by Rysa Walker
Conversations with Maria are always one-sided. It’s simply quicker for her to pluck it out of your brain than to wait for the words to make it to your mouth. I think part of the reason is that English isn’t Maria’s first language, and mental conversations may be easier for her than actually speaking, but it’s also a power trip. She swears she isn’t trying to spy, and you have to be thinking something for her to pick it up, so it’s not like she knows every single secret you have. But it’s pretty damn close. Her one concession to life here at Sandalford is that she usually speaks to us with actual words, even though she’s perfectly capable of shoving her responses to whatever you’re thinking directly into your head.
Right now, Maria looks a wee bit smug that she managed to pull a thought from my mind so easily, although she could have picked up at least some of my frustration and anger simply from my expression. She doesn’t get as many thoughts from me as from the others here, thanks to the tricks Kelsey taught me to help control my hitchers. I was caught off guard this time, but that’s a simple fix. It only takes a few seconds to stack my mental bricks and form a privacy barrier.
Maria responds with a fake pout.
As tempted as I am to stick out my tongue, she did me a big favor earlier. So I take the high road and say in my sweetest voice, “Thank you for covering for me, Maria. I appreciate it. But I really do need to talk to Deo. Could you guys give us a few minutes alone?”
She twists her mouth to one side, considering my request.
“Okay, whatever,” she says as she backs down the hallway, motioning for Stan and Maggie to follow. “I can just as easy explain to everyone at once. Meet us in rec room on top floor when you are done. But hurry. You must leave soon.”
“Leave . . . to go where?” I ask Deo once they’re gone. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”
“No. And I’m more interested in you right now. What gives? You had everyone worried.”
“I needed a break, D. Some exercise. Some solitude. I get that it was stupid. I just . . . it was early and I wasn’t thinking. And Aaron and Kelsey have already given me the third degree, so could we skip to the part where I say I’m really, really sorry and it won’t happen again?”
“Sure,” he says. “We can do that. If you tell me what’s really going on. Because you might be able to convince Aaron, maybe even Kelsey, that you’re into beach marathons that take three or four hours, but no one knows you better than me. Yeah, you like to run, but you rarely last more than half an hour.”
“I never said I ran the entire time. Like I told Aaron—”
“You told Aaron you were on a stretch of beach I checked. Twice. There were tire tracks but no sneakers.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I ran along the water? That the waves erased my footprints? What exactly are you accusing me of, D?”
“Nothing! I’m just . . .” Deo looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds it back, instead running a hand through his hair. He used to do that a lot when he was a kid, especially when he was frustrated. When he started using hair putty a few years ago, he had to break that habit because his fingers kept getting stuck in his quiff. That’s exactly what happens now, and it’s his turn to look like he wants to punch something.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you scared me, okay? And now we’re yelling at each other, which I hate, and I can’t even give you a hug to apologize without triggering one of your visions.”
Neither of us has actually yelled, and this is a truly pathetic sibling squabble compared to the screaming matches Aaron and Taylor engage in on pretty much a daily basis. They don’t exactly hug and make up afterward but instead act like it’s no big deal. They’re the same way with Daniel, and even the older members of the Quinn family. It’s taken me a while to figure them out, but I’ve come to the conclusion they are simply so secure in their affection for each other and in their place within the family that no amount of disagreement can shake them.
But Deo and I come from a very different place. We aren’t big fans of conflict, and he’s right—it makes my heart ache to argue with him.
I give him a half smile. “So . . . are we at the part where I say I’m really, really sorry and it won’t happen again?”
“I guess.” He returns my smile, but it fades quickly. Which means he doesn’t want to argue, but he doesn’t believe he’s gotten the full truth. “Just . . . go get Aaron and we’ll go see what Maria’s all worked up about.”
