Tunnel Vision

by Susan Adrian

  I have a little plan forming in my head, a way to get away from him. Maybe.

  “I don’t know,” Myk says slowly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  No, it doesn’t. Dad was a major general in the U.S. Air Force, stationed at the Pentagon for five years. Pretty high level, and I know he worked on some secret shit. But he’s dead, and none of his ghosts should be knocking for me.

  So it probably isn’t Dad. She knows it, I know it. We’re back to the original theory.

  I can’t think about it now.

  I spin around the merging traffic onto Route 28, watching the mirror more than the road. He’s still there, two cars back. But it turns multilane here, and I need more space between us. I punch it, veer onto the off-ramp. If he knows the area, by now he’s probably figured out where I’m going.

  I breathe. Try to focus on the plan.

  “Should I call Mom?” Myk asks. “The police?”

  “No!” The response is straight from my gut, strong enough to make me go with it. For all I know, he is the police. “Not yet.” I lower my voice. “You know Mom would only flip out. And there’s nothing she or the police can do right now. Hang on.”

  I shoot into the other lane to pass a Fiesta, then keep the speed up, rumbling over the bridge. We’re three cars ahead now. We start the big loop that’ll take us to Dulles Airport. If I can get there with enough of a lead … this might work. It isn’t far. But the Durango is sneaking closer. He has a better engine than I do.

  “Why are we going to the airport?” she asks, like she just looked out the window.

  “Quiet, okay?” I say. “Just hang on. Trust me.” I sound a lot surer than I am.

  There’s the stop, the U-turn into the airport. Luckily everyone has to stop, and the Durango is still stuck two cars behind me.

  And then my plan. Instead of turning to go into the airport, as soon as I get to the stop, I shoot forward and turn hard right into the rental car area.

  We’re lucky—it’s busy. Friday afternoon, plenty of travel. Tons of cars, lots of them white like ours, loaded with tired, confused people driving different directions. And it’ll be a couple minutes before he can follow us. Quick as I can I pull into the Enterprise lot, park in the “serve-yourself” aisle, or whatever it’s called, and kill the engine.

  “Duck!” I hiss. I drop down as much as I can and scrunch my legs, my head on the edge of the seat. I don’t fit, and the pedals are pressing into my ankles, but I don’t think you can see me unless you look in the window. It’s a good thing the car is clean, newish. It blends in well enough for us to hide. I hope. I also hope no tourists choose this moment to pick a nice Civic to tool around DC in.

  “And now?” Myk asks, a tremble in her voice even with it muffled. She’s folded into the space behind the seat, pretty well hidden. All I can see of her is her dark hair, spread over her hunched back like a blanket.

  “Now,” I say, struggling to sound calm, “we wait until it’s safe to go home.”

  * * *

  I pull into our garage about six thirty, bone-tired and foggy from all the adrenaline dumping into my blood and then draining away. I was aware enough at least to make sure there weren’t any black Durangos following, or on the street. We’re clear. I need to eat, make sure Myk eats, and then sleep. And think. Mom has one of her State Department dinners and won’t be home until late. I have time to decide what I want to tell her about this. Maybe it’s finally the right moment to tell her about me, stop hiding it all. Though Dad was always clear about that. Never tell Mom.

  Myk and I didn’t talk during the wait, or the drive home. I can tell from her serious face that her brain is whirring around in there, though. She’s worrying. I really don’t want her thinking too hard about it, not until I do. I want to keep her out of it, safe. No matter what happens.

  I guess the main thing is what to do on Monday. I can’t run or hide in car lots forever—they already know my school and Myk’s. Eventually they’ll find home.

  Oh, God.

  Anyway. We’re safe now. First: eat. We throw our coats over the rack, and I drop my keys in the bowl. “Mac and cheese,” I say. “Start boiling the water, will you? I’m gonna dump my stuff in my room.”

  She nods absently, and already has a pot out as I go down the hall and flip on the light in my room.

  There’s a woman sitting on my bed, legs crossed in a gray professional skirt, gray jacket. Dark blond hair scraped back in a tight ponytail. She blinks in the light.

