Open Minds

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  Seamus had explained the No Touching Rule shortly after he changed—how readers shared feelings when they touched. That was all the information I got before my brother had turned red and bolted from the room, but it explained why everyone became bizarre about their personal space after they changed and why air-kissing was as far as things went in public.

  Not that I knew much about what happened in private.

  I didn’t hazard a look back until our ragtag group had rounded the corner. Shark Boy and his friend seemed to have given up, probably waiting for a time when fewer witnesses would be privy to their nasty thoughts. My heart didn’t stop pounding until I was safely in my seat in biology.

  I managed to muddle through the rest of my morning classes. The soaring humidity of the Chicago New Metro suburbs was like an extinct rainforest simulation, and my jeans were sticking to my legs.

  All right, wearing jeans in August—that was my fault.

  After lunch, I had high hopes for Algebra II. I was Mr. Barkley’s top student in freshman Algebra I, and I managed to pass Geometry. Being all written work, it leveled the playing field.

  I strode into class right before the bell and smiled at Mr. Barkley as I passed his desk. His unexpected smile in return distracted me, and I stumbled over a backpack, left like a land mine halfway down the center aisle. Then three things happened in rapid succession: I fell forward, I grabbed the edge of a desk to catch myself, and I pivoted down into Simon Zagan’s lap.

  Falling and catching myself: fine. Landing on Simon Zagan: a tragic catastrophe.

  Our arms tangled, all sticky from the heat. He jerked back, dumping me off his lap.

  “Watch it, zero!”

  I scrambled to avoid face-planting on the floor, but my backpack spewed its contents under occupied chairs on either side. I was glad no one could hear the elaborate profanities coursing through my mind. The nearby students stared as though I had gone demens and leaned away as I retrieved the items under their seats.

  As if I might jump them next.

  When I had finally gathered my scribepads and stylus, my thankfully intact e-slate, and Mr. Chance’s battered paper book, I slung my gaping, empty backpack over my free shoulder.

  I paused to shoot a daggered glare at Simon.

  Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have been so bold. With his black, arrow-straight hair and dark, intense eyes, Simon seemed slightly dangerous. He never got in any real trouble that I knew of, but he hung out with the kids voted least likely to graduate.

  Unfortunately for Simon, I had reached my quota of self-righteous pravers for the day. So I glared at him, and he glared back like he was trying to drill into my head. Then the strangest look came over him, as if he was puzzled by something I said, although I had been successful in biting my tongue and not saying anything at all.

  What was his problem?

  Sure, I broke the No Touching Rule, but I was a zero. My accidental encounter with Simon shouldn’t have affected him at all. Unless he was like Shark Boy and liked to prey on girls who hadn’t changed. I turned my glare frosty. Simon slouched in his seat and looked away, which was fortunate for him. I took the seat behind him and hoped he felt the chill of my disgust.

  A breathless quiet settled in as we tackled the worksheet Mr. Barkley cast to our scribepads. I straightened out the mess of my stuff and buried myself in sines and cosines.

  Mr. Barkley walked between the rows and tapped the tip of his finger to the back of each student’s hand. A few of the rich kids were wearing Second Skin, and Mr. Barkley waited patiently while they tugged off the sheer, elbow-high gloves. The touch-check was new, and it seemed to violate the No Touching Rule. I would have to scrit Seamus to get his true thoughts on that.

  When Mr. Barkley reached me, I smiled up at him. His blue-gray eyes matched his crisp blue shirt, and the wintery stripe in his black hair had grown wider since freshman year. Of course, he would have to check my answers the old-fashioned way.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you in my class again, Ms. Moore.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried over the scratching of styli and creaking of chairs. “How are you doing?”

  “Great. Thanks.” The silence closed back in, punctuated only by Mr. Barkley’s footfalls toward the next student.

  After math, my legs twitched with the need to run and escape the small minds of heavenly wrath. I had a free period next, so I retrieved my gym bag and changed in the locker room.