When Aaron and I arrive, there are about a dozen adepts, mostly teens, assembled in the rec room. A few are playing table tennis, but most are seated in folding chairs pulled from the supply closet. Magda hinted a few months ago that she’s planning to convert it into additional sleeping space. A bunch of adepts protested that it was the one room large enough for everyone to hang out. Eventually, Magda backed off, although that could be because the flow of new adepts arriving at Sandalford has slowed to a trickle. At this point, those who aren’t with us or with Senator Cregg’s crew are sufficiently hidden, hoping to ride this thing out until the world returns to normal.
Personally, I’m not holding my breath on that whole return-to-normal idea. Not with seven low-level terror attacks in the US within the past six months, all falsely attributed to WOCAN. The original leftist group’s leaders have maintained from the beginning that WOCAN had nothing to do with these attacks, but their innocence is totally irrelevant in the current political environment. Their organization was a convenient scapegoat for Senator Ron Cregg, the presumptive nominee of the Unify America Party, and he’s presented enough “evidence” to have them convicted in the court of public opinion.
Video released of each attack depicts a group of young people in bear masks, many of them appearing to wield strange powers—blue streaks of light that could easily be Adobe After Effects coming from their hands, a small pickup that goes flying off an embankment for no apparent reason, and security guards who fall unconscious as soon as the bear-masked brigade comes into view.
A few of the stunts might be real. We know Cregg has at least a dozen Delphi adepts working with him, maybe more. But we’re pretty sure most of it is smoke and mirrors. There’s no way psychically zapping a handful of power stations could have brought the entire Texas power grid to a screeching halt. That was almost certainly the work of hackers.
People are willing to believe pretty much anything, however, after the Senator’s live demonstrations and actual video of Delphi kids in action. It might seem that the notion of psychics who can bring down the nation’s infrastructure with a touch of the hand is a far cry from a kid predicting a tornado or propelling a dart through the air using only his mind. But it’s that first leap of faith that’s the tough one. Once the Senator convinced the public that telekinesis, telepathy, and other psychic abilities are real, convincing them that anyone who possesses those powers is a clear and present danger was a cinch.
In one sense, the Senator has a point. Glancing around the room, I spot several adepts who could quite easily be classified as lethal weapons. But the posts I’ve seen on the social media pages of anti-psychic groups make it clear they’re not all that worried about the telekinetic kids (aka Movers) or even the firestarters (Zippos). They seem confident that those kids could be stopped by a bullet if necessary. No, they’re worried about the ones like Maria who can read someone’s thoughts if they’re within her range, which can extend for around the equivalent of a city block if she’s really trying. Or kids like Jeffrey, the guy sitting off by himself at the back of the room who almost everyone calls Snoop Dogg. He can do the same trick as Maria, not with the same ease or the same degree of depth, but from much farther away—he picked up stray thoughts from our crew at a distance of several hundred miles when he was with Graham Cregg. Then there’s Daniel Quinn, who can sway someone’s mind without them ever realizing it. The people who frequent the anti-psychic groups are terrified they could go to sleep one night as a charter member of Mothers Against Psychic Predators, convinced
that psychic abilities are the work of the devil, only to wake the next morning believing psychics are prophets sent straight from God.
I’m firmly on the side of these kids. I’d like to think I would be even if I wasn’t one of them. They are in a rotten situation through no fault of their own. Much of the ill will toward them is due to a steady stream of propaganda, and I suspect those screaming the loudest against the Delphi adepts would be doing the same if these were refugee kids who needed food and shelter. There are many, many good people out there, but there’s also a solid chunk whose basic philosophy is: I got mine, and screw the rest of you.
Still, I can’t deny that the anti-psychic brigade has some reason to be concerned.
I spot Deo and Taylor at the far side of the room, which is as close as Deo dares get to the more volatile kids. The Zippo on the other side of the room might scorch the carpet a bit if he loses control of his temper. Put Deo next to him, and that same burst of anger could set the entire room on fire.
Taylor gives me the side-eye as Aaron and I approach, but she doesn’t say anything about my morning adventure. I’m tired of talking about it, so I’m perfectly happy to have her stick to nonverbal means of expressing what a total screwup I am.
