Unplugged

by Gordon Korman

  “You’ve got fireworks?” Tyrell echoes.

  Jett inclines his head, and we follow his gaze into his room, where there are two large boxes hidden under the bed. “For the Fourth of July,” he explains. “Or maybe I’ll save them for a special occasion—like when Nimbus wises up and kicks me out.”

  I’m so angry I can’t even look at him. When I turn away I see lanky Brooklynne Feldman at the far end of the path, peering at the huge packages. Maybe it’s her thick glasses, but she makes me think of a CIA agent focusing on a crucial piece of evidence. She’s always like that—as if she knows something no one else does.

  “It’s okay,” I call to her. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  Brooklynne walks on, but she seems confused. I don’t blame her. A Jet Ski, an ATV, and an arcade machine are about as out of place at the Oasis as a giant oil derrick pumping crude out of the ground next to the Bath.

  I wheel back around on Jett. “What do you mean by dot-com? How can you order from the internet? We’re totally unplugged!”

  He raises his arms in a gesture of innocence. “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t try to deny it! You’ve got a tell. When you’re covering up something sleazy, you blink too fast. It’s a dead giveaway.”

  He looks stricken at being called out—which only makes the blinking speed up. His eyelids flutter like butterfly wings.

  “Actually,” he confesses, “some of us might still be a little bit plugged.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts and gives us just a glimpse of a sleek glassy object.

  “A phone?” I howl. “There are no phones here!”

  “Well, there’s at least one,” Tyrell points out.

  Suddenly, Jett looks away from us and focuses on his sandwich, chomping and chewing. At the same time, he grabs a handful of meat from the platter and crams it into the side of his mouth. I’m trying to figure out what to do when there are footsteps on the path behind me and a man’s voice says, “Where did all this stuff come from?”

  We step away to let Matt in through the front door. His attention snaps from the merchandise outside to the sight of his charge stuffing his face with contraband barbecue.

  I have no respect for Jett, but even I have to be impressed at how quickly he manages to swallow down that enormous mouthful of food and come up smiling. “Oh, hi, Matt. Hope you’re hungry.”

  Matt is almost as disgusted as I am. “You’re like a toddler, incapable of thinking five seconds into the future. What do you think your father will say when he finds out about this?”

  Jett shrugs. “Vlad’s dream is a connected world where anybody can order anything delivered anywhere. Presto! His vision is a reality—and it’s delicious.”

  Matt reaches down and plucks the phone out of Jett’s pocket, muttering, “And how’s he supposed to feel about the fact that his son’s a thief now, instead of just a rotten kid.”

  “You can’t steal what’s already yours,” Jett defends himself.

  “You’re not supposed to have this and you know it. You’re also not supposed to have barbecued meat, and that goes double for Jet Skis and giant arcade games. It’s all going back—and the food is going . . . in the garbage.”

  Matt seems a little less certain when he’s saying the last part. Both he and Tyrell can’t stop staring at the meat platter. Even though I’m vegetarian, I kind of understand. Guys can be such carnivores. That’s the main reason Dad stays home with Benito every summer instead of coming to the Oasis with Mom and me.

  “Nutrition is the most important of the three pillars,” I offer, quoting Magnus. “No one needs to survive by eating our fellow creatures. The most human thing we can do is surrender our position at the top of the food chain.”

  I have to admit it sounds better when Magnus explains it. Anyway, I doubt they even hear me. Tyrell is practically drooling, and Matt’s resistance seems to be wavering.

  I get away from there fast. If I stick around to see what happens next, I’ll be honor-bound to report it to Magnus. And I’m no tattletale.

  As I round the corner of the cluster of cottages, I see Brooklynne on the far side of the meditation center, looking on with interest.

  6

  Matt Louganis

  I graduated third in my class at Stanford. Of the man and woman who finished ahead of me, one already has a Nobel Prize; the other a MacArthur “Genius Grant.” When I left college, I had job offers from Apple, Google, Amazon, Facebook, and every tech startup in the world.