  The long legs I inherited from my dad flew me down the street, past suburban houses sticking up like skinny fingers and carefully spaced apart to avoid hearing the neighbors’ thoughts. I dodged small yippy dogs and sprinklers trying to revive the rings of dead grass that buffered each Gurnee house from the next. The heat lay like a wet blanket on everything, and the late-blooming day lilies bent under its weight. Sweat coated every inch of my skin and seeped a sense of normal into me.

  If I had been born ninety years ago, I would have felt this way every day. Back then, it was the first readers who were different and paid the price for it. Grandma O’Donnell’s stories about the camps where the government held her dad and the other early readers still gave me the creeps.

  Only later did they find the pharmaceutical cocktail that had been brewing in the world’s drinking water supply. The mixture of drugs was everywhere, around the world, and by the time anyone understood what was happening, it had already started to activate the part of people’s brains that sensed thought waves. And it was too late to stop it.

  Even if I never changed, at least I wasn’t destined for an internment camp simply for being a zero. The world had become more civilized since the experiments on those first reader kids. I would simply struggle along, one step above the demens on the social ladder. I rounded the corner to school, trying to outrun my fate. Even my shoes pounded it out.

  Ze-ro. Ze-ro. Ze-ro.

  I seriously needed mental help. Maybe I could join one of those positive-thinking cults that were trying to bring peace to the world by thinking good thoughts. That idea made me laugh so hard, I coughed and gasped for air.

  They wouldn’t want a zero either.

  After a quick shower and an overly long band rehearsal, I hurried out to catch the late bus. Just before I stepped aboard, its darkened windows caught my eye. I couldn’t tell who was on board without actually getting on, and the driver wasn’t looking any friendlier than the one this morning.

  I turned and strode down the sidewalk, opting to walk home in the afternoon heat.

  My mom didn’t have many friends.

  Sarah Moore wasn’t quite a heremita, those readers who shut themselves away in their bedrooms to hide from other people’s thoughts. But she came close. She kept up the appearance of normal by baking cookies for PTA functions she never attended, but mostly she stayed home and cleaned.

  The sour smell of silver polish wafted from the sink where she attacked an elaborate tea service. With Seamus off at West Point on scholarship and Grandma O’Donnell passing away over the summer, Mom’s cleaning had taken on shades of OCD. She followed me around, scrubbing things and keeping an eye on me, like I was a ticking bomb that would explode at any moment.

  I tried to ignore her while I ground through my Latin homework at the kitchen table.

  Normally, I encouraged the hands-off approach appropriate for unidentified explosive devices. It was better than the alternative, which might include talking about my dwindling number of friends. But today, her noiseless polishing only echoed the silence at school.

  The quiet made my skin itch, and the words tumbled out. “So, today sucked at school.”

  She gave a start. I couldn’t read her mind, but her clenched jaw and the abused silver radiated her disappointment. She set down the tortured sugar spoon and leaned against the counter with crossed arms. Her hair, auburn and gray, flew about in wisps.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” The incidents with Simon Zagan and Shark Boy were better left unsa
id. “I just decided I’m going to walk this year. And I’ll need that hearing aid after all.”

  She nodded slowly, as if moving too quickly would set the bomb off.

  “I don’t suppose the hearing aid comes in the color invisible.” I meant it as a joke, but her face fell a tiny amount. I was turning out to be a zero, just like her mom.

  “I’m sure I can find one that won’t be…” She struggled for the right word. “…obtrusive.”

  “There’s no hiding the fact that I need help, Mom.” It came out snippier than I meant. “But, yeah, something that isn’t neon orange with a giant zero stamped on the side would be good.”

  She grimaced at the word zero and opened her mouth, but the front door creaked open and interrupted her. My dad came up the stairs to the kitchen, all spit and polish in his Navy dress uniform. Coming home this early wasn’t a good sign. It usually meant deployment.