Maria is perched on the edge of the pool table, next to a portable whiteboard. She taps her fingernails in a nervous rhythm against the green felt lining of the table and glances frequently at the microwave in the corner, apparently checking the time. Then she leans over and whispers something to Stan, who is standing next to her. One side of his mouth twitches upward in a bashful smile, and his eyes follow her when she turns away.
“See?” Taylor whispers to Deo. “What did I tell you? He’s crushing hard on Maria.”
Deo chuckles. “Can you imagine how embarrassing that must be? I mean, she has to know every little thing he’s thinking. Every time he sneaks a peek at . . . her—”
Maria is staring straight at Deo, clearly annoyed. A blush creeps up his neck, confirming my suspicion that she’s sending a few choice thoughts his way. She tugs up on the V-neck tee she’s wearing as she sends him one last glare, then her gaze goes back to the doorway.
“What did she say to you?” Taylor asks.
“Uh . . . nothing,” Deo says, although his tone is less nothing and more none of your business.
Taylor rolls her eyes.
“Do either of you know what we’re waiting on?” Aaron asks.
“No clue,” Taylor says. “Maria just sent out a mental blast telling us to assemble here at eleven thirty. Looks like she contacted the entire varsity squad to me. Pretty much anyone over age ten or eleven.”
“Well, it can’t be anything to do with the training schedule, then, right?” Deo says. “She’s supposed to consult with you about that.”
Taylor shrugs. “In theory, but . . .”
She trails off when the side door opens and Ashley Swinton enters. Ashley pauses and scans the room to see who else is here, giving me a brief nod when she catches my eye. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Most of her time is spent as caretaker for her nephew, Caleb. At first, Magda put them in the guesthouse out back, but it was soon clear something else would have to be done. Doors would slam at random throughout Sandalford. Curtains would dance around the windows as though they were caught by the breeze, even when the windows were closed. Sometimes the walls and even the windows would seem to ripple.
About a month back when we were walking Ein on the beach, Deo and I saw something that looked like a large waterspout beyond the breakers. Except it was rising up from the water, not hanging down from a cloud. And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The odd column of water surged maybe five feet above the surface, subsided, then rose again, ever higher as it pulsed outward, like ripples that spread when you toss a coin into the water. Only these ripples were suspended far above the water. Then it ended and the water arced downward, like a circular sheet of rain, into the waves below.
Many of the adepts also reported odd dreams, saying they kept hearing a little kid’s voice in their heads. It was getting to the point where some of them couldn’t sleep.
Magda had been complaining openly that Sandalford was bleeding cash, draining her financially, and she didn’t have enough liquid assets to build a separate house to accommodate Caleb’s needs. So her next solution was to house Maggie with Caleb, since her blocking ability makes him easier to manage. Ashley and Maria both told her it wouldn’t work, that they’d tried that at The Warren but Maggie hadn’t fared well. And sure enough, within a few days, Maggie began to look like the life was being sucked right out of her. Her usually pink cheeks were ghostly, and she had almost no energy. She said it wasn’t anything Caleb was doing on purpose. He’s a lonely kid and was delighted to have a visitor. Blocking him simply drained her, and since it takes a conscious effort for her to avoid blocking, her ability was working at full capacity, nonstop.
That’s the most sobering indicator I’ve seen of Caleb’s power. Maggie can be around a dozen or more Delphi adepts in the common areas, most of whom aren’t psychic lightweights, and it doesn’t seem to tire her out at all. But put her in a room with Caleb for a couple of days, and she comes out looking like death warmed over.
Eventually, Magda purchased the southern half of the uninhabited island in Currituck Sound where we first met Jasper Hawkins and Peyton, and a Quonset hut was set up for Caleb and Ashley. A new guard was hired, and one of the nurses goes over a few times a week to give Ashley a break. And Maggie still visits. It’s partly to help Ashley, but I think she also realizes how desperately lonely Caleb is.
