Mom and Dad look at me, confused. My head and heart both pound so hard I feel like I’m about to have a stroke, but I start talking, telling them everything—about Red December and Warren and M chips, and that I’m not their Danny, that I jumped here from another world and that’s why I’ve been acting weird and don’t know things, and that I’m sorry for messing it all up but maybe it doesn’t matter because I probably won’t be able to stay anyway—and I only stop when I run out of words and see Mom’s hand tightly gripping Dad’s arm. Germ still stands farther off with his back turned. I breathe and wait for that feeling Dad had, that good feeling from getting everything off his chest, but it doesn’t come.
“Danny.” Dad takes a step toward me. “It’s late and you’ve been through a lot.”
Germ turns around, surprised.
“You should get some rest,” Mom touches my arm. “We can talk about this again in the morning.”
They don’t believe me.
They don’t believe me.
Later, when they’re asleep and I’m not, I turn on the desk light. I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve seen during the episodes. The other Eevee under the stars. That room with the Einstein poster. My old room at the foster house. I wish I knew what was happening there. I wonder if the other Danny senses what’s happening here.
The drawer is full of pens, but it takes a few scribbles to find one that works. I tear a page from a notebook and write.
Danny,
If you’re reading this, I’m back in my world again, and you’re here in yours. I’ve been trying to figure out how it works. It has something to do with Skylar, the new surveillance system they’re setting up. Every time they test it, you and I meet up between here and there. They’re supposed to flip the on switch for good next week. Who knows what will happen then.
I don’t blame you for wanting your life back. By now you have a good idea of what I go through there. Maybe you can understand why I don’t want to go back, and why I’m fighting so hard to stay. But if you’re reading this, then I guess it doesn’t matter. You won.
You have it so good, Danny. Mom and Dad. Germ. Eevee. I hope after all of this, when you’re with them, you’ll remember me. I hope you’ll appreciate them and your life.
Don’t screw this up, man. And whatever you do, don’t hurt Eevee. She’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to either of us. If you hurt her, I swear I’ll find some way to reach back through and pound you.
Danny
P.S. Germ knows about the jumping.
P.P.S. Hug Mom. A lot.
I fold the paper in half, write DANNY on the front and leave it tucked under a book. Hopefully, the other Danny will find it and read it and know.
Halfway back to bed, I think of the M chips and Warren’s plan. What if I jump back before we’re done?
I click the light on again and pull the paper back out. At the bottom, I draw an arrow and write OVER. On the back, under the fold, I scribble out the details of what we’re doing, the names of everyone involved and how it’s all supposed to work. Germ can catch him up, too. Instead of tucking it under a book, I put it in my sweatshirt pocket. What if I’m not home when I jump? Better safe than sorry.
My dress hangs in the closet, waiting for Friday night. My phone sits on the dresser, waiting for him to call. My brush rests in my hand, waiting for direction.
Waiting. Waiting. All this waiting is driving me insane.
I didn’t hear from him yesterday. The day came and went, and nothing. Maybe he didn’t get my messages. Maybe he was busy with Germ, swapping out M chips. He probably got home late and was too tired to call. I’m sure that’s what it was. I’m sure the phone will ring any minute.
My eyes wander from the blank canvas to the place we stood when he touched my face, when he kissed me, when we fell into each other. The memory is like the shock of a flashbulb: always in my eyes. The room feels empty, yet full of him. Of us.
Come on, phone. Ring.
The blankness of this canvas has to go. I close my eyes and imagine his face, inches from mine. Then swap the brush for a pencil and rough-sketch him into canvas fibers. I move my hand along his forehead, down the gentle slope of his cheek. With light strokes, I draw the funny cowlick in his hairline, the bridge of his nose, the length of his eyebrow. Then the eye, the almond shape, his piercing gaze. Adding hints of shadow, I sit back to see how I did. The canvas bears one-quarter of his face. Just the upper right, from forehead to cheekbone, bridge of nose to ear. His eye is the focus. Will I be able to find the right kind of blue?
I trade the pencil for a brush, loading it up with phthalo. I dab in white, coaxing out the color. Over and over, I mix and remix, but the hue is always wrong. Even if I found the right match, I could never capture his spark. No one could. Not even the best painters in the world.
My hands fall into my lap.
I don’t want a painting of him.
I want him.
The ringing of the phone startles me. I almost knock the easel over tripping my way to answer it. It must be him. It has to be—
“Eevee.”
Vivian’s voice is like acid dripped into my ears.
“Now is a good time for you to come work on this painting. The jury is only two days away.”
I make the ugliest face I can at her through the phone. Then I say sweetly, “I’ll be right over.”
Germ knocks twice on Warren’s door, pauses and knocks once more. “You’re sure about this?”
I look down the hallway behind us. “Sure as anything.”
“That’s not saying much.”
The door opens a crack and Warren peers out. “Do you feel safe and secure?”
“Um…” I look at Germ. “No?”
“Does someone want to harm you?”
“Probably.”
“Is compliance good?”
“Oh.” I smirk. “I see what you’re doing.”
“Answer the question.”
He’s serious. “No. Unless it’s compliance to disobedience. But that’s kind of an oxymoron.”
