs and put on some loud music so they could talk privately, but then they just sat there. After a while Caidin asked, "Did you pay a coyote?"

"This rich guy fell in love with me and got me a visa."

"Oh," said Caidin.

They were quiet for a couple more minutes. Eventually Caidin said, "Should we go to the impound lot? I've got my mom's credit card."

"Why would you spend money on me?"

Flummoxed, he stammered some syllables, but Juaco cut him off. "Is it because you think I'm hot? What is it with everyone? I mean, do you think hot people are better than regular people?"

"I just meant you can't get by in Houston without a car."

"I walked to Milo's house from the airport."

"Well, maybe Houston will be destroyed anyway?

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm hoping for."

"But you traveled all the way back here."

"Dude. I'd rather live in fucking Fallujah than San Salvador."

Caidin had been picturing Juaco and his parents in some kind of detention center, but maybe they were rich. He was about to ask, but the phone rang. "Hey, Snot," said his brother, ten thousand miles away. "Why haven't you left?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "Are you okay?"

"It'll be gridlock. I'm the only Houstonian whose family hasn't left."

"Are you the only one whose dad bribed him to go to war?"

"Just put Mom on, gay-wad."

"I wrecked the Porsche. It's totaled."

"You're a shitty liar."

"Seriously, what kind of people want their son to go to war?"

"What kind of son talks about his parents that way?"

He could have told Caleb exactly what kind, but he hung up. He figured Caleb would call back if there was something important to say. The phone didn't ring.

"Did your dad really bribe him?"

"It was more of a threat," said Caidin.

"Will he do the same thing to you?"

"It won't work, because I don't care if he feels ashamed of me."

They played Xbox awhile, lying on the floor, until Caidin said the bed would be more comfortable. "You take it," said Juaco, and Caidin said, "No, we can share. I mean, I just thought we'd be comfortable." So Juaco relented, and after Caidin had locked the door they got under the covers. They played Xbox some more, and then they watched the evacuation. When Juaco fell asleep, Caidin muted it and watched him instead. He touched Juaco's arm, just barely, and held his finger there. Juaco was wrong, he was thinking as he fell unconscious, hot people really were better.

A series of pounding knocks startled him upright, in the pattern of the theme from Poisoned Wasteland. "We're evacuating," yelled Jeff. "I need my game."

The door swung open. Jeff flipped the light switch and stood there holding a pencil he'd used on the lock. "Oh."

"Are you Jeff?" said Juaco, sitting up.

"You don't even know who I am?"

"If you're Jeff, Milo says thanks for being nice to him."

Taking his game, Jeff said, "Milo's dead, and my folks are waiting outside. Do you have reservations somewhere?"

"My mom's friends with the governor," said Caidin. "We'll probably just sleep in his spare bedroom."

"Well, then bye," Jeff said, closing the door behind him.

"Who else did Milo leave messages for?" asked Caidin.

"The counselor, and some girls in twelfth grade, but you were the only one with your own paragraph."

Caidin spent the rest of the night dreaming in short, violent bursts. When he woke the second time, his memory of the dreams was lost in the panic of realizing his door stood open. He bolted across the room to shut it, then looked out the window to see an otherworldly green light in the west. To the east the sky was ash gray. Wind was whipping the live oaks. The phone started ringing, and kept ringing. Around the fifth ring Caidin understood how it felt to be in love: maybe it was different when you were loved back, but nothing could be as bad as this.

On the twelfth ring he finally answered the phone. "We'll be home in five minutes," said his mother. "Be ready to leave."

"Juaco's coming too."

"You said his aunt."

"Yeah, I've been lying."

"Just put Cleo in her carrier and get dressed."

"Listen, there's no aunt. He's an A student as if that should matter. That's why he returned: he'll get the automatic scholarship to UT."

Caidin knew instantly that this guess was a correct one: their high school was the best in Texas, and Juaco hadn't returned for him or Milo or Izzy or anyone but himself.

"You'd rescue a cat and not my friend?"

"Cleo's part of our family. Your friend has his own family?

Caidin primed himself to refute his mother yet again, to scream so loud that the phone broke, but a scream would assume she was stupid.

She knew good and well Juaco had no family here. So he said, "Okay. I understand."

When he hung up, Juaco was putting his shoes on. "We're taking the Volvo," Caidin said. "We'll meet my parents in Austin."

"They'll want me out of here when they lock up," said Juaco, heading for the hall.

"It's a category-five storm."

"That's why I know someone will pick me up."

Yeah, that's what my mom figures too, he thought: someone else will deal with it. He'd been raised to believe as much. He'd been about to drive off in Astrid's Volvo. He'd have been stealing a car from someone he'd claimed to love. Was it too late to change? Probably so, he told himself, chasing Juaco down the stairs. He feared that thought as much as he feared what he would have to tell his parents. And Jeff could reveal what he'd seen: Caidin feared that too. These fears were good reasons to hope Rita destroyed Houston, and what scared him most of all was that his parents' maid, Consuela, might open the door just as Juaco reached it. She was the grandmother of seven children, and she'd been cleaning for the Maddoxes since Caidin's infancy. He ought to speak Spanish, having been around her so much, but he could barely string together three Spanish words.

She wasn't there. "I'll email you," Juaco said over his shoulder as he walked out. By the time Caidin's parents pulled up, he was two houses away.

"Where's the Porsche?" said Caidin's father when he got out. "We need to garage it."

"I got high and flipped it. It's totaled."

"Where is it? We need it in the garage!"

"It's probably at a garage already. Tell you what, I'll check on it when I'm done surfing."

As he walked around back of the house, he thought again about slow people and stupidity. The gridlocked evacuees were dumb, but men weren't smarter in cars than they'd been in buggies, nor would they be smarter again in spaceships. He came to the alley. There was a shortcut to the subdivision gate, and he ran, thinking he could overtake Juaco. Air plants were showering down on him when he reached the Y where the streets met. He spotted Juaco in the distance, the size of a thumb. His heart surged, then stopped, as he figured out the reason for Juaco's kiss. Juaco had seen what loving someone who didn't love him had done to Milo, and this was his revenge.

The gale was gusting as fast as cars on the highway, and Caidin stood waiting to be blown away with the oak catkins. He was immovably heavy, though, because he perceived at last how Juaco had tricked him into telling the truth, being kind. All it had taken was a kiss. The plan was so elegantly cruel that Caidin wondered what Juaco had scored on the IQ test. Maybe the ninety-ninth percentile, he thought, watching Juaco disappear. Only when he was gone did Caidin realize he could move again. He took a step backward. Boot camp won't come soon enough for you, his father was probably shouting by now, and so he turned to walk home, agreeing with the old man: the best future was the one that got itself over with.