Chapter 8: Dustsceawung

- (noun) the knowledge that all things will turn to dust.

I stand on the sand of New Mexico, trying to figure out why the bad in me won't get out when it was clawing at my throat while we were on the road. The semi-truck we're traveling in is still on the road's sidelines, and I'm in the sand coughing up the nothing in me. The other three are watching. I turn over and let the sand take me; the air is so heavy and the horizon looks squiggly. Wiping at the sweat coating my skin, I sniffle, swallow, breathe – bring myself back down to planet Earth, back to the life I guess is wonderful because my heart still works. My hands grab fistfuls of sand to steady myself, which is nothing because the grains disappear from the gaps between my fingers. It doesn't make sense how a whole bunch of nothing can make something to support my weight, and if that were the case Nothing Lucas would once again be Something Lucas, and I wouldn't be trying to throw up my sadness.

Pushing up, I get up and walk to my sister because she's who I want. She always knows how to make things go away. She brushes the Earth's fragments from my skin, what's left of the sand, and I climb back into the semi-truck. The A/C is blasting, and I welcome it, resting my forehead on the cooling glass of my window. A new car smell remains present in the interior, but I like it because it is familiar amongst everything I don't know. I smell old, like nature old, and my skin feels scratchy.

Dad begins speaking when we start moving again. I don't hear him, but I nod anyways. Shane hands me a packet of crackers he did not finish. I decide I can tolerate him.

There are seatbelts in the back now. Mine seems to stretch towards me and I take hold of it to click it into place; if I find it weird, I don't mention it. I want to talk and be me, but I'm too tired. And I know it's wrong. I know I can't bury it beneath sand that is only molecules.

I know there are better ways to deal with loss.

This one is just the easiest.

I wish things could go back to making sense again. At least, the type of "sense" where everything is the same until you can't remember when there ever was a different. No one likes different.

I got it, I understood it, my old life – I had to go to school because it was the law, and Tessa was my older sister because she was born first, and Mom died because she wasn't strong enough, and I had to grow up because time doesn't stop if you're scared, and Lucas drunkenly floated around because his mom was in some home forgetting him, so he drank to forget himself, too, and we had eviction notices and surprise "open houses" because the bills weren't paid, and we couldn't pay the bills because Dad didn't invent something that mattered enough yet.

Now, I don't understand how there's five giant Transformers surrounding me like some twisted up family reunion. I sit down on a large rock, more like a boulder, and hope that when the dust settles from everyone's arrival that they won't notice me, because sometimes I fail to see that the screen door is in place until I collide with the sturdy wire.

There's a bunch of whirling noises that sound far from anything I have heard in humanity: like a house settling, or walking into a crowded place, or sitting in traffic, or being alone. It doesn't even sound earthly – more so Mars – and it's alien, and unknown, and kind of a scream in a galaxy within outer space. I hear pings as engines cool and dust evaporates in heavy air.

Suddenly, Optimus is there, "Humans have asked us to play by their rules." I think he means when they used to work with the government, until they turned on them. Yeah, I know what that feels like. "Well, the rules have just changed."

I guess they did. Transformers used to be fighting alongside the military on TV, controlled by an upper power, and everything was fine and dandy until we found something better, something that didn't talk back, because that's what always happens. Fast forward to present day, and we hid a leader in our barn. Optimus Prime is stuck with some inventor from Texas, his two daughters, and a rally car driver. Sorry.

Optimus' friends begin to inch closer, and whether they realize the four beings that breathe – which their leader practically dumped into the New Mexico sand – or not, they do not say anything about it. The biggest one of the four newcomers has a green-brown type of a paint job, the color clearly peeling and washed away from lack of care. His footsteps echo loudly like boulders crashing together, kicking up dust that is angry as ever in my nostrils. I wonder how much dust you can breathe in before you pass out.

The Transformer is holding what appears to be some out-of-this-world type of weapon and there are bullets – or missiles? – on his armor. A rush of Tessa screaming from a missile flying into the kitchen, pressure on my neck from a gun, the house and barn erupting into tiny pieces, and Lucas' charred remains passes through me. I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, scrape my nails on the rough exterior of the boulder I am perched on. It's fine.

He drops the alien weapon to the ground, the world shakes. "Human beings . . ." he grumbles, approaching Optimus. There's no reason for me to be afraid, so I push it far away and stare holes into the back of my dad's head. "Buncha backstabbin' weasels." It looks like there is a blown-up version of a cigar in his mouth, but I cannot be sure. It doesn't make much sense to me why they would smoke if they have no lungs to kill. But he is right about us. We lie, we hurt each other, and for what? Dad didn't tell me the real reason Mom died for the longest time; he said she got really sick and that was it. Then one day Tessa was mad and told me that she actually died during childbirth with me. Sometimes, when it gets really bad between us she still apologizes for it, but I'm over it. All water under the bridge, I think.

