While You Were Gone

by Amy K. Nichols

  “Warren,” Dr. McAllister says, “will you go close on 132, please?”

  Warren’s fingers race over the keyboard, and the screen zooms in on a room containing yellow dots and red Xs. Dr. McAllister walks out the door, and one of the dots leaves the room. When the dot returns, so does the doctor.

  “So that’s a representation of this room?” Dad asks.

  “Very good, Governor.” Dr. McAllister shuts the door.

  “And the red Xs?”

  Dr. McAllister nods at Warren and the view zeroes in. “The red Xs are Unknowns, individual signals located by but unidentifiable in the Skylar system.” He waves another assistant over, a woman with dark hair and cat-eye glasses who’s not much older than me. She rolls a small machine toward us and detaches a handheld unit. Stitched on her lab coat is the name NINA.

  “Hold still, please.” She presses a button on the unit and moves the pen-shaped wand over Dad’s head, starting at his left shoulder, moving to his right, and back again to the left. The photographer snaps photos. Another press of the button and Dad’s red X blips to a yellow dot.

  “Abracadabra,” Dr. McAllister says at the same time Dad says, “Fascinating.”

  Nina follows the same procedure with Mom, who smiles extra wide for the camera.

  Nina turns toward me and I step back. She frowns.

  “Eve,” Mom warns, her voice saccharine.

  “What does it do?” I ask, pointing at the screen. “How did it do that?”

  Nina looks at Dr. McAllister like she needs his permission to speak. He nods. “It reads your EMF signature,” she says.

  “My what?”

  Nina withdraws her arm and gives me a patient smile. Dr. Owens moves in. “Every human emits an electromagnetic field. Our research found that each EMF carries a signature unique to the body emitting it. The system logs the reading of the EMF, linking it to a sister database of the Spectrum system already in place. Our building houses a grid network that utilizes scalar waves to track EMFs, isolating positions and movements according to GPS coordinates. It’s quite simple, really.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Dad holds up a hand to stop the photographer from taking pictures.

  “Honey.” Mom’s voice is losing its sweetness. “Don’t make them wait.”

  “Will people have a choice whether or not to be in the system?” I ask. Warren turns in his seat to look at me. The reporter scribbles notes. “I mean, people won’t be forced into this, will they?”

  “Of course not,” Dr. Owens says with a laugh. “It’s completely voluntary, just like Spectrum. Once people see the benefits—no more missing children, no more dementia patients walking away from facilities and getting lost, not to mention overall increased security—they’ll ask to be added.”

  “Who doesn’t want increased security, right?” Dad says. “Especially after Friday.”

  “Exactly,” Dr. McAllister says. “Criminals, of course, are a different matter. They’ll be automatically scanned upon apprehension.”

  “What do you say, Miss Solomon?” Dr. Owens steps toward me. “Let’s change that Unknown to a Known.”

  I eye the wand in Nina’s hand. “Okay.”

  “Hold still, please.” Nina moves the wand over my head. I don’t feel anything. She presses a button and another red X blips to a yellow dot. I’m no longer Unknown, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.

  “There,” Dr. Owens says as Nina wheels the equipment away. “Simple, isn’t it?”

  “Warren,” Dr. McAllister says, “switch to the virtual grid view.”

  Warren turns back in his seat and types. The large screen switches to a graphic representation of Phoenix littered with dots and Xs. “This is an offline representation of the network established over Phoenix. You can see we still need to expand to cover some of the outlying sectors. We should have those connection points established early next week, and Skylar will be ready to go live the week after.”

  “But you’ve tested the system, correct?” Dad asks.

  “Oh yes,” Dr. Owens says. “We’ve run several tests—the most recent on Friday morning. All of them have been successful.”

  “Perfect.” Dad nods his approval. “How soon before we begin public rollout?”

  “Mobile sign-ups begin next week,” Dr. McAllister says.

