Still Point

by Katie Kacvinsky

  I watched him curiously. “How do you know what street we’re on?”

  “I don’t,” Jax said. “But you can’t miss the building. It stands out, even from ten thousand feet.”

  I looked where he was pointing, straight ahead; a couple of blocks away stood an old church. It was a Gothic style of architecture, with two gold spires towering into the sky, reflecting the fading sunlight like lanterns. Stained glass windows on either side of an arched doorway glowed yellow and gold.

  As we walked I heard piano music. Keys chimed with light, simple notes. The breeze carried the music to us, followed by voices, children’s voices. The sound made me stop. I spun around in a circle, looking for the source of the music, and noticed windows cracked open in the congregation hall of the church. Shadows of figures moved inside.

  “It’s real,” I said. Jax stood next to me on the sidewalk, at the edge of the churchyard. It sounded like a children’s music practice. Their voices were as light and high as bells chiming. I had never heard children sing before. The sound made something nostalgic pull at my heart.

  “I thought churches had all turned virtual,” I said.

  “They did, for a while,” Jax said. “After M28, people didn’t want to meet in big groups. But they’re picking up again.”

  Ground lights guided a paved path to the entrance. It was unusual to see ground lights, to see a signal welcoming people inside. Usually people kept any sign of an entrance hidden, or gated.

  I cut across the lawn and peeked inside one of the windows. About a dozen kids stood on a maroon-carpeted stage, and a young man sat behind the piano. Another man stood in front of the kids, leading the song. A handful of adults sat in the front pews, watching the kids practice. Some of the children held hands. Two of the boys had their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. A little girl ran around the stage, singing to the ceiling, a stuffed animal clasped in her hand.

  I stared at the children, at their wide smiles, at the way they were all engaged in the song. My mind was two edges, one sharp and one soft. How had I never heard children sing out loud before? Why hadn’t I gotten to experience this? I’d been shut inside my entire life, separated from any contact. I was taught I shouldn’t hold hands with other kids, or wrap my arms around anyone.

  Music lessons had all become virtual—even instruments were virtual. Textured strings and smooth keys and padded drums had all become an icon to click, a one-dimensional spot on a screen to press. Even these live voices had texture, the way sounds were pushed through throats and over tongues, the way they echoed and fell, like molecules.

  It was both a relief and a deprivation to see what could be and what I had missed.

  I sat next to Jax on a sidewalk bench.

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked, and he nodded. “How did you find this place?”

  He looked at his hands and lifted a shoulder like it was no big deal. “It’s just something I started doing a few years ago, before I was intercepted. I tried to find things that separated us from computers. I called it the Human Project. That’s why I started hanging out with DS Dropouts—at least they want to meet face-to-face. A couple years ago I started researching what people are willing to leave their homes for.” He looked over at me. “Guess what it is.”

  I shrugged. “Entertainment?” I assumed. “Movies?”

  He shook his head. “That’s easy to do from home. People’s wall screens are better than theaters.”

  “Music? Restaurants?” I asked.

  “Religion,” he said. “It’s one of the only things that drives people out of the house these days.”

  I looked back at the church with surprise. “I would have never guessed it,” I said.

  “Me neither,” Jax agreed.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “I studied train use. It’s public information. You can see how many people use the public trains on a given day. I started to notice trends, that there were people using trains all going to the same location. Usually it’s for jobs, but then I noticed at night or on weekends, there was still this gathered activity, so I started—”

  “Stalking people?” I finished for him.

  “Yes, I’m a serial killer wanted in eight states. Did I forget to mention that?” He smiled and looked at the arched door, framed in dark wood. “I took the same train lines and watched where people were going.”

  “You go to church?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t belong to a church. It’s more of a hobby. I’ve been to temples, Catholic churches, synagogues. I went to a mosque, a Buddhist temple. I like watching the people inside. There’s something inspiring about it. It’s like they want to be more than informed; they want to be transformed.”

  The church door suddenly swung open, and families filtered out. Kids skipped down the pathway, screaming goodbye to one another. Dads carried kids on their shoulders. It was like watching a movie—it seemed too perfect, too choreographed, too happy. This wasn’t reality.

  Jax stood up when the last set of parents walked by. A man pulled the heavy wood door closed behind him. There was a red binder tucked under his arm, and a little girl with blond pigtails clung to his side. I recognized him as the man who had been conducting the kids through the music lesson.

  “Hey, Pete,” Jax said, and walked up to meet him outside the door. Pete turned and blinked at Jax for a second. He took in his dirt-smeared clothes and ripped shirt.

  He smiled at Jax, a warm smile that separated a black woolly beard that covered more than half of his face. I heard him say something about a crash landing. They talked for a couple of minutes before they turned and walked down the path.

  I stood up and Jax introduced us. I held out my hand and Pete wrapped his thick fingers around mine in a firm shake.

  “Sounds like you two could use some help,” he offered.

  I nodded. “We just need to contact some people,” I said.

  He scratched his head. “The church has a phone in the office, but I don’t have keys. Your best bet is some apartments down the street. They rent out nightly rooms.” He scratched his head again. “I don’t know of any other hotels in town.”