An Autobot – I believe that is what Optimus calls them, the good ones, at least – with blue armor addresses the one who was just speaking, the one with all of the weaponry attached to his body, "Hound, find your inner compass." he tells Hound, I guess. The blue Autobot is much smaller than Hound, but he doesn't seem imitated or anything. He clasps his – hands? – together, speaking off into the nothingness like he's reciting something: "Loyalty is but a flower in the winds of fear and temptation."

What?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean . . .?" I murmur off to myself. Well, the words are supposed to be for me and only me, but I am still working on the whole low-key thing, and my words tend to carry, and I can't help that I'm me. I'm me and I like to talk. Sometimes I'm loud and people hate it. I do not mean to be. So, I do not mean to gain any attention when my dad turns around to give me a very pointed look that screams don't. Don't start, don't say anything, don't try to be a smarta- . . . smartbutt.

I think I may have gotten that trait from Mom and that's what he hates the most.

Pulling my legs up and tucking them into my chest, I rest my head on my knees, but keep my eyes open so I am looking through the cracks of my body down at the section of rock I am sitting on. I sniffle due to the never ending dust storm from the Transformers. It is later in the day but the heat is relentless. My index finger on my right hand finds a loop in my Converse's laces. I twist it around.

Apparently, what the blue Autobot said was some sort of Haiku, but I can't see why an alien would want to study a form of Japanese poetry. I find it quite boring – actually, scratch that, all of school is boring. But I won't ever be able to go back. In fact, I won't ever be able to have a normal life again. Maybe boring is good.

Hound and the other Transformer begin fighting about something, not really sure what, but it is loud. I listen in on them talking about living, and dying, and wanting to die, which I do not understand because I have never wanted that before. The little blue Transformer sounds like he may have an accent laced somewhere in his voice, if that is even possible. Then again, when Optimus speaks at times he can sound awfully human. It makes no sense.

"You know what . . . it'll save us so much time." states pieces of clips from a . . . radio?

Lifting my head, I angle my body to better see the source since it came from behind me, and I spot a black-and-yellow bot, much shorter than any of the others. He comes forward a few steps, which would be more like twenty for me, and he acknowledges me by nodding. Can he not talk? Raising my eyebrows, I slowly lift my fingers to kind-of-say-'hi' back. I realize that all of their eyes are blue. It's weird.

Finally, the last Autobot that has yet to say anything comes into the sort of circle we've made. His arm is raised above his head; his coloring is as green as green can get. "Well, raise your hand if you're thoroughly disenchanted with our little pleasant Earth vacation."

Haven't they been here for almost nine years, though? That's way longer than any vacation I have ever been on. If they hate it so much, why can't they just go home? I have a lot of questions that I can probably ask Optimus later because Dad informed me not to talk.

If anyone raises their hand I don't see it. Then again, it is not like I have time to check since before I can take a full breath, there is a click and a warming, charging, powering up – whatever – gigantic gun in my face. It smells metallic, I taste blood in my mouth.

The owner of the weapon is the green Transformer. He asks, almost casually, "So, who are the stowaways?"

I narrow my eyes at him. I'm so tired of guns in my face and situations I have no control over. I feel my dad putting himself between the danger and his family. His hand brushes my knee. Tessa is at my side. She looks scared, or unsettled, startled, even. I hate when she feels like this because usually she is the one who doesn't let it show. Now I really do not know what to do.

Dad throws his arms out, staring down the barrel. "Whoa, whoa. Hey! What's with the gun?" This causes Hound to point a gun at us, too, for some reason I cannot comprehend. I slide further back on the boulder, pulling my sister with me.

Optimus Prime breaks everything up merely by his presence moving to stand between humans and Transformers. He tells them to put down their weapons, and they do. I push air harshly out of my nose. The perks of being friends with the head of another species, I guess? Optimus says that we saved him, yet he saved us big time. He informs the other Autobots that they owe us.

They do?