  I turned them all down to work for Vladimir Baranov. He’s the biggest rock star in Silicon Valley. And his company, Fuego, dominates hardware, software, mobile, internet, cryptocurrency, cybersecurity, and at least a dozen fields nobody has even heard of yet. When the next big thing comes along, Fuego will be right there on the cutting edge. And as one of their top young executives, I’ll have my finger on the pulse of an interconnected planet.

  Except I don’t. I’m not rolling out new apps and products to take the world by storm. I’m not dreaming up the next innovation people don’t yet realize they can’t live without. My job, essentially, is babysitting Vladimir Baranov’s son.

  What’s that like? 1) Picture being jailer to Harry Houdini; 2) multiply by five hundred.

  “Jett’s twelve,” Ivory says dismissively. “Don’t be overdramatic. If you weren’t such a heavy sleeper, you would have caught him before he ever got out of the cottage.”

  I’m standing outside the welcome center with Magnus Fellini and Ivory Novis, his number two. We’re supervising the loading of the Dance Dance Revolution machine onto the truck that’s come to take it away. Ivory helps. She’s stronger than both shippers put together. The Jet Ski and the ATV are all already aboard, along with the drum set and the 3D printer that arrived earlier today.

  “So what you’re saying,” I tell her, shamefaced, “is that this is my fault.”

  “Fault is not a word we use at the Oasis,” Magnus interjects in his quiet voice. “Blame helps no one in our quest to become whole. No one is at fault unless we are all at fault. Collectively, we find solutions and we move on.”

  Magnus talks a good game. But there’s nothing collective about cleaning up the mess Jett made. I’m the one who had to cancel everything he ordered, which wasn’t easy because he used several different accounts, so I was never quite sure I’d gotten it all. I’m the one who had to arrange with Fuego to pay the cost of the shipping and restocking, and to explain to the boss that his son broke into the welcome center, repossessed his phone, and went on a shopping spree.

  At first, Magnus wouldn’t even let me go online to undo the damage because internet use is against Oasis policy. But then people started tripping over all the packages and crates. Eventually, Ivory argued that I’m not technically a guest, because I’m only here to be the keeper of Jett. So Magnus gave in.

  At last, the shippers finish tying down the Dance Dance Revolution machine and the truck starts away. It isn’t even out of sight when a delivery van passes it in the southbound lane, groaning under the weight of something heavy. I’m not ashamed to admit that I run after the departing truck, waving my arms and shouting.

  “Hey, wait! Come back! We’ve got one more thing!”

  They never even slow down. Oh well, there wasn’t that much room in the truck anyway.

  I slink back to the welcome center just in time to hear the driver call to Magnus and Ivory, “Which one of you two ordered the hovercraft?”

  Obviously, they refuse delivery and the van departs.

  Magnus regards me in concern. “You don’t look well. You’re panting and sweating. Your face is red. You ate some of the meat, didn’t you?”

  I’m too flabbergasted to reply. Of course my condition has nothing to do with trying to outrun a transport truck in ninety-five-degree heat. It must come from a few mouthfuls of unauthorized brisket.

  But for some reason, the founder’s open, honest expression breaks me down. “A little,” I confess. “It was right there i
n the cottage. It seemed a shame to waste it.”

  “Weakness is nothing to be ashamed of,” Magnus assures me. “Only shame is. You should meditate on this as soon as possible. Schedule a private session with Ivory.”

  Ivory has a different opinion. “I’d be happy to work with Matt, but he’s not the problem. He’s only here because of Jett, and Jett doesn’t belong.”

  “This is a place of wellness,” Magnus says firmly, “which is something everyone deserves.”

  “I agree,” his second-in-command counters, “which is why Jett Baranov has to go. I have nothing against him personally, but he undermines our entire mission here. He brings in meat”—Ivory indicates me—“and other people eat it. He makes trouble with the pedal boats and suddenly the Karrigan and Bucholz boys are involved. He burglarizes the welcome center and recovers his phone when he knows it’s forbidden.”

  “That only proves how much Jett needs what we offer at the Oasis,” Magnus argues.