  A hotel? I had never stayed in a hotel in my life. My dad always said they were too dangerous. Strangers weren’t meant to be so close to one another.

  “We’re having some friends over for dinner, but you’re more than welcome to join us,” Pete offered.

  I nodded slowly, but the idea of dining with a group of strangers was the last thing I was prepared for. I could just imagine the small-talk questions: How was your day? Eventful. What brings you to Eugene? You could say we dropped by.

  “Thanks, but we just need somebody to pick us up,” I said. I figured Justin would be raking the area looking for us. After all, my dad still had my tracking signal. They would probably be here any minute.

  “Well, the least I can do is give you a shirt,” he told Jax. “We have some left over from a charity event.” He walked inside the church with the little girl and came out a minute later holding a bright pink T-shirt, which he handed to Jax.

  “Sorry, it’s all we have left,” he said. Jax opened it, and I ❤ OREGON was printed across the chest, over an outline of the state border.

  “Perfect,” Jax said.

  The little girl suddenly spoke up. “I want to play dress-up too,” she said. We both looked down at her. She was tugging on Jax’s arm.

  “I love playing dress-up,” Jax informed her. “But we have to go.” I almost laughed at Jax. He honestly looked disappointed.

  “I can see your tummy,” she told him, and pointed to his ripped shirt.

  He knelt down so their eyes were level. “We ran into some mountain lions,” he said. “Four of them.” Her eyes widened. She grabbed Jax’s hand.

  “Come over and play,” she told him. “Her too.” She pointed her tiny finger at me.

  Jax raised his eyebrows and looked over at me. I stared down at the little girl like I wa
s greeting an alien. The widest, deepest blue eyes I had ever seen looked hopefully back. How could I refuse?

  “We’ll come back another time and play,” I promised.

  “Can I wear your wig?” the girl asked, and pointed at my hair.

  I ran my hands over my head. “Um—”

  “Kerstin, let’s go,” Pete said, and scooped her up in his arms.

  “Thanks for your help,” Jax said.

  “You know you’re always welcome. But I’d get going.” He looked up at the dark, starless sky. “It’s supposed to storm tonight,” he said.

  We walked down the sidewalk that Pete pointed out, passing office buildings and apartments. Catwalks crisscrossed above us, like a giant maze in the sky. I pointed them out to Jax.

  “They connect all the downtown buildings,” Jax said. “They built them after a street bombing. That way no one has to walk outside.”

  I peered up at the glass sidewalks in the sky. It looked like tunnels and tubes built for mice.

  When we found the apartment building, a red neon light flashed a vacancy sign outside the door. We walked into a lobby scattered with empty tables and metal armchairs. An entire wall was lit up with vending machines and a digital food counter. Jax used a digital scroll to check us in, and the computer illuminated our room number, which would open using our fingerprint registration. I watched Jax charge the room to his account.

  “There isn’t a computer in the lobby we can use?” I asked.

  “No, but the room has one,” he said.

  We walked down the first-floor hallway, where all the rentals were issued. Jax scanned his finger against the door lock, and we walked inside a small living area with a single loveseat back up against a large window, the only window in the room, which looked out onto two plastic trees cemented in the sidewalk. There was a small kitchen sectioned off next to the living room. Jax pointed out a bedroom down the hall.

  He sat down on the couch and opened up a flipscreen on the end table, and I headed down the hall. I didn’t plan on staying the night, but I could definitely use a shower.

  I picked a comb through a mess of snarls in my wet hair. When I opened the bathroom door, the steamy smell of soap and shampoo wafted down the hall behind me. Jax was sitting at a table in the cramped kitchen space, drumming his fingers. My nose and cheeks were pink from being outside. Jax just looked tan. The blood on his face was scrubbed off, but his upper lip was still swollen and a purple, crescent-shaped bruise was forming under his right eye. He was wearing the pink T-shirt, which oddly made him look more masculine.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “The only contact I have is Scott. I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  He stood up and his eyes trailed down my wet hair for a second, but he seemed to catch himself and his gaze snapped away. I could feel heat rush to my face.

  “I can’t help that Pete didn’t give me a pretty pink T-shirt,” I said, defending the dirty clothes I was still wearing.

  Jax just smiled, a crooked smile, like I’d just missed a joke. A few seconds crawled by.

  “The bathroom’s all yours,” I said, and waved my arm in the air, toward the hallway.

  “Eating comes before hygiene,” he informed me. “I need some food before I pass out.” He tucked the flipscreen under his arm.

  I nodded and rested my hand on my empty stomach, cramping with hunger.

  I followed him into the hallway, and a motion light snapped on overhead. It sprayed a white, fluorescent mist of light around us. It took effort to lift my feet. The day’s events were hitting me, and my eyelids drooped, wanting to tuck themselves in for the night.

  We walked into the quiet lobby. The only sound was the buzzing of overhead lights and electric screens. I followed Jax to the digital food counter, lit up with neon blue lights bordering the glass order station. We sat on stools and scanned our fingers over meal options. I gazed at pixelated pictures of entrées, each starred and rated as if I needed to read 487 reviews before I tried something as adventurous as macaroni and cheese.

