Elite: The Satellite Trilogy Part II

by Lee Davidson

  Willow tries to appear happy, but her voice lacks enthusiasm. “Hey girl, how’s the team?”

  “The same.” Trina shrinks further into her chair. “I just found out I’m a Legacy.”

  “Sweet! Another Elite opening!” flies from Owen’s mouth.

  Willow is apologetic when she turns back to Trina in full Momma mode. “I understand how you’re feeling and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Are you kidding? That’s great news.” Liam uses more enthusiasm than he’s had all month.

  Willow and Trina look at Liam likes he’s wearing nothing but pink underwear.

  “He’s kidding, right?” Trina asks Willow.

  Willow shakes her head. “I know it feels wicked rotten now, but it’s not that bad. Really,” she adds to Trina’s skepticism. “I felt just like you when I found out. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

  Trina sighs.

  “Who’s joining you?” Liam asks.

  “My brother.”

  Willow consoles her. “Your memories will come back.”

  “I hope so.”

  “They will.” Willow nods to drive her point home.

  “‘Sup?” Rigby asks, happy as Willow usually sounds, probably because he and Whitfield are linked together at their hands. He gauges the small space between my body and Trina’s. “Sorry about the other day, man. I overreacted. Whitfield explained everything.”

  Whitfield smiles at me and then makes a shh gesture. Seriously, why the secrets around here? Things would be a lot easier if we had the freedom to talk about our assignments. If I had said, “Hey Rig, Whitfield winked at me because she’s on an assignment connected to mine. So yes, we know each other,” I probably wouldn’t have gotten pummeled by the guy.

  Owen whispers the good news to Rigby about the Elite position, but Rigby is indifferent.

  Elliott joins our already crowded table and manages to squeeze a chair in beside Willow.

  “Tate was a book nut. She read all the time, anything she could get her hands on. She read to my brother, Fischer, every night. She read to you, too.”

  Willow cuts in when Elliott decides he needs oxygen. “This guy doesn’t give up, does he?”

  “It’s working,” Elliott counters.

  “I didn’t say it was working.” Did I? “Something’s happening, yes, but there’s no proof that my memories are coming back, or that your stories have anything to do with it.”

  “Tate used to spend hours reading to you,” Elliott continues.

  “Probably because the guy is illiterate,” Owen says just after he’s shoved a handful of Cheetos in his mouth.

  Elliott goes on. “You’d stay silent while she read until she’d finally say something like, Are you even paying attention? You’d nod, but could never tell her what the story was about. She read to you anyway because she liked the way you looked at her.” This last part seems hard for him to say.

  “How’d I look at her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rigby, knowing I’m screwing with Elliott, smiles.

  “Like I wanted to get some?”

  The elbow to my ribs reminds me that Trina is here. I lean down, grabbing my ribs, and whisper my apology to her, but she still disapproves. Glancing at Clara, I can see that she also disapproves, but her problem seems to stem from my exchange with Trina, not from my previous comment.

  Elliott ignores me and goes on. “I don’t know how you looked at her, I’m just passing along the story. So, moving on, you had really bad reactions to your cancer treatments. You were seriously disgusting.”

  Talk about knowing how to kill the mood. Elliott flattens it.

  “A few times when you were bowing down to the porcelain god, Tate read to you. Every time you’d come up for air while you were hugging the toilet, she’d stop and wipe your forehead. You’d always tell her to keep going so she’d read and read while you hurled and hurled. How she put up with the stench of you is beyond me.”

  One of my typical snide comments is lost because I’m trying too hard to ignore the burn.

  Elliott gets quieter. “She didn’t know where her strength came from. She also didn’t know if she could handle things getting worse for you. Turns out, she got the opportunity to find out.”

  Standing, I’m unable to say anything because my jaw is clenched tightly enough that my teeth might break. I sprint out of Benson figuring there’s no point trying to act normal anymore. I catch the elevator and am through my door minutes—though it feels like years—later.