  “Jacob Lukin,” she says, in a voice like syrup. “Did you think they knew where you went to school, but they couldn’t find your house?”

  My arms and legs go wobbly, and I grip the doorknob hard to keep myself up.

  She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, like she’s going to tell me a secret. “Why don’t you lock that door? We don’t want your sister any more involved than she already is, do we?”

  I shut the door slowly, turn the lock, and lean back against it. I can see her cleavage, right out there as she leans toward me, and it pisses me off that I notice it. “What do you want?” My voice is a shadow.

  She folds her hands in her lap and smiles with white teeth. “Right to the point. I respect that. I want to talk about a little something that happened at Caitlyn Timmerman’s party two weeks ago. And I’m not the only one.”

  This time my legs do give out, and I slide to the floor.

  3

  “A Little Party Never Killed Nobody” by Fergie, Q-Tip, and GoonRock

  I wasn’t going to go to Caitlyn Timmerman’s party.

  I was supposed to be home with Myka while Mom was away in New York, but Myk had one of her friends there for a sleepover. After being around two twelve-year-old girls for two hours, it didn’t take much to convince me they’d be fine on their own for a while (Myk’s argument), and it was Friday night and I deserved to have a little fun (Chris’s argument).

  When Chris happened to mention Rachel would be there—and Lily wouldn’t—it sealed the deal. Rachel is … well, she’s straight-up gorgeous, to start. Curvy in all the right places, shiny brown eyes, these beautiful, round pink cheeks … and smart. Focused. She didn’t seem to drift through school like a lot of people. She did things. I didn’t know that much about her. I was kind of absorbed in Lily for a long time. But I knew she was in theater with Chris, and active in political stuff and the school paper, and she was serious about wanting to go to college, like me. A poli-sci major.

  And she’d smiled at me in English the day before. So I wasn’t going to miss this chance.

  At the party, Rachel was surprisingly willing to sit with me on the couch and talk. We talked, and talked. About the problems of the two-party system (her) and the Jeffersonians versus the Hamiltonians (me), and as we sipped on the punch and started to get drunk, more about The Right State and old West Wing episodes. About how I was dying to go to Stanford, and she wanted to get away from DC and the East for a while and go to Berkeley. Which are practically right next to each other, she said. She smiled when she said it, and I melted a little.

  As we talked, we slid closer. Her eyes got bright, her gestures wild. Once, her hand even landed on my leg and she left it there for a second, face crimson, before reaching for her drink.

  I admit I was dizzy with her, with possibilities. Off my head happy, for the first time since Lily. This could really happen. Anything could happen. Everything.

  So the problem wasn’t that I went to the party. The problem was that I had already had so much vodka punch, and I still went along with the drinking game.

  Caitlyn started it. “It’s a great game!” she slurred. “Chris and I saw it … somewhere?” She paused, her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t remember where. TV.”

  Words to live by: Don’t join a drinking game with someone who’s already slurring. But the punch tasted like grape Kool-Aid, and Caitlyn was generous with it. Every time I turned around my glass was full, tempting. And Rachel, beaming next to me, wanted to join in. It
seemed like a good idea.

  Hell, everything seemed like a good idea.

  We made a rough circle on the floor next to the couch: me, Rachel, Chris, Jeff, Caitlyn, Stacey, Kadeem, and Ashley. All theater geeks except me. I didn’t mind at all.

  “Chris,” Caitlyn said, nodding. Too much nodding, like a bobblehead doll. “You tell them how.”

  “Yes, friends, I will tell them how.” Chris said it in a game-show voice, too loud, his cheeks washed red behind his freckles. Also drunk, of course. “So everybody has funky things they can do. Talents.” He wiggled his eyebrows and we all laughed. “So show us your talent. Each of you does the coolest weird thing you can think of, and then everybody else tries. And if you can’t do the other person’s talent, you drink. Best one wins.”

  An odd thrill flicked through me. I had a talent I guarantee none of them had. Maybe nobody else in the world had. I could win. But of course I couldn’t show them.

  Why not? I thought. What does it really matter?