I learn the names of the rest of the Autobots after the shoot-first-ask-questions-later ordeal Optimus had to break up. Crosshairs is the one who pointed his gun at us; the weapon looks like it belongs to some giant in a fairytale. His paint job is the color green found on trees, and since there doesn't seem to be any source of shade for miles, he is easily spotted in the desert. The blue Transformer with the soft accent is Drift. He has a huge samurai-type sword strapped to his back. The last of the three unknowns and the smallest – considering I practically overlooked him earlier – is the black-and-yellow Autobot, Bumblebee. He uses the radio to talk because his real voice is damaged beyond repair. I think it is kind of cool, but I couldn't imagine not being able to talk. My voice is what makes me me, and talking to people is where I feel okay. All of my life, I have lived in Tessa's footsteps, and because of that, people have pointed out how different we are, but in a weird, not-good way.

Speaking is normal and a category I fit in, but sometimes I feel like I screw that up, too.

The desert runs cold once the sun slithers away, replaced by thousands of tiny stars and a hollow moon. The four of us sit huddled around a crackling campfire with dying wood. I'm in my stolen denim jacket, the sleeves pull out a few inches from where the tips of my fingers actually end. I am also wrapped up in my scratchy blanket. My head rests on Dad's shoulder, breathing in the familiarity while I play with the frayed edges of the blanket. He runs a hand up and down one of my goosebump-covered arms. I don't feel as cold as I look.

Tessa is on the other side of Dad with her own blanket over her shoulders. She's not moving much. Shane is perched across the way of the fiery path. He's messing around with the shrubbery. The Autobots shuffle around from time to time. They're talking about how they are the only ones left of their kind. I wonder how many there were before humans got involved.

"So, that's our best-case scenario?" Shane says/asks, turning a stick around in his hands. "Autobot witness protection?" He sounds skeptical, as he has been since back at the gas station.

I don't know if this is the best plan, either, but we'll take what we can get. Plus, every other place wants us dead. How am I supposed to stomach that?

"Hey, Speed Racer," my dad starts slowly, carefully. He sounds like he does when he has been in the barn for too long. The fire illuminates his skin to a soft orange. He is close so his voice is practically in my ear. "You're welcome to leave any time."

I have my days with Shane. Days where I think he's a genuine person and is good for my older sister, makes her happy. Days where I would consider possibly sticking up for him when it comes down to it with Dad because he treated me like an actual human being, and not just the little sister to steer clear of because I could ruin his day. Then there are also days where I hate him because he made Tessa cry over something dumb, and maybe he is only another high school boyfriend.

It constantly teeters back and forth. I haven't settled on a conclusion yet.

I watch Shane break the stick he has been holding in two, tossing it into the flames. "Well, for the record, Superdad – " I remove my head from Dad's shoulder to stop looking at the world at an angle because perhaps I heard Shane wrong since my brain wasn't right side up and I was seeing things funny. "I'm not hidin' out with you." He points to something over our heads: Optimus Prime. "I'm hidin' out with that big guy."

I know I heard him right and I set my jaw. "We all are, not just you." I mumble the last part, but it is still audible, digging my dirty sneakers into the terrain.

"I'm aware, kid." says Shane, easily, honestly, but I still don't believe him all of the way through. We're not family. "I just gotta – " He stops, almost like he is remembering what happened, how we were on "okay" terms before he started talking.

I shrug so roughly that I can feel the tips of my shoulders compress into my jaw, releasing down in a huff so that it pulls at my neck. It hurts, almost. "What? Look out for yourself?"

My blanket has dipped off of the upper half of my body. Dad grabs my arm and I know that if I looked at him we'd start having some silent conversation, but I don't want to have that. I get backed into a corner of listening that way.

"You think my dad can't look out for us?" I challenge Shane, fingers curling in on themselves within my too-big-for-my-body jacket. The Autobots are talking about something and rustling around, but it is all background noise at this point.

"Cassie." warns Dad. He adds slight pressure into his hold on me.

"I know he can't. That's the point."

The fire breaks louder than before; debris explodes, floats all around Shane. Either one of the sparks caught his face alight, or there is water in my eyes, because Shane suddenly looks distorted. It burns. Everyone doubts my dad. They may not at first, but in the end they will. They always do. Even me.

Shane is going by in flashes while I blink away the hurt. "Bull." I sound like I am underwater.

"Cassie, please." Dad sounds so tired, and I feel bad about it because I know I give him trouble, and I want to tell him that I can't let it go, and why I can't, but I also can't speak this time, to him, at least, and there is a lot of 'can not's' in my brain when really it might be 'will not'.

Shane talks with half of his distorted face buried in the dark, the places the fire will not touch, "Your friend was burned to bits and you were held at gunpoint. I don't see how – "

And that's when Bumblebee pounces on Drift for a reason I do not know, and everyone starts arguing about how wrong the world is.