HEAR

by Robin Epstein

  I purse my lips. That can’t be right.

  “Henley’s was modeled on the one at Stanford, the SRI,” Dan confirms with a nod. “It was established just after World War Two. There was one at Princeton too, which the dean of their school of engineering set up in the nineteen seventies. Duke, UVA, University of Edinburgh, University of Adelaide—they all have them.”

  I don’t know what to say to this except: “Still not buying it.”

  “ You’ve heard of that thing called Google, right?” Mara says, all snark. “It’s all there. Check it.”

  You better believe I’m going to check it, chica.

  “ You don’t need to,” Dan says. “I can quote the website. The HEