Invisible City by M. G. Harris

Author:M. G. Harris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2008-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

It takes me a while to fall asleep. I think about Ollie and Tyler, feel a pang of guilt when I think about the trouble I’ve led them into. It’s only the memory of how very eager Ollie was to come on the trip that makes me feel like anything but a total idiot.

Camila is another story. I haven’t dared to really think about her yet. Every time I get close to the memory, I can’t help crying, like when I was with Ixchel. Now, alone in this darkened room, I forget where I am. I could be anywhere in the world. When I close my eyes, all I see is an image of Camila in the car, blood trailing through the water from her head. I force it away, try to think of anything else.

I imagine meeting my father again. Telling him about Ek Naab. Having a nice little chat about it. And that, finally, puts me to sleep.

When I wake up, a narrow line of light around the curtain tells me that it’s still daytime. The music playing next door has changed—now I hear something that sounds like grungy rock music.

I slide out of the hammock. Underneath, someone has laid clothes in a neat pile. There are shorts and a blue shirt, and some canvas slip-on shoes. I change quickly.

In the living room, sitting on a wood-framed sofa is a guy I don’t recognize. He looks around seventeen, eighteen. When he sees me, he smiles broadly, leaps to his feet.

“Hey, Josh! It’s great to finally meet you!”

Another person who speaks terrific English. He shakes my hand vigorously, pats me on the back. Meanwhile I struggle to take in yet another new face.

“Where’s Carlos Montoyo?” I ask.

“He had something to take care of.”

“But … he said he’d be here.”

The guy gives a huge, so-what shrug.

“I’m Benicio,” he explains. “I’m your cousin!”

“Um … that’s pretty random.”

“‘Random’?”

“Wild. Out there. It’s unexpected.”

My “cousin” gives a puzzled smile, then gets back to shaking my hand. He’s slim and lean, only a little taller than I am. He has longish, floppy hair with ragged bangs that look a little greasy. His face is covered in a couple days’ worth of stubble. He wears blue jeans, a plain, crumpled white T-shirt, and green sneakers.

“I read your blog, man,” he says with a grin. “Cool! Until you hid it. What a shame!”

“You read my blog,” I repeat. “How come?”

“Montoyo, you know, Montoyo’s been watching out for you ever since your daddy disappeared.”

I think about that in silence. I study Benicio’s features for a second: sallow skin, almond-shaped brown eyes. I’m definitely seeing another mixed Mexican/Hispanic—mestizo—face. It’s a fair bet that Benicio’s ancestors are part Hispanic too, but his eyes and mouth show signs of a Mayan heritage.

I’m beginning to wonder if anyone in this lost Mayan city is actually 100 percent Maya. Looks to me as though the Spanish definitely made their way into Ek Naab.

Benicio notices me checking him out. He folds his arms, saying, “So, Josh, you notice any family resemblance?”

“I dunno,” I tell him.

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