  “I’ll go first.” Chris stood, weaving. I knew what his talent would be. I just didn’t know if he could do it, wasted as he was. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and winked at Caitlyn. “Drum roll, please.” We pounded our hands on the beige carpet. “Ladies and gentlemen, watch, amazed.”

  He set his palms flat, tried to flip himself up to stand on his hands … and collapsed onto Jeff, who spilled about half his purple drink on the carpet. I nearly pissed myself laughing—we all did. No one else even tried to do it until we got to Ashley and then, surprisingly, Rachel. Seems they were both cheerleaders in grade school. Who knew?

  Rachel flipped herself upside down and threw me a grin, her face full-on glowy.

  All that and smart too. Did I even deserve her?

  I drank, licking sticky purple off my lips. Then Jeff licked his own elbow. I thought that was impossible. All the rest of us drank.

  Caitlyn put her whole fist in her mouth, which was interesting, especially to Chris. I drank. Stacey bent her pinkie back to her arm. Someone poured me more, and I drank. Kadeem raised one eyebrow, which I could do fine—couldn’t anybody?—but I drank anyway. Ashley did a cheerleader flip and knocked over a side table. Nobody cared. Everything was funny.

  By the time it was my turn, I was more slammed than I had been in a very long time, maybe ever. Especially around that many people. My eyelids felt heavy. My whole body felt heavy. I looked at Chris. He was flickering, but maybe that was me.

  “Do it, dude,” he said, his words stretched out slooooow. “Tunnel. You know you want to.”

  I did want to. I really wanted to. Chris only knew about it because I’d told him—shown him—when we were seven, before Dad said I shouldn’t tell anybody. Before Dad knew. “No,” I said, shaking my head, thinking of Dad. “I can’t.”

  “Tunnel?” Caitlyn said loud. “What’s that? Do it!”

  “Do it, do it, do it,” they chanted.

  This was such a safe place. Warm, safe. Nobody but my friends. High school kids, like me. And everybody as drunk as me. They wouldn’t even remember. I felt suddenly free, light. Yes. I could do it, this one time. It was the perfect time.

  I could show Rachel. That might make me cool enough for her.

  “Okay,” I announced, palms out. “But this is a seeecret. Okay?”

  Rachel leaned over, poked me in the shoulder. “Yes!”

  I smiled at her, lopsided. Damn, girl.

  “You’ve got to bring me something that belongs … belongs…” I frowned. I couldn’t think of how to put the words together so they made sense. “Belongs to someone who’s far away.” I tried to focus on Caitlyn. “Do you have anything like that?”

  She thought hard for a minute, her forehead crinkling again, then flipped her hair back. “Yes.” She held up one finger. “Hang on.”

  We waited while she disappeared upstairs. And drank more, of course. It seemed like she was gone a long time, almost long enough for me to decide maybe I shouldn’t do it after all. But not quite.

  She almost tripped coming down the stairs. “Here.” She thrust a small object into my hand. It was a tiny velvet box, like the kind they always show in movies when the guy is going to propose. “It belongs to—”

  “No, don’t tell me anything.” I grinned. I was sharing it, finally, with my friends. It didn’t have to be such a secret. It was just fun. A relief. What was I so worried about?

  I cradled the box in my hands, closed my eyes, and let it come.

  It sobered me instantly. First I got the warmth, the sense of energy that tells me it’s happening. It’s like the light from a glow stick, a shimmer that expands around the object that only I can see. Then the light, the warmth, makes its way through my fingertips, buzzing under my skin. Then come the images. Like watching a movie in my head.

  A girl … no, young woman. Long black hair, tiny glasses, skinny. Clearly Caitlyn’s sister. I feel her location, closer and closer, like zooming in on a labeled map in Google: Hanover, New Hampshire. Dartmouth College. Hitchcock Hall, Room 220. And she is seeing … oh. Some guy’s lips, in a dark room with curtains drawn.… “I love you,” he said. “C’mon.” She is feeling pretty warm herself as she leans in, slides her hand down his pants …

  I pulled out of it, blinking, drunk again. Seven pairs of eyes were staring at me.