He narrows his eyes, then disarms the security system and opens the door. As soon as we step into the room, he shuts it again and resets the system.
“How did you know about Hydro?” I ask.
“I have connections. I know things.” He looks at his watch. “Listen, we’re going to have to keep this short. I have Emergent Programming in fifteen.”
“Minutes?” I run a hand through my hair. “Where do I start?”
“The beginning?”
I take a deep breath, but Germ blurts out, “He jumped here in a Swirling Vortex of Doom.”
Well, that’s one way of getting it done. “Pretty much.”
Warren adjusts his glasses. “Maybe roll it back a couple of frames?”
“Okay, this is going to sound crazy,” I say, “but this isn’t my life. I’m not Danny. I mean, I am, but I’m not. A week and a half ago, I was sitting in class when suddenly this…thing…happened inside me and—”
“He fell through a time tunnel,” Germ finishes.
“Well, some kind of a tunnel, and I landed here. Not here here. At the mall where those bombs went off. I don’t know how it happened, but I think it has something to do with Skylar. That’s why we came to talk to you.”
“Skylar?” Warren makes a face. “Why would you think that?”
“Does that mean you believe me?”
He shrugs. “I intern at DART. It takes a lot to faze me. You say you’re from another Phoenix? Fine, you’re from another Phoenix. Whatever trips your trigger. I once heard about a guy who thinks he’s Peter Pan. Wears green tights and a funny hat all the time. Now, what’s this about Skylar?”
Germ jumps in again. “He thinks that tunnel opens up whenever they test Skylar.”
I count off the days on my fingers. “Friday. Wednesday. Monday. Each of those days, I got this buzzing feeling inside and saw glimpses of the Phoenix I’m from. I haven’t jumped back, tho
ugh. Not yet.”
“Obviously.” Warren slides open the control panel and the room transforms. He crosses to the desk and types on the projected keys. The monitors display the same screens as on Saturday. “When did you say these episodes occurred?”
“Friday, Wednesday and Monday.”
“Times?”
“Oh.” I think back. “Friday morning around nine. Wednesday happened at the castle, so…midnight-ish? And Monday’s was around three, I’m guessing.”
Warren peers at the monitors. “Well, I’ll be a Jammie Dodger.”
“It matches up?” I ask, leaning in beside him.
“System-wide tests were run each of those days, and only those days. The times match up as well.” He taps a finger on the desk. “How many relay chips have you guys been able to swap out?”
“One,” Germ says.
Warren shakes his head. “They’ve increased security throughout the city for Friday’s gala. It’s making it difficult to get anything done. Eevee hasn’t been able to do any of hers yet.”
A shiver runs down my arms at the sound of her name. I stopped by her dorm room on the way here, but she didn’t answer. She’s probably in class, or off painting. Hopefully, she’ll find the note.
Warren leans back against the desk. “I think we should tell Mac.”
“Who?” Germ and I ask at the same time. Germ mutters, “Jinx.”
“Marcus McAllister,” Warren says. “Lead architect on Skylar. Maybe we can convince him it poses a physical threat to the population. Could be a useful plan B if the chip virus fails.” He grabs a lab coat from the closet. “Let’s go.”
“What about Emergent Programming?” Germ asks.
“Priorities,” he says. “This takes alpha.”
The DART lobby is cold, all granite and metal. A woman wearing a headset sits at a wide reception desk. Behind her, the wall flows with a circulating waterfall. Her only acknowledgment of us is one raised eyebrow. Warren saunters up to the desk, but we hang back, pretending to be interested in the huge driftwood sculpture on the wall.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Germ mutters. “What if it’s a trap?”
“I’ve already been through Hydro. What’s the worst they could do?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No.” I look past him. “Here he comes.”
Warren holds out two clip-on badges. “You guys need to keep these on and visible at all times. Mac will be out in a minute.” He lowers his voice. “Probably best to keep the parallel-dimension talk in the deep freeze.”
“Parallel what?” I ask.
“Dimensions. You know, your Phoenix, our Phoenix?” He says it like he’s talking about what he ate for lunch.
Germ and I follow him to a conference room off the lobby. Inside is a long mahogany table. We take the three chairs at the nearest end. They’re squishy. Germ swivels back and forth in his until Warren gives him a look. A door at the far end of the room opens and a tall guy walks in. He wears a lab coat over his jeans and plaid work shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. When he extends his hand, he says, “Dr. Marcus McAllister. You can call me Mac.” He sits at the head of the table and rests his arms across his stomach. “What brings you gentlemen out today? Warren, don’t you have morning classes?”
“Yes,” Warren says, “but something more pressing has come up. These are friends of mine from Kierland Academy. Danny has possible evidence Skylar could pose a public health risk.”
Mac gives a dismissive laugh. “That’s highly unlikely.”
“Which was my thought, too,” Warren continues, “until he explained his symptoms and when they occurred.”
Mac turns toward me, his face curious. “Okay. Let’s hear these symptoms.”