  “Not when his presence makes it impossible for us to offer it,” Ivory insists. “There’s a harmony here that comes from everyone buying into our methods and our rules. Jett Baranov is a disrupter. He could spoil it for everyone.”

  Disrupter. People used that word to describe Vladimir Baranov when he first started Fuego and revolutionized the tech universe. To hear Jett called that gives me a jolt. “Now just a minute!” As mad as I am at the kid, I have to speak up for him. “You’re talking about a twelve-year-old.”

  “A twelve-year-old who commands hundreds of thousands of dollars of buying power to turn this place upside down practically overnight.”

  Magnus raises both hands. “Enough,” he says in that soft yet commanding tone of his. “The boy stays, of course. I understand the unique challenge he presents. But we’ll win him over. He will be whole. You’ll see.”

  I can’t help thinking, This entire place could be a hole when Jett gets through with it—as in a smoking crater.

  That’s what happens when you underestimate a Baranov.

  I’m still bathed in sweat and limp as a rag when I finally drag myself back to the cottage. When I step inside I’m surprised to find Jett slumped on the couch, staring off into space. On second inspection, I realize that’s not true. He’s actually staring at the empty spot on the wall where the TV would be if we had one.

  “I thought all the kids were zip-lining today,” I tell him.

  “I was going to go,” he drawls in reply, “but then I made a list of all the things I’d rather do and this was on it. Along with being torn to pieces by mountain lions and dumpster diving behind a nuclear plant.”

  “Only a billionaire’s son could compare zip-lining to being mauled to death,” I can’t resist commenting. “Sorry the entertainment options aren’t up to your expectations.”

  “I don’t accept your apology.”

  “But it isn’t all gloom and doom, Luke Skywalker,” I go on. “Your hovercraft arrived today.”

  So help me, he actually looks excited for a moment. Then reality sets in and his face falls. “You sent it back.”

  “What were you going to do with it?” I demand. “Fill it with kids and try a prison break?”

  “It was only a mini,” he says, like that makes it okay. “Maximum two riders. Anything bigger wouldn’t have been practical.”

  “Practical?” I choke. Could there be anyone alive who understands the meaning of the word less than Jett?

  It’s all I can do to hold myself back from going absolutely ballistic at the kid. And it’s not because his dad is my boss that I don’t do it. Mr. B authorized me to be stricter with Jett. Actually, he ordered me to. In a way, that’s the problem.

  I like Jett. I honestly do. And I know this is a crazy thing to say about the son of one of the richest humans in history, but I feel sorry for him.

  Sure, he’s surrounded by unimaginable wealth. Yet on some level, he has to understand that nothing he accomplishes in his life will ever compare with what his father has built.

  His parents don’t have any time for the poor kid. His father’s every nanosecond is taken up with Fuego, and his mother is always half a world away with Orthodontists Without Borders. If the nannies and au pairs of Silicon Valley had a union hall, Jett’s picture would be on the dartboard in the break room. And for good reason—he’s gone through dozens of them. It all led up to that fateful holiday party when I got the brilliant idea to catch the boss’s eye by befriending his son, who was snatching strands of tinsel from the tree and using them to spell out bad words in the frosting of the cake.

  And catch his eye I did. The fix I’m in is 100 percent of my own making. I’m the best coder at Fuego, but those skills are a dime a dozen compared with the ability to keep Jett out of trouble.

  Well—I picture the ruined pedal boat hung up on the wrong side of the river—mostly out of trouble.

  “Anyway, I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” I tell him. “Talk about chaos! Magnus wouldn’t give me access to my laptop until I explained what was probably going to show up on his doorstep if I didn’t cancel all the sales! Do you know what a hassle it was to track down everything you ordered and void it all?”

  He looks at me, eyes lively. “How do you know you caught everything?”

  That brings me up short. “Are you saying there’s another hovercraft coming? Or maybe a B-52?”

  Jett just grins, walks into his own room, and sits on his bed, adjusting the blanket so that it hangs to the floor.

  Looking back on it, I should have remembered. I should have thought to check what was under there. But then things got crazy.

