by Lee Davidson
Trina catches me on the way off the field and my heart rate picks up.
“Sorry about being so cold the other day,” she says. “I was frustrated when I couldn’t get in your head. That’s never happened to me before.”
“It’s a known fact that I’m a freak.”
Trina thinks this funny. “Aren’t we all?”
My coding problem surfaces front and center in my thoughts. She has no idea. When my calimeter goes off, I shift my weight in discomfort. I suck with women.
“You all right?” she asks.
My eyes widen and I nod too many times in order to skirt the issue of liking her. “Yeah, fine. See you around,” I blurt out, displacing as soon as my hand is in my pocket.
She’s really pretty, I think when I’m falling to Earth, followed by, You blew it, you idiot.
“You schooled me out there,” Lawson says after he lands.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was sick!”
“Thanks.” I guess.
“How’d you do it?”
I measure him and decide to spill, mostly because of the entire team of Elites he’s the closest I have to a friend. Jeez, that’s sad. “Something in my head can distinguish the foreign thoughts. Once I make the connection, I fight against them and my energy seems to take over. There’s warning that comes before the thought, and everything turns black and cold for a second.” I shudder, thinking about how coding has this same effect.
“Sweet. I’m going to try it.”
I grin and we read through the upcoming day’s events. Ryan will be back later, which means Elliott will be back later. Sigh.
“Thanks,” Lawson says when he closes his book.
“For what?”
“For sharing the goods. You didn’t have to.”
“It’s cool.” Yes, I consider him a friend.
An hour later, as documented, Ryan comes in with his wife, Nancy, followed by Elliott walking leisurely behind them. With Janine, Max, and Whitfield still here as well, the seams of the small house are threatening to burst. I’d step outside if I wasn’t worried about Meggie.
I was right to stay because Janine’s goodbye hug sets her off. The pain of blocking is getting—not tolerable, but expected. My pain is an easy trade for Meggie’s comfort, or the closest thing to it that I can give her.
Elliott is back at it thirty seconds after I sever the command. “So we talked about how Tate loved music. She had a million CDs. She never left the house without her iPod, she hated T.V., she loved to read—”
“What are you doing?” Whitfield interrupts.
Elliott loses his train of thought. “Huh?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My sister, Tate, who also happened to be Grant’s fiancée. I’m trying to jump-start Grant’s memories.”
Whitfield bites back her smile. “Oh hon, tell me you’re kidding.”
I wish.
“Uh-uh,” Elliott says.
Whitfield studies him, certainly realizing the guy is delusional. “It’ll never work.”
Thank you.
Elliott shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
Mental sigh. I remind myself that I upset him big time when I took the jab about his sister being a Rebellion and owe him this much. When he continues, I have to remind myself again.
“Anyway…music, she’s loves it. Moody, poetic chick singers are her favorite, but don’t knock her for that; she’ll listen to anything. She plays the violin. She rocks at it, actually. You never missed a college recital. Ever. You had a lot of fights with your dad about this actually, because you skipped a few days of work for them. Tate always came first. You were seriously addicted to her.”
My fingers automatically rub my prickling chest. There’s a new warmth to my scar.
Meggie falls into another crying jog and I block her again. In the background, Lawson is blocking Brody. Like watching someone vomit, it causes a chain reaction and in seconds the four of us are barking out commands in one, giant blocking fest. At least Elliott has shut up about his sister.
I lean against the wall in the living room and try to relax my muscles while Lawson and Whitfield do the same. Elliott is also exhausted, but clearly still has the gears spinning in his mind.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, needing to get away before he starts in again. “Holler if she needs me.”
Understanding, Lawson nods.
I walk through the back wall to the dilapidated patio, wishing I could feel the summer heat. The sun is just starting to fall, making the pollution in sky glow bright orange. In contrast to the front yard, most of the ground back here is just dirt and the few spots of grass are crispy and brown.
For no clear reason, I think of my dad. I can picture his weathered face. My mom’s, too. Oddly, their images are never side-by-side in my half-memories.
“You all right?”
I suck in a deep breath. “Just getting some air.”
“It’s crowded in there,” Whitfield states like she gets it.
I nod.
Like me, she’s focused on the orange sky. “Elliott’s bothering you.”
“Not really. Story-time’s just getting in the way of watching out for Meggie.”
“Do you believe him?”
Ah, the million dollar question. “No.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t feel anything. How could I have had this deep relationship and not remember it all?”
“Memories can be funny.” With that, Whitfield goes back inside.
I stay outside for a long time, not eager to go back through the wall into the mental ward.
When everyone finally leaves, well past midnight, the remainder of the night and the next day move quickly, probably because Elliott isn’t here rambling nonsense. My calimeter buzzes its reprieve faster than I expect, with zero complaints from me.
In my room, I do a quick clothing change and inventory my scars. The blisters are even more disgusting, scabbed and so purple they’re almost black. No way am I going to try coding today.
When I get to Benson, the crowd at our table has grown. I try my best to be positive, but doubt I pull it off.