  He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Hello, baby girl.” I grimaced and pushed him away, even less fond of that nickname today. His flash of grin extinguished when he kissed my mom. They must have exchanged feelings, and Dad couldn’t hide his disappointment like Mom could.

  “So, you’re home early,” I said, hoping to cut off any Kira-related questions they might be thinking up. “Going on another secret mission?”

  My dad worked for the Office of Naval Intelligence. When we were kids, Dad told us he was a spy, which was quite the joke. Politicians exchanged all key information at the annual Trust Conferences, and spying was a hold-over romantic notion that hadn’t quite died out. Dad probably coddled some high-ranking officials. Mom knew what he did, and my brother found out once he changed, but I still wasn’t sure where the sims ended and the truth began. Whatever he was doing, he would disappear for months at a time.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Someone has to stop bad guys.” Merriment shone in his eyes, but he held my mom’s gaze a little too long. I knew they couldn’t help reading each other, but it was not mesh of them to mindtalk in front of me. Especially when I was likely the topic of conversation.

  He turned back to me. “I’m leaving in the morning, probably be gone for a month or so.”

  I searched for an exit strategy. Doing homework in my bedroom suddenly became very attractive. “Okay, well, send us a postcard.” I pushed back my chair.

  My jab didn’t distract him. “So, hard day at school today?” He stared at me in that weird way he often did, as if he could get my brain to change by the force of his will. I only wished that were true. As if my day wasn’t bad enough, his stare was giving me a headache.

  “Yeah.” I scooped up my e-slate and stylus. “Um, I think I’ll go study in my room.”

  Before I reached the stairs, my mom blurted out, “Kira, wait! Would you like to go with me, to look at the options?” She meant the hearing aid.

  “No, you go ahead, Mom. You’ll find something totally mesh.” I managed a weak smile, despite my heart sinking like the Titanic, and sprinted up the two levels to my room.

  I dropped onto the pink comforter draped over my bed and willed the world to disappear. It didn’t obey, and I laughed out loud. As if I could do anything so dramatic with my mind.

  I fished my phone out of my pocket to scrit Seamus. He was probably doing drills or cleaning guns or whatever they do at a military school before dinner.

  Can u touch w⁄o sharing feelings?

  He would scrit me back when he got a chance. I studied the afternoon light painting shadows on the walls. Demens plush creatures jammed the shelves on my bookcase, most of them won at carnivals with Raf. Trina gazed at me from a rose-colored glass frame. The picture faded and was replaced by another friend from the past, for whom I was no longer present. My room was a childish palace of pink fluffy dreams, filled with wishful thinking and childhood relics.

  A serious overhaul was needed.

  Ode to Joy sang from my phone. Seamus. The rapid call-back wasn’t a good sign.

  “Hey.” I propped myself up. “You didn’t have to call. It’s not a national emergency.”

  “My little sister scrit me about touching?” His voice rumbled a few notes lower than when he left, only two weeks ago. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

  Warmth filled me at hearing his concern. “I just had a question.”

  “Is someone bothering you?” I imagined him hovering over the phone, ready to take down whoever might mess with his kid sister. But there was nothing Seamus could do from West Point.

  I needed to reel him back in. “Cool it, action hero. It was something I saw in my algebra class.” He huffed out a breath. “My teacher did a touch-check, only a finger touch. What’s that all about? You said it was like sharing feelings.”

  “Is that all?” He paused. “Touching isn’t always like that. Your teacher was only checking to see if they understood the lesson.”

  “Well, I got that, Sherlock,” I said. “But why is it different than, say, lip-locking with the hot girlfriend you’re keeping there?”

  “What?” he asked. “I don’t have a girlfriend here!”

  “Matter of time.”

  “Can we stick to talking about you?”

  “If we have to. You’re much more interesting.”

  His snort only reminded me how much I missed him. “A quick touch is just a little more… complete than reading thoughts. Your teacher would sense if they fully understood the problem.”