  How was I supposed to know?

  7

  Grace Atwater

  Berry picking is one of my favorite things to do at the Oasis. The woods around here are like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I love strawberries and raspberries, but wild ones are ten times more delicious. The wild strawberries at the Oasis are small, and the natural sugar in them is so concentrated that you get an intense flavor explosion that’s better than any candy. If we pick a lot, we take our baskets into the kitchen. They make the most amazing pies and shortcakes.

  “Not that I’ve ever tasted one,” Tyrell complains. “They’ve all got gluten in them.”

  “We’ll talk to Evangeline,” I promise him. “Sometimes you can make pie crust out of potato flour.”

  “Forget it,” he says mournfully. “If I’m eating potatoes, it had better be french fries.”

  “You know Magnus doesn’t believe in fried foods,” I chide him gently.

  “Everybody should believe in french fries,” he insists.

  Poor Tyrell. But to tell the truth, I’m getting kind of sick of hearing about his allergies. I lost a lot of my sympathy for him back at Jett’s cottage when he helped himself to some of that barbecue. Why anybody would eat something with a name like “pulled pork” is a mystery to me.

  Anyway, we’re making our way through the woods, avoiding the main trails, which are picked over, berry-wise. I have to confess that we’re eating as much as we’re picking, but our baskets are pretty full. Even though he’s a sad sack, Tyrell admits that the strawberries are delicious.

  Then—jackpot—we stumble on a stand of bushes that are totally hung with blackberries. We’re harvesting like crazy when a ray of sunlight breaks through the trees and I get a good look at my berry-picking partner. He has so many hives that they’ve grown together to make his entire face and neck purple.

  I slap the basket out of his hand. It hits the ground, spilling berries everywhere.

  “You said you’re not allergic to berries!”

  “I’m not!” He puts his hands up. “I can have strawberries, raspberries—” He looks down at his left hand, which still holds a fistful of bumpy blackberries. “Uh-oh.”

  So Tyrell has to run back to find Laurel—the nurse who serves as our healthfulness pathfinder. That leaves me shambling through the woods, topping up my basket and carrying his. I’ve just made it out of the tre
es when I hear a wild commotion coming from the direction of the Bath. A second later, two older ladies in dripping bathing suits come running toward me, looking terrified.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask them.

  “The Bath!” one of them gibbers. “There’s a horrible lizard in there!”

  From the fuss they’re making, you’d think there’s at least a T. rex terrorizing our hot spring. But when I get to the Bath, it seems empty—no lizard, no people.

  That’s when I spot it—a tiny brown-and-beige body about eight inches long, including the tail. It’s at the edge of the pool, trying—and failing—to scramble out of the hot water.

  Without thinking, I drop both baskets and rush to the rescue. I lean over the edge and extend my hands under the slender, scaly body. But the poor little guy is scared of me, and wriggles away.

  Undaunted, I grab the bug dipper and, wielding it by the pole, slide the mesh net underneath the lizard, and draw it out of the hot water. The eyes gleam bright green in the sun, and I know it’s happy to be free of all that bubbling heat.

  I frown. It sounds so impersonal—a thing, not a living creature. As I draw the lizard out of the mesh and into my arms, he flips over for a second, and I can see that he’s male. He squirms for an instant, and then relaxes, snuggling his little head into my neck.

  “There, there,” I coo. “You’re safe now.”

  Can you believe it? I’m talking to a lizard, a cold-blooded critter with no hope of understanding that I’m someone who means him no harm. And yet the feeling that comes over me is exactly what I remember from the first time I put my arms around my Benito. He was a rescue dog, so sad and timid. When I reached out for him, he shied away in fear. He needed me—just like this lizard needs me. If I hadn’t scooped him out of the hot water, it would have killed him.

  With my index finger, I stroke the brown leather skin of his little snout. In answer, the little guy chomps down on my pointer! It happens in the blink of an eye. And for such a tiny creature, it’s one heck of a bite too. It almost breaks the skin. When I yank my hand away, I can clearly count the impressions of at least fourteen needlelike teeth.