  This, whatever this is, will not control me.

  IT WILL NOT CONTROL ME!

  I sit on the mat and the unrecognizable face in the mirror stares back at me. I close my eyes, not even sure if I’ll be able code in this state.

  I do. Easily.

  The pain that pulses through my body numbs to nothing, but I know the reprieve is only temporary so I’m braced when the forest passes the baton to my old bedroom ceiling. For the first time, I am able find my voice instead of just screaming while the lead weight pummels me.

  “What do you want from me?” My yell echoes as if my old bedroom was a steel box.

  “Come back to me,” the fire whispers, making my skin melt from my bones.

  “How?” I echo back.

  “Pleeeeease,” the fire begs.

  “Tell me how!”

  The agonizing temperature steals away my voice. When my scream finally comes, the noise bounces off the walls of the coding room.

  “Grant! Look at me!”

  I try to orient myself by uncurling from the fetal position, but the pain is overwhelming. Screams at eardrum-damaging volume flood through the mirrored room. Only when I see Willow’s lips moving do I realize they’re mine.

  “Grant!” her distant voice yells. “Calm down!”

  My voice silences, but my body convulses from the fire. “The scars,” I manage through my teeth.

  Somehow Willow gets me into a sitting position. I think my calimeter buzzes, but the buzzing stops before I can be sure. A minute later, Willow has my shirt off and is staring at my sweaty chest.

  “Oh my God. How long has it been like this?”

  “I…told…you…about…them,” I manage through my trembling.

  “Is the one on your knee the same?”

  I suck in a shaky breath and nod.

  She pushes up from her knee. “This is absurd.”

  When she disappears out of the room, I watch the empty doorway. Does she expect me to follow her? There’s no way I have the strength to get up right now.

  Letting my head fall, I gasp at the sight of the glowing ember that was once my scar.

  Willow returns and throws a T-shirt over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves. Her hand dives into her bag and reappears holding a child-sized necklace. She pushes the thin piece of gold that says #1 Daughter between our hands and entwines her fingers with mine. Her lips move and we’re plummeting to Earth.

  15. She’s forcing me to hang with the carnies tonight

  “Where are we?” My voice is as unsteady as my legs and my scars feel like they’re burning through my T-shirt and jeans.

  Looking around, the far corner by the dresser houses the only visible piece of carpet in the small bedroom. The rest of the floor is covered by piles of black clothing.

  Willow doesn’t answer me and stays focused on the bed.

  “Willow—”

  “Shh!” she hisses and then turns her attention back to the lump under the covers. “Step back a little. I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

  “What’s—”

  “Shhhhh!”

  When the lump shifts, Willow takes a defensive stance. Her bare arms are tense, defining her muscles.

  A mess of hair similar to Trina’s, but on a really bad day, emerges from the covers first. If I wasn’t expecting a person, I’d call an exterminator.

  When the girl’s face appears, I stumble back
wards. Willow’s gaze darts back and forth between the girl and me.

  “Willow! What are we doing here?” I demand.

  “Shhh!”

  I’ve about had it with the shushing.

  I try to find a memory, a real memory, but all I know of the girl is from my demented ghost visions and Elliott’s stories.

  “Why are we here?” I ask again while Tate stands and stretches. When she’s not melting into a vehicle or submerged in a tub of goo, she’s a beautiful sight, crazy hair and all. She’d be even hotter if she wasn’t wearing so much black.

  Willow sucks in air and whispers, “Unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  She finally answers with something other than a shush. “She’s smiling.”

  “And?”

  “She hasn’t smiled in a long time. I think it’s working.” Willow’s traveled all the way to Loonyville this time.

  “What’s working?”

  “You being here.”

  “That’s it folks, check her into the ward!” I sing. “Willow, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Really? How would you explain the sudden mood change?”

  “I don’t know, she had a good dream? She got a break from you for a few minutes? There could be a million reasons.”

  “It’s because you’re here.”