  When I tunnel to someone, I can do it silently or say it out loud. If I say it, there’s no filter—I say what I see, hear, feel. What that person is experiencing at that moment in time, wherever they are.

  Everyone looked freaked out. Even Chris. Even Rachel.

  “Dude,” Jeff said, swaying. “That was creepy.”

  I tried to laugh. “Let’s see you do that! Everybody drinks!”

  Everybody sipped, silent.

  “But that was true,” Caitlyn said, thoughtful, tapping her fingers against her red plastic cup. “That was Cammie and Adam … it was totally true. Do another one.” She gestured around the circle. “Come on, somebody else has to have something.”

  They all looked at each other.

  “I have one,” Rachel said, soft. “Just a minute.” She got up and went to the corner, where all the coats and purses were piled on a chair, and dug into a brown purse.

  When she came back, she slipped something into my hand. It was a piece of paper, folded in half. A letter. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth, the tingle, even faster than before.

  A man, early fifties. He is big, barrel chested, with short, stumpy legs and heavy eyebrows. He is wearing purple-flowered swim trunks. His skin is a deep red, going into tan. Location: Oahu, Hawaii. Waimea Bay Beach Park. He is waxing a surfboard. He glances at the sun. Another hour at least. The waves are perfect right now—he has to get back out there. That’s all that matters, the sun and the waves. He’d been so right to leave it all—them all—and come here. He is exactly where he wants to be, finally. Alone. At peace.

  When I opened my eyes Rachel had tears streaking down her cheeks. She sniffed, loud, almost a hiccup. “That’s my dad. He left six months ago … I thought … he might come back…” She got up, snatched the letter, and ran to the bathroom.

  Caitlyn gave me a look like it was my fault and followed her.

  I drank, letting the vodka wash out the feeling that this had been a really bad idea.

  That’s when I saw a flicker of movement at the top of the stairs. I met the eyes of Caitlyn’s mom, sitting on the top step, watching me. On her face was the kind of look you’d give a dog who just recited Shakespeare. Stunned, sure. But interested.

  How much did she see?

  She stood smoothly, came down the stairs, and announced that it was time to go and she’d arranged a big taxi to take us all home. Now, please. She didn’t mind if we drank, but the party was over, and she wasn’t having any of us on the roads.

  Crammed in next to Chris on the ride home, with Rachel puffy eyed in the front, all I could do was think about what a very, very stupid thing that could’ve been. I could’ve blown
it all, right there. I knew better. It had just seemed so easy, so right. Safe.

  But hardly anybody mentioned it the next week, or the next. Rachel turned distant—embarrassed, I guess. I tried to talk to her, but she would look away, or give me one-word answers. Massively disappointing, but about what I should have expected, I guess. I blew it.

  I allowed myself to remember it like a bad dream, one of those nightmares where you do exactly what you’re not supposed to do. I allowed myself to forget about it, almost.

  Until now.

  4

  “Life Is Over” by Curbstone

  “Who are you?” I whisper. I look up at the woman from the floor, and even though the party was two weeks ago I feel drunk again, blurred.

  Her eyes are an odd pale green, like they’d been real green until something sucked most of the color out. I want to look away, but I can’t. She tilts her head, and her ponytail swings sideways.

  “I work with Mrs. Timmerman. She had a very interesting report about that party. Very interesting indeed.”

  I sit up straighter, grab at a shred of hope. Maybe it isn’t what I think. “Mrs. Timmerman works at Georgetown, doesn’t she? Some sort of scientist?”

  She actually laughs. “I don’t work for Georgetown University, Jacob. I work for the Department of Defense. A division called DARPA. Have you heard of it?”

  Hope smears out. The Department of Defense. It’s exactly what I thought. It’s what Dad said would happen, if I kept tunneling, if I told anyone. I’d never really believed him—it sounded too much like he was just trying to scare me. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Stupid shit like that. But he was right.

  With the realization comes a wave of anger. At him for being right. At myself for being stupid, for fucking up so royally. And at her, sitting there on my bedspread like she owns it.

  “So you read some report and you follow me around all week? You break into my house?” I get louder. “What the hell? You could have called if you wanted to talk to me.”