Ashley doesn’t usually come to Sandalford, however, or if she does, she steers clear of the Quinns. Daniel doesn’t blame her for pulling the plug on his life support, and yes, she was trying to save her sister. I can’t be certain I wouldn’t have made the same choice if Deo’s life was in danger. But Daniel’s little sister isn’t exactly the forgiving type. Ashley’s probably wise to keep her distance from Taylor.
When Maria spots Ashley, she heaves a dramatic sigh. “Good. You are here. Finally. We are cutting it very close now.”
“Sorry,” Ashley says. She doesn’t seem to have any more idea why we’re here than I do. “I had to wait on the nurse to arrive. It’s not like I can just pick up and leave the island anytime I want. It’s ten miles in the boat, and another five in the truck.”
Maria nods at a girl near the back, who locks both sets of double doors and the side door. Then she taps loudly on the floor with the butt of one of the pool cues to get everyone’s attention. The kids playing table tennis break off the game and take their seats, all eyes on Maria.
She leans forward, holding the pool cue in one hand like a scepter. “Okay. We must take vote today. I thought there would be more time. But Fiver says everything goes crazy a few hours ago.” She gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, and then continues. “We need to move fast, and so we must decide now.”
One of the kids says, “Decide what?”
“If we . . . if you . . .” She huffs and lets out an annoyed string of Czech words I’m pretty sure are NSFW. “This will take too long. All of you be still and listen.”
Everyone in the room jumps slightly, except for me.
She stops and turns toward me, looking injured. “Why do you block me always? You need to hear this. I won’t peek at your thoughts. They are so boring anyway.”
Reluctantly, I pull down a few of my bricks, and Maria’s voice fills my head. Although voice isn’t exactly right. There are some words in the mix, but it’s more like she’s sending her thoughts to the entire room in a massive info dump. It reminds me of this show Deo and I used to watch called Chuck, where the guy gets terabytes of information loaded into his brain in a matter of seconds. Except the data Chuck received from the Intersect always seemed to be relatively well organized and coherent. This is more of a jumble. The perspective shifts, going in and out of focus. Then I realize she’s not just sending us her own original thoughts. She�
��s showing us snippets from other people’s thoughts at Sandalford.
We get a flash of a monkey being injected with something by one of Magda’s scientists. A snippet of an argument over clinical-trial protocols with human subjects. There’s a blurred image of a large white building. The street is cordoned off with construction cones and a low cement wall with STOP written in red near the center. A large blue box in the background. The sound of a gunshot. A scream that ends abruptly—so abruptly it feels censored, like that bit was something Maria didn’t mean to let slip. Then we’re back in the lab with the scientists. A fight breaking out in the monkey cage. A dead monkey. Another argument between the scientists. Frustration . . . back to the drawing board.
When the onslaught of images eventually slows, Maria pauses for a minute and then speaks aloud. “As some of you know, the doctors—scientists—who I show you just now are working on cure. Or what they call cure.”
She lets that sink in for a moment, and I survey the expressions in the room. About half of them are excited about the prospect, but at least as many seem anxious, maybe even angry.
“Exactly,” Maria says. “Is not easy question for everyone. We need to think about what this means. If we want this cure. I decide not to call in little kids—the junior varsity, as Taylor says—because someone else will decide for them. But all of you here are old enough to make decision for yourself.”
“You didn’t call in the other adults, either,” Ashley points out. “Why was I invited when they were not?”
“That’s a good point,” I say. “Kelsey should probably be here.”
To be honest, I’d rather not face Kelsey right now, but she’d be on our side. She’d be a voice for the younger kids. She’d want everyone to have a choice.
Maria shrugs. “Your doctor friend meets with the scientists. She works for Magda. One day I think maybe we can trust her, but the next day I think maybe not. She is like . . . the wind. Different directions. But Ashley—you were a helper to The Warren. Some of us would have burned up in that place if you did not help us to escape. You earn my trust, so I think you get a say, even though you have no ability for these scientists to cure.” Maria grimaces with the last word as though it leaves a bad taste on her tongue. “Plus, you will be deciding for Caleb, and . . .”