  I leap back before Tate walks through me, but she stops six inches from my face.

  “Grant,” Tate breathes. “You came back.”

  “Did she just say…” I break off, staying focused on her intense hazel eyes while mentally fighting the increasing pain of my scars. If my clothes haven’t burst into flames yet, they’re about to.

  “Yeah,” Willow answers, not noticing my agony because she’s beaming at Tate, who’s also beaming. It’s a collective beaming party for everyone but me. I’m burning into ash.

  A funny thing happens while my lesions are scorching. My world shifts. I don’t know anything about this girl who’s ripping me apart by my scars, but I suddenly don’t want to leave. No, it’s not that I don’t want to, more that I can’t. I’m damn near igniting into a fireball, but the pain doesn’t matter. As long as she’s smiling, I’ll willingly burn to nothing.

  “I knew you’d come back to me,” Tate whispers.

  Gritting my teeth doesn’t contain my scream this time and Willow notices me now. She’d have to be blind and deaf not to.

  Somewhere in the echo of my yell, I notice Tate’s fear. I want her to smile again; I’d give anything. To shut myself up, I bite through my tongue and swallow the heavy flow of blood.

  “Give me your hand!” Willow demands, now right at my side.

  “Can’t. Leave. Her,” I say through my teeth.

  Willow death-grips my wrist and says the command before I can yank free and we shoot into the sky, away from Tate.

  “Take me back!” I scream at Willow, wishing my scars would magically heal like my tongue.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Maybe. Probably. “Take me back!” My mind is wired like a crack addict. I have to get back to that girl.

  “No way! That could have destroyed you. I can’t believe I was so careless.” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I have to go back!”

  “I’m not taking you back! Ever! It was a mistake. I should have never listened to Liam.”

  The adrenaline pulsing through me makes me more agitated and aggressive. “No, it wasn’t! You said yourself she smiled because I was there. I need to go back to her.” I must get back to her.

  “No. Drop it!”

  “I can help you. Maybe another visit would make her even better,” I say, hoping Willow bites.

  She doesn’t. “Take your shirt off.”

  “What is it with everyone trying to get me naked lately?” I try to joke, but can’t keep the pain out of my voice.

  When my shirt is over my head, Willow claps her hand over her mouth.

  Turns out, I was right about my flesh igniting. Ash flakes to the floor when I push my finger into the quarter-inch-deep, blackened hole. The shape is the same, resembling a teardrop, except three times bigger. My jeans have a two inch charred hole at the knee and there’s no need to examine the area. I know it’s the same; they’re always the same.

  Willow slowly lowers her hand from her mouth and tears pool in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. What have I done?” Her hand resumes its position over her mouth, but the attempt to conceal her shock doesn’t matter. Her wide eyes say everything she doesn’t.

  “I’m fine,” I insist in the kitchen where Willow is banging through the cabinets for God knows what.

  “You’re not fine.” Her eyes drop to my chest, but my new shirt hides the evidence. “Those wounds are not fine.”

  My voice is hard. “I have to go back.”

  “There’s no way in flaming Hades I’m taking you back! It was a mistake. A horrible mistake.”

  “Dammit, Willow, I said I’m fine!” Furious now, I can only think about getting back to that girl. I don’t know why, but I have to be with her. Every cell in my body is screaming so.

  “You’re not fine! Now go!” She points her finger down to the floor. “You need to get back to your Tragedy.”

  It kills me that she’s right. Meggie’s been unattended for who knows how long. I don’t even remember when my calimeter went off, but surely well over an hour has passed. “This isn’t over.” I grab the heart-shaped locket and say the command that drops me through the floor.

  Thankfully, I haven’t missed anything that would make Lawson lay into me again, but the sky is already darkening. In Meggie’s car, still parked in the cemetery lot, her sniffles are the only noise. I try to read, but my mind has trouble staying focused on the words because Tate’s face is swirling around in my head. Amazing what a day can change; I’m actually excited about Elliott’s visit later. The reason for him dropping by is something I’m not so thrilled about, though.