“Hey,” Elliott says.
I don’t answer and slump into the furthest chair from him, next to Willow.
“You remember Whitfield?” Rigby says from my other side.
I barely move. “Yeah.”
Whitfield, sitting close enough to him that she’s almost in his lap, leans over and shakes my hand, followed by a wink.
I ignore Rigby’s scowl and turn to Clara. “How’s it going?”
“I’m good,” Clara answers, way more chipper than the other day.
“Great,” I smile for good measure. “Anyone eating?”
“Always,” Owen says.
He, Anna, Rigby and I cross the room, walk through the buffet, and emerge with overflowing trays of food. Well, all of us except Anna. Her tray consists of more greens and a lot less meat.
“Hey man, hold up a ‘sec.”
I stop beside a crowded table to wait for Rigby.
“What’s up with you and Whitfield?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why’d she wink at you?”
I lift my shoulders, dumbfounded. I’d hold out my hands in a I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about gesture if I wasn’t holding my tray. His intense look gets under my skin. “Why don’t you ask her?”
My tray is no longer an issue as Rigby dumps his own and then takes care of mine. How we get on the floor escapes me. All I have time to think about is dodging his hammering fists as they try to make contact with my face.
“Dude!” I manage. “What the—”
Our brawl ends as suddenly as it began because some huge guy straight-jackets Rigby.
“You’re a dirtbag! First Clara, now Whitfield? What’s your problem? Why can’t you pick someone I’m not interested i
n?”
I stand and pull my shirt down. “It’s not like that! I’m not interested in either of them! Honestly. There’s someone else—”
Crap!
“Clara, wait! I’m sorry. That’s not—” Damn. I should have coded. A few more blisters would have been worth avoiding this mess.
Rigby storms away with Whitfield following and yelling her disapproval at him in her thick southern accent. I ignore the dozens of wide eyes fixed on me and force an exit route through the gathered crowd. Looking towards the lobby, I decide that’s not my best getaway since Rigby is probably still out there. Instead, I retreat to the buffet room. I get a new tray and choose much less food than before. Nothing is quite as appetizing now.
When I leave the buffet, I plan on heading back to my own room. Only when I notice that the spectators have moved on to other topics of conversation do I reconsider.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Anna is saying when I grab a seat.
“What’s a great idea?” Liam asks as he sits down in Rigby’s place.
“I’m trying to bring back Grant’s memories,” Elliott tells him.
I stare at Elliott. No, I try to burn holes into him with my eyes. It doesn’t work and his reaction is the complete opposite of what I intended to provoke.
“How?” Owen’s interested tone sucks, like he wants in.
Elliot sounds like a motivational speaker. “I’ve been telling him all the things I remember about Tate. Which is a lot, actually.”
Owen swallows a mouthful of food. “Cool.”
No! Not cool! The furthest thing from cool.
“When have you been telling him?” Anna asks.
“Oh, uh, just here and there.” Elliott is clearly worried about breaking rule number three.
Everyone nods, understanding the obvious, except Anna. God love her innocence.
“Our assignments have crossed,” I explain to Anna because I feel bad that she’s out of the loop. Rules schmules.
When she gets it, her face brightens. “Oh.”
Liam ignores us and appears much too enthusiastic about Elliot’s zany notions. “I think it’s a great idea. I have things I can add, too. Maybe it’ll help.”
Even Anna has jumped on board the crazy-train.
“It won’t work,” Willow murmurs.
“Thank you!” At least one sane person still exists. Who knew it would be Willow?
“It might work,” Elliott says.
Willow bites into a snap pea. “You’re wasting your time.”
Liam is so hopeful he could spontaneous combust. “It’s worth a shot!”
“You’ve got nothing to lose,” Anna agrees.
“Except time,” I mumble, thinking about playing Sats. Since coding exacerbates the blistered holes eating through my chest and knee, this is all I have to wind down. I don’t need Elliott trying to fill my head with trivia during break, too.
“Don’t you even want to remember her?”
I keep quiet. Surely, no one wants my real answer.
“What have you told him so far?” Liam asks Elliot and it’s game on.
“Just some basics about what she likes, that kind of stuff,” he says.
“Did you feel anything?” Liam asks me.
I look up at the lanterns overhead. I hate this game.
When my eyes lower, Liam is giving me the dying-of-cancer pity expression. Then, displaying extra-odd behavior, he uses a friendly voice. “You found a way back to her after you died.”
Willow’s head jerks up as the others lean in closer. “Liam,” she hisses.
I move on to chewing my burger like Liam’s said nothing. To further my point that I couldn’t care less, I lick a glob of ketchup off my thumb.
“You blocked her when she got upset. You hung out there all the time.” Liam points his thumb at his chest. “I had to put up with you.”
I almost laugh when Anna sucks in a breath like Liam’s just shoplifted a bible.
Willow clears her throat.
Liam lowers his voice and leans further into the table. “Oops. Forget I said that.”
“You’re her Satellite?” Elliott says to Liam.