  “Right on schedule.” Dad smiles at the reporter. “Just how I like it.”

  “How about a group photo?” the photographer asks. I follow Mom and Dad to stand beside Dr. Owens and Dr. McAllister.

  “Smile,” Mom says just before the camera flashes.

  Something brushes my hand and I turn. Warren faces the laptop, fingers typing away. I start to say something to him, but he gives a quick shake of his head. My eye catches the yellow dot—me—on the big screen. I bury my hand, and the note he tucked into it, in my suit pocket and follow the others out of the room. Mom waits for me by the door. When I get close enough, she puts her hand at the back of my neck and hisses in my ear, “How dare you embarrass your father like that.”

  Dad doesn’t go straight home. Instead, he makes a wide turn, pulling into a grocery store parking lot. The sign says ABBOT’S in big red letters. “Let’s surprise Mom with lunch.” He parks out where the lot is empty, taking up two spots because of the boat. I hop out and close the door, scaring away a couple of seagulls picking at a hamburger wrapper.

  We walk together toward the entrance. Dad claps me on the back. “I’m thinking pizza. How about you?”

  “Sounds good.” The doors slide open and I follow him inside, thanking my lucky stars I didn’t wake up in a world without pizza.

  The store is pretty much the same as the ones back home. We walk past piles of fruit in the produce section. Vases of flowers in a fridge. Aisles of bread and cereal boxes. Signs announcing specials and prices hanging from the ceiling. I follow Dad toward one that says CAFÉ. The lights flicker. Dad bumps me on the arm. “Grab some milk, would ya?”

  “Oh. Uh…” I look around. “Sure.”

  I turn into the pet food aisle, wondering which way to go. When I reach the end, I make a left, looking for signs. Farther down is a refrigerated case of cheese. I follow it to butter, sour cream, orange juice and, finally, milk.

  What kind do they drink? There’s a gazillion to choose from. I try to find one that looks like what we drank at the foster home. It had a blue cap.

  A girl walks up from behind me and opens the refrigerator case. Her hair falls in waves down her back, and she’s wearing flip-flops with her business suit. She hesitates before picking containers from the yogurt section, stacking them on top of each other in the crook of her arm. One slips and she tries to catch it but only manages to keep the others from falling, too.

  “Here,” I say, reaching down to pick it up.

  “Thanks.” She balances the containers in her left arm while using her right to pull her hair back from her face.

  She’s beautiful. Dark hair and eyes. There’s something familiar about her. For a second I forget what I’m doing, why I’m standing in the dairy section holding a container of lemon-raspberry yogurt.

  Then her eyes meet mine and she steps back, surprised. “It’s you.” Her voice is soft, barely a whisper.

  Me? I look down at myself as if expecting to see someone else.

  The lights flicker. When they go out, she makes a small oh sound. Even though it’s daytime, our corner at the back of the store goes dark. She takes a step toward me. As my eyes adjust, I can make out her hair and shoulders. Her hand grasps my arm.

  A voice calls, “Miss Solomon?”

  She inhales like she’s going to say something, but instead she lets go and moves away into the dark.

  “Wait.” I take two steps and run into a display. Boxes fall, banging loudly against the floor. Awesome. Way to make an impression, Ogden.

  The lights in the refrigerator case blink on, chasing shadows from the place where we stood. I look for her, but she’s gone. Who was she? She acted l
ike she knew me. A voice comes over the store PA system. “Attention, Abbot’s shoppers. We apologize…” I walk back to the dairy section, pick up the mess I made and try to remember what I’d been doing there in the first place.

  “Well, that was annoying.” Dad walks up, holding a pizza box. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t find the milk? It’s right here.” He grabs a half gallon from the case. “Come on. Let’s go pay for this stuff.”

  My eyes search the aisles as we walk to the front of the store. It’s like she’s just disappeared. By the time we leave, I’m almost convinced I imagined the whole thing.