  “So, if you touch for longer, then what happens?”

  He paused. “Can’t you talk to Mom about this?”

  “Did you really ask that?”

  “All right.” His voice hushed. “I’m only saying this once, so don’t ask me to repeat it.”

  I sat up and pressed the phone hard against my ear. “Okay.”

  “When you touch for longer, you feel what they feel, like you’re joined together into one person. You can explore their emotions. If they like what you’re doing, it can be very… intimate. If they don’t like it, well, you feel that too.”

  I waited for more, but it wasn’t coming. “Is that it?”

  “What? Yes, that’s it! You’ll understand better when you change.”

  I gave a short laugh. “Yeah, well, no change, still strange.”

  “It could still happen.”

  “Sure.” The silence hung on the line and closed in on my throat. “Hey, I don’t want to keep you from shooting Bambi, or whatever you’re doing for meals there…”

  “Kira.” I barely heard him. “Some guys like to take advantage of girls, before they change. Before the effect of touching protects them. You know that, right?”

  I swallowed and felt the ghost of Shark Boy’s hand on my arm. “Yeah, I know.”

  “So if anyone bothers you, call me right away,” he said. “I want to make them regret it.”

  “I can take care of myself, too, you know.” But my voice was small.

  “I know. Make sure you do.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Moore.” He couldn’t see my mock salute, but it still earned a laugh.

  “I have to go to mess,” he said. “Scrit me tomorrow. Let me know you’re all right.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Bye.” I clicked off the phone. Seamus wanted to pound anyone who might hurt me, but the truth was I didn’t have a big brother lurking the hallways to protect me. And I couldn’t count on Raf being there when I happened to need help. I had to take care of myself.

  I tossed the phone on my bed and strode over to my shelves. Anything pink or remotely fluffy was coming down. The few pictures of me and Seamus could stay, along with the ones of my mom and dad. One greenish stuffed monster that Raf had won for me this past summer deserved a spot in between the frames, but the rest had to go.

  Time to toughen up.

  I practiced my tough-girl skills at school the next day.

  I glared at anyone who crossed my path and refused to cower on the sides of the hallways. If Shark Boy thought he would get a free feel, I was determined to leave marks on him for tryi
ng. But he never showed. In fact, no one noticed but Raf. His wrinkled looks of concern hindered my scrappy new attitude, so I ditched the crowded lunchroom to run.

  The blistering noontime sun burnt toughness into me. I flew through the side streets, an invisible ninja warrior in training. There was barely enough time for a shower before class, so lunch was a small, scarfed-down apple. I hurried into algebra and remembered just in time to check for land mines in the aisle.

  Preoccupied with skirting backpacks, I didn’t notice Simon until I got close. His dark eyes locked on me like search beams and he frowned. I scowled right back and cast Don’t mess with me! body signals. Simon smirked when I passed him, but I was too busy being hostile to care.

  Without the hearing aid, I was completely lost in all my classes, even math. Raf offered to bring his notes to the chem lab during our free period to keep me from getting too far behind. It was a good place to spread out, and people seldom studied there. Which means no one will see him hanging out with me. That thought scratched at the edge of my mind, but I pushed it away.

  I arrived first and dropped my backpack onto the black stone benchtop. The lab smelled of acid experiments gone wrong, but had the benefit of plenty of room. Raf sauntered in with one of his Pekingese girlfriends on his tail. Her name was Jessica, or possibly Ashley, and she wore her skirt tight and her hair loose. Her Second Skin gloves had sparkle dust on them, and she swung her arm close to his, as if hoping he might suddenly decide to hold her hand.

  “Hey, Kira.” Raf tossed his backpack on the benchtop next to mine. “You know Taylor?”

  Okay, Taylor. Whatever. “Hi.” It sounded reasonably polite.

  She paused, as if she had forgotten there was a cripple in the room. “Oh, right. Hi.”