“Willow’s been there, too.” Liam ignores Willow’s angry disapproval and keeps talking. “Tate erased your memories by destroying all of the objects that tied the two of you together. She burned her clothes and all the notes you wrote her. Photos, ticket stubs, all kinds of things.”
“Liam, this is a bad idea,” Willow says and leaves the table.
I watch her walk away as Liam whispers, “Tate hammered her engagement ring to a pulp before chucking it into the river. Willow said Tate almost threw herself in after it.”
Elliott flinches. Good. Maybe he’ll put an end to this madness.
“She slit her wrist.”
When the words are out of Liam’s mouth, my scars ignite with heat. Instead of gauging Elliott’s reaction, I have to blink away a murky image. I bite the inside of my lip until it bleeds to keep my face from revealing any emotion. The iron taste makes the image clearer, which only intensifies the burning.
I can’t breathe.
My chair screeches across the floor and I’m standing and slinging my bag over my shoulder. “It’s not going to work.” I think I do a decent job of making my voice sound irritated instead of panicked.
It takes all my strength to walk out of the room instead of running. My teeth grit together to fight against the pain. The scars feel like they’re melting off my body. When I get into the lobby, out of sight, I bolt. I don’t even know where. It doesn’t matter.
The hallways get narrower until they may as well be pushing against me, but I don’t stop sprinting until I’m sure no one will find me. I slam my back against a wall and try to even my breathing. Whatever the nightmarish image of the murky water was, I hate it. Not only are my scars rebelling, my heart is as well. Thank God I’m already dead; otherwise, I’d surely be having a heart attack right now.
When the flames subdue to a bearable temperature, the tightening in my chest lessens and I stop gasping. I drop my bag and yank my shirt up. The blister that was almost black just an hour ago is now blood-red and hot.
I sink down the wall for the remainder of break and try not to think about anything but breathing.
I do my best to act normal back at Meggie’s and am able to brush Lawson off when he asks about my brawl with Rigby. Thankfully, the atmosphere stays placid into the evening, with only the sound of the television breaking up the time. I’m not sure how well I would be able to pay attention to anything aside from what happened to me and my scars during break.
Around eight o’clock, Lawson and I move from the living room to the kitchen while Brody heats up two plates of chicken from the fridge. He devours his while Meggie makes some kind of shredded sculpture with hers. When Brody is finished, Meggie dumps the ceramic plates, silverware and all, into the trash.
“Guess that’s one way to do dishes,” Lawson says, almost humored.
Meggie acts like she needs something to do. If she had salvaged the dishes, at least she could burn some time by washing them.
Brody and she have a minimally worded conversation about Brody’s plans to go back to work. Meggie lets him know, in a few more words, her feelings on the issue, despite Brody’s plea that he’s afraid to lose his contract on a resurfacing project with the highway department. He argues that “the company needs him.” Meggie’s argument is the same, and she feels that her need for him should win, hands down. Their conversation ends with Meggie accusing Brody of not caring about their dead kids, which puts her and me in a certain tiny, avocado prison for the night. At least Elliott isn’t here.
Cramped on the checkerboard floor, I think about this girl, Tate, and reach to my chest. Heat still radiates around the lesion. I close my eyes to put my scars, her, and everything else out of my head.
My calimeter finally buzzes after a day so bad I would have pre
ferred listening to Elliott. I’d take his stories over watching Meggie and Brody fight any day. The couple has been through enough already. The last thing they should be doing is turning on each other.
Back in my room, I decide to code—no, I need to code—so it’s wearily down the hall I go.
The bindings start to release my muscles as soon as I close my eyes. After just enough comfort, unwilling to go deeper, though my body could certainly benefit, I try to pull myself back from the forest before something bad can happen.
Instead, a strong force yanks me from my tree stand into my old bedroom. Every cell in me fights in rejection, but the effort is wasted because I’m paralyzed under the lead weight. This time the cold doesn’t even bother to make an appearance. Heat overwhelms me and I wail from the sensation of a branding iron scorching my chest in a circular motion.
The fire claims victory over my skin, climbing higher and higher, up my neck, to my ear.
“Please remember,” the flame whispers and delivers the greatest torment yet.
“Grant, I wasn’t sure if we’d be seeing you today.” Jonathan says when I’m on the field. When his eyes drop to my chest, I assure myself that he couldn’t possibly know about my scar.
Looking past Jonathan, the others are already paired off and working. “How long have they been here?”
“Just over an hour.”
Over an hour?
Play it cool, man, play it cool…
I’m grateful when Jonathan turns away from me to watch Trina and Reed. “I’ve been hoping to talk with you. I hope you don’t mind that I seize the moment while everyone is immersed in training.”
“Sure.” Crap.
“You have quite a skill with blocking. In my many years, I’ve never seen anyone able to close his mind the way you do. It is a talent, indeed. I have a question to ask and if you have any reservations, please say so.” He makes eye contact, waiting for an answer.
“OK,” I say, not knowing what he’s expecting.
“Would you be inclined to allow each of the Elites to block you today?”