  Sunday morning, the reality of the last forty-eight hours rushes at me, bringing with it a sense of dread. Images flash through my mind: a shopping mall in ruins; reporters gathered; Dad at my bedroom door; Mom’s whisper in my ear; a column of white smoke; a red X amid yellow dots; his face just before the lights went out.

  Friday morning, Vivian Hayes was the worst of my problems. Now look at the world.

  I roll onto my back to see the stars swirl above. My eyes follow the blue and yellow brushstrokes making their way toward the orange moon shining over a sleepy village. My breathing slows. My hands stop strangling the sheets.

  I reach under my mattress and pull out the Retrogressives book. Someday I’ll return it to the Archives. But not today. My fingers flip through the pages, pausing on Klee’s Dance of a Melancholic Child II to trace the girl’s delicate fingers and heart-shaped lips. Her teardrop eye and umbrella nose. I hold the book close, studying how the colors blend behind her, creating a kind of red halo. Looking across the room at my own version on the easel, I see how much I still have to learn.

  My fingers continue their journey, passing Picasso’s Old Guitarist, Chagall’s Between Darkness and Light. Another Klee, Blossoms in the Night. Van Gogh’s At Eternity’s Gate. The last page is where my fingers stop, on Ramsey’s Iterations.

  I can’t believe I saw him again, and in a grocery store, of all places. So strange. I run my hand over the smooth photo, remembering the feel of the real thing, remembering the night of Bosca’s exhibit.

  I was angry after he demoted me. But not just at Bosca. At Vivian, too. And at the ones who decide what is and isn’t good, who watch everything we say and do and tell us to rat out those who think or act outside the norm.

  It’s like there are two sides of me. The good girl—the governor’s daughter, the face of polite society—and the other girl, the one who steals books of banned art and finds beauty in what others consider ugly and unfit.

  I walked the museum’s back hallways that night, feeling the two sides wrestling for control. When I came across a service door leading outside, I propped it open with one of my shoes—last thing I needed was to get locked out—then leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. The city hummed around me. People meandered toward the museum entrance. Traffic streamed by on Central. The light-rail whooshed along its tracks.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing there, watching me.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.

  He shrugged, like the rules didn’t apply to him.

  I walked across the loading dock, the asphalt rough beneath my feet. Half of his face was in shadow. As I moved closer, a feeling came over me. I felt intrigued. Inspired.

  Alive.

  He was a total stranger, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I take that moment and make it my own. My rules. My decision.

  So I kissed him.

  And then I walked away.

  “Hang on,” he said. I thought he’d run over to me, maybe, or want my name. Instead, he simply asked, “Why?”

  I shrugged, just like he had. Maybe the rules didn’t apply to me either. Then I walked through the door, leaving him outside.

  I got about five feet and stopped.

  Looked back.

  One last hurrah for bad Eevee: I propped the door open just long enough for him to grab hold, then I hurried off to be the good girl again.

  I saw him a couple of times during the show, but I didn’t say anything. I was already in trouble—big trouble—and didn’t need to add more to it. It was just a kiss. A moment. Just me taking a stand, even if only to prove something to myself. What? That I’m brave? That I’ll be okay?

  I fall back on my bed and look up at Starry Night. The thing is, I wasn’t supposed to see him again. But here I am in trouble, and I run into him at Abbot’s. It’s like the universe thought I needed a reminder or something.

  My phone on the nightstand dings. It’s Dad.

  Gallery paintings delivered to school. See Bosca.

  I tuck the book back under my mattress, then flip all the banned paintings on my walls and ceiling over to their safe sides. A quick trade of jammies for a skirt and tank top and I head out. Time to see how bad the damage is.

  Monday morning, Germ drives as far as the park-and-ride, where we swap his car for the light-rail. Everything has me on edge. The unfamiliar neighborhoods, getting checked for explosives before boarding the train, the nervous passengers wary of another attack, having no idea what to expect when we get to school. It’s only been three days, but it feels like forever since I walked out of the foster home, went to school and then…what? Jumped here? Fell? I replay it over and over in my mind, but I’m nowhere closer to understanding how it happened. Or why. It’s like something out of Star Trek or something. I even started reading Danny’s comic books, hoping to find some kind of clue.

  What if I never figure it out? What if I stay here forever, impersonating this other me? Wouldn’t be so bad, I guess. His life sure beats the hell out of mine. Parents. Best friend. Girls.

  My hand grips the overhead handle tight. I watch buildings and traffic stream by while Germ gives the play-by-play of his weekend. The muscles in my arm flex and relax, tendons bulge and disappear, reacting to the movement of the train. There’s a small scar, faded white from time, on the inside of my elbow. I wonder what it’s from. This body is so different. Stronger, healthier. And then I realize—

  “I haven’t craved a smoke since I got here.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He smirks. “Since when do you smoke?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why’d you say that?”

  “Just…never mind.”

  He shakes his head. “Did you know my dad used to smoke? Back when it was legal. Sometimes I catch him holding a pen like a cigarette.”

  “That’s funny.” I kinda laugh, but I’m thinking about the other Danny, wondering if he’s suddenly craving a cigarette. Wait—smoking is illegal here?

  “You okay, man?”

  The train rounds a corner and everyone on board shifts. “Sometimes it just feels like I’m on the wrong planet.”

  “I hear ya.” He nods. “This place is getting crazier by the day. Hey, did you guys take the boat out?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I stopped by and saw it gone.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t get far. A cop pulled us over and told us the harbor was closed.”

  “Figures.”

  The train slows. Germ grabs his backpack, so I do the same. When the doors open, I follow him onto the platform. Across the busy street stands a huge concrete building fenced in behind tall gates. Students wait in a security line before going through. The sign reads ARCADIA TECH.

  That’s a high school? Looks more like a prison.

  “My dad was going on about that new Skylar thing last night.” Germ looks to the right before crossing the street. “He’s getting fed up, too, which is saying a lot.” When we get closer to the gate, he mutters, “Wish there was something we could do.”

  I’m not really sure what he’s going on about, so I don’t say anything.

  The line leads to a metal detector. It’s like we can’t go anywhere without having to pass through some kind of checkpoint. Makes me jumpy. I scan the faces of the other students. Some of them look nervous. The word
Friday floats around their conversations. The guy in front of me steps through the detector and gets a green light. I set my backpack on the table, walk through and get the green light, too.

  The guard unzips my bag and looks through the contents. Even though there’s nothing illegal in it—that I know of, anyway—my hands are twitchy. I shove them in my pockets and wait. Inside the gates is a concrete courtyard with huge trees and a few benches. But the students don’t hang around like they do back at Palo Brea. As soon as they’re through security, they walk up the steps into the building. I count the rows of windows. Five stories tall. Can’t see how deep it goes.

  “Hey, Ogden.” A guy with curly hair waves as he walks by. I nod. No idea who he is. Hanging out in my room is one thing. Trying to fit in here is going to be impossible. I don’t know where to go, who I’m supposed to know—nothing.

  Germ bumps me with his elbow. At least I can take cues from him.

  We only get about ten feet in when a girl with blond hair steps in my way. “Hi, Danny.”

  “Hey, uh…” I try to act cool. “How ya doin’?”

  She flips her hair over her shoulder, leans toward me and, lowering her voice, says, “I heard you were almost killed in the terrorist attack.”

  Germ holds both hands out at her like, See?

  “Killed? Nah. Just smacked my head.”

  “I was there, too,” Germ says. “My ears are still ringing.”

  She raises an eyebrow at him, then turns back to me. “Is it serious?” She stands on her toes to take a closer look at my bruise. “Maybe I could kiss it and make it better.”

  Um, yes, please?