  Meggie turns the ignition over and the engine seems to be roaring in the still night. The ride home takes less than ten minutes and that’s only because we get stuck at three red lights.

  I follow Meggie through the carport door and into the kitchen. “Honey, I’m home,” I say harshly, unhappy about the situation we’re walking into.

  Brody picks up the third of five shot glasses lined up on the counter, sucks the amber liquid down, and moves on to the fourth.

  Behind him, Lawson can barely stand. He manages to say, “Haze,” but the filter barely ripples around him and Brody. When the connection is broken, Brody, who’s concentrating much too hard, starts refilling the mismatched shot glasses. At least half of what he pours isn’t caught by the glasses. No worries, though, because he proceeds to slurp up the spillage from the countertop like a dog.

  Meggie is about as joyful I am when Brody resumes pouring, making the liquid level flush with the top of the fifth shot glass.

  “Brody!”

  Brody’s eyes raise and amber liquid pours onto the counter. “Hey, baby.”

  Meggie’s crying now. “Stop it!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. You want one, too?”

  Meggie crosses around the tiny island and snatches the bottle from him.

  “Careful, you’re spilling it,” Brody says in a whisper, forcefully taking the bottle back and cradling it like a baby.

  Amber liquid sloshes onto Brody’s sleeve when Meggie yanks the bottle away again. “Brody, you have to stop this!”

  “Shhhh.” Spit flies around his finger. “You’re going to wake up the kids.”

  Meggie is full-blown bawling now. “The kids are dead!” She needs to be blocked, but knowing what’s coming, I’m afraid to look away from Brody, even for two seconds.

  Brody’s glazed eyes squint and he points at Meggie. “Don’t talk about my kids like that! They’re not dead! Do you hear me?”

  Meggie trades the bottle for the cordless
phone on the counter. Her eyes dart between the numbers and Brody while she dials. Meanwhile, Brody appears to have forgotten where he is.

  “I need you!” Meggie hisses into the phone. “Brody’s bad. Hurry!”

  Brody steals the phone away. “Hello? Hello? No one’s there baby,” he says calmly to Meggie before—BAM!—pieces of the phone rain down from the force of hitting the far wall in the kitchen.

  Lawson’s blocking again while Brody chooses personality number seventeen. He plucks the bottle from the counter and leaves a trail of alcohol when he stumbles toward Meggie.

  “Haze,” I say.

  Run, run, run…

  The current his me. “Block!”

  Meggie turns and runs toward the bedroom. Brody chases after her with Lawson and me following behind them both.

  “Do something!” I yell to Lawson.

  “I’m trying!”

  Brody doesn’t even flinch when Lawson completes another block. Meggie moves faster because Brody is stumbling and she manages to lock herself in the bedroom. Brody slams on the door, screaming to be let in. I stay on the other side with Meggie, blocking her so she will calm down. When Brody finally stops the banging, the house is silent. After five uneasy minutes of monitoring Meggie, I walk into the kitchen and am immediately disgusted at the sight of Brody opening another bottle.

  “You need to stop him,” I demand to Lawson.

  Lawson, trembling in the corner, appears to be lacking the energy to muster another block.

  As Brody fills a shot glass, I hear the door click open. Lawson raises his head and I run out of the kitchen.

  I’m in the middle of blocking Meggie so she’ll go back into the bedroom when she runs right through me and makes me lose my concentration.

  “You have to stop!” she screams at Brody. “Our kids are dead and no amount of alcohol will bring them back!”

  Brody raises his eyes from the counter. “What did you say about my kids?”

  “Our kids, Brody! Ours! They’re dead! They’re all dead!” She sobs and wipes snot away with the back of her free hand.

  His silence makes me edgy. Meggie sniffs twice and turns away from him, but Brody already has his pitching arm drawn back, loaded with the heavy, brown bottle.