“Um.” I think through how much to say, hoping Germ doesn’t interrupt. “Well, there’s a tightness in my chest, and it feels like my lungs are freezing from the inside.” I sound like such a crazy person that I’m surprised this guy hasn’t walked out. “Then I get a buzzing feeling, like ants are crawling all over me. Oh, and I hear static in my ears.”
“Static.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you sought the opinion of a medical professional?”
“Uh…no, sir.”
Mac tents his fingers under his chin. “And why do you suspect these symptoms are related to Skylar?”
Warren jumps in, and I’m grateful for the breather. “Well, that’s the fascinating part. His symptoms occurred in conjunction with every Skylar system test.”
“What about Skylar would cause such symptoms? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m wondering the same thing,” Warren says. “Maybe it’s some kind of hypersensitivity to the EMF waves? Regardless, I think it’s prudent to conduct a test. He could be one of many experiencing symptoms. Better to recognize it now than after rollout, if I may say so, and face public backlash.”
Mac drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, his eyes shifting between Warren and me. Then he pulls out his phone. “Lydia, I’m going to need expedited security clearance for two individuals.”
We follow Mac through a brightly lit room filled with computer workstations and racks of equipment and with bundled wires tracked across the ceiling to a smaller room full of DART employees sitting at terminals. The walls are covered in huge screens, displaying the same things we saw in Warren’s dorm room. Mac leans over one of the desks and activates the keyboard with his security badge. “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.” He steps back to let Warren take the controls. Meanwhile, a lab tech leads me to a chair and attaches electrode pads to my chest and back. I watch my heart make blips across the monitor screen. Is it fast? It seems fast, but then, I am nervous. I take a deep breath and the blips slow down. Better.
Mac raises his voice and all the employees give him their attention. “Listen up, folks. We’re going to run a phase one diagnostic. Please ready your stations.” The energy of the room changes as employees take position. He lays a hand on Warren’s shoulder. “Set it for five.”
Warren’s fingers race over the keyboard. “Ready.”
Mac walks to where I’m sitting and crosses his arms. He looks confident. Proud. “Sit back and enjoy the show.”
A clock appears in the corner of the largest screen, counting down in milliseconds.
Five.
Four.
Germ looks as freaked out as I feel.
Three.
I grip the arms of the chair.
Two.
One.
The screens switch to a skeletal view of the city and cold races across my chest. Yellow circles and red Xs swim in my eyes. My jaw clenches, my muscles go taut, and through the static I hear Germ yelling.
But instead of the tunnel and the pull, everything fades. When I open my eyes, I’m on my knees surrounded by DART employees staring down at me. One switches off the alarm on the heart monitor.
I never saw the other Phoenix. Never felt the other Danny.
“Shut it all the way down.” Mac’s face is pale. The confidence is gone. He stands with one hand on his hip and runs the other over his face. In a loud voice, he says, “Someone get me Governor Solomon on the phone.”
I push my door open with my elbow and, once inside, bump it closed again with my hip. Everything’s a mess, just like it’s been since I got back from shopping with Mom on Tuesday. Here it is Thursday and I don’t even know where the time went. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. It went to Vivian. The art supplies tumble from my arms onto the bed, and I flop down beside them, exhausted. I don’t even glance at my phone. I already know he hasn’t called.
“So,” I say to the girl in the painting on the easel, “how was your day?”
She doesn’t say anything back, of course.
Her face is shiny, the oils still wet. I painted her in a hurry this morning, in the little time I had between breakfast and going back to Vivian’s. She’s full of angst and frustration, her eyes fierce
like her blazing-fire hair. The Art Guild would never approve, but that’s okay. She’s not for them. She’s for me.
I pick up my palette and brush, thin out burnt umber and pull it through her hair. My arms are tired, but painting her, I find my own fire again.
Tomorrow is the jury deadline and Vivian’s paintings look great. Maybe she’s even learned something, watching me do all the work for her. Somehow I doubt it, though. Just like I doubt she’s thought about what will happen when she gets to Belford and they discover she’s a fraud. But that’s not my problem, right?
I smirk and grow the flames higher. Then my eyes move to the remains of Confidante tucked away in the bag on the coffee table. No, my problems are something else entirely.
“What do you think?” I ask the flame-haired girl. “Should I do it?”
Her eyes are severe, like a dare.
I slide open my closet door and search through bins of art supplies until I find a spool of thin gold wire. In a separate bin, beneath a bag of Popsicle sticks, I find the cutters and the pin tool from my sculpting set.
Time to reclaim what I’ve lost.
I listen to the phone ringing and tell myself not to worry. There’s a logical reason she’s not picking up. She hasn’t been thrown into the back of a van. She’s the governor’s daughter. They wouldn’t put her in—
“Hello?”
I jolt upright. “Eevee?”
“Danny! Oh my God, it’s you.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” She sounds both panicked and relieved. “Sorry. I was working and didn’t hear the phone ringing. Are you okay? I’ve left you so many messages.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…things have been kinda crazy.”
“Same here.” She pauses. “Actually, I was starting to wonder if you were dodging me.”
“What? No. Didn’t you get my note?”
“Note?” Her breathing changes as she moves through her room.
“I stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t there, so I left a note under your door.”
While You Were Gone Page 15