  “It’s a good thing there are six hundred reviews of a grilled cheese sandwich,” Jax commented. “Because I couldn’t imagine what it would taste like.”

  I smiled. “Let’s play ‘rate the grossest food,’” I said. “I’ll go first.” I scanned the desserts. “Instant-coffee milk shake sounds disgusting,” I said.

  “Those are actually pretty good,” Jax said. He scanned the menu, and I noticed how the blue light from the keypad reflected off his skin.

  “I’d have to question the freshness of the freeze-dried fish tacos,” he said, and I scrunched my face and tried not to gag. My feet swung under the stool and tapped the side of the counter.

  “The spaghetti and marinara looks like a mashed-up brain. Literally,” I said.

  “Have you ever tried MealGels?” he asked me, and I shook my head. “You can order whatever flavor you want.” He showed me the selection on the menu. It looked like a bowl of Jell-O, but you could order it to taste like anything—chocolate cheesecake, or steak with mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “What’s it made out of?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to know,” Jax said. “Probably recycled plastic.”

  I played with the options and tried to order a chocolate steak fried cheese muffin. The computer came back with an error page. Jax stared at me.

  “You know, censorship was created for people like you,” he told me.

  “Thanks,” I said, and smiled. He smiled back at me, the glow of the lights reflecting in his eyes. My stomach knotted, and I looked away and focused on the screen. I wasn’t supposed to be having fun right now. This wasn’t a vacation, but Jax had an amazing talent for distracting me. I just needed to find Justin and get up to Portland.

  We placed our orders, and less than a minute later two dinner meals and drinks appeared under the glass counter. The countertop opened so we could take out our food. Before we could even start eating, we were bombarded with survey questions. Would you like to write a review for your order? Please rate the menu selection. Please rate the speed and convenience of your order. Please rate the packaging of your meal. Please rate this survey.

  “Is there a ‘shut up’ function?” I said.

  “You want to eat outside?” Jax asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. We picked up our trays and walked outside to the end of the building, where a bench stood between two fake trees. I sat down and watched a man down the street helping a woman out of a ZipShuttle and into a wheelchair. He gently eased her down and pulled a blanket over her lap. He held up a bottle with a straw so she could take a drink. He kissed her and rubbed her hands before he wheeled her toward an apartment building. I watched how he took care of her and wondered if my dad would ever do that for my mom. It was hard to imagine. I wondered if Justin would ever do that for me.

  I studied Jax while he ate. Considering how comfortable he was around people, one thing didn’t make sense.

  “I heard you’re a skater,” I told him. He looked at me and laughed.

  “Skater?” he said, and set down his sandwich. “Is that the Dropouts’ PC word for an asshole?”

  “We don’t think you’re an asshole,” I said. “You’re just like us.”

  His smile faded and his face turned serious, as if I had just insulted him. I had meant it as a compliment.

  “I’m not, though,” he said. “You guys are all up in your mission. You probably pump your fists together and yell ‘Hero up’ whenever you hang out. Me, I’m just weird.”

  I was about to argue, but he cut me off.

  “I’ve accepted it,” he told me, and held out his hand. “I like to wonder too much about things. I can know anything in seconds, but it kills all the wonder, and that’s the best part. Wonder is the godfather of weirdness. Being informed all the time is so boring. There’s no buildup.”

  “For example?” I asked.

  “For example . . .” He thought for a second and loo
ked around the street for inspiration. “Spiders. I wonder if they have ears. Can they hear?”

  I considered this. “I don’t think they have ears. I’ve never gotten close enough to one to check,” I admitted.

  “But you don’t know for sure,” he pointed out. “What if they have exceptional hearing? What if they’re insanely smart? They’re always hiding out on our ceilings, looking down. What if they’re recording all our conversations? That’s why they’re so quiet all the time. They’re plotting to take over the world.”

  He looked at me, his eyes wide. “People are planning for robot and zombie and werewolf invasions. That’s just stupid. Why isn’t anyone worried about a giant-spider apocalypse? They tie up their victims until they’re almost asphyxiated, and then start sucking their blood while they’re still alive. Am I the only person concerned about this?”

  “Most likely,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Yeah. And DS doesn’t appreciate it. It just ruins it for me. The ‘information highway.’ No thanks. I prefer my own interpretations.”

  “Is there anything even left to wonder about?” I wondered.

  “I don’t know. But I try to make it a daily exercise,” he said, and took a bite of his sandwich.

  One question still hung in my mind. “If you don’t like working with the Dropouts, then why did you agree to work with me?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead of us. “I have my reasons,” he said.

  “There’s more than one?” I asked.

  He nodded. “You said three words to me that I can’t say no to. I think they’re the three hardest words to say.”

  I thought about this. The three hardest words. “I never said ‘I love you,’” I informed him. “Those are the three hardest words to say.”

  He looked at me. “Really?” he asked, surprised, as if he didn’t believe me. “I think the hardest words are ‘I need help.’ You need to be pretty brave to admit it.”

  “Or desperate,” I added.

  “Either way, you were honest. I don’t meet very many honest people these days. So, that’s one of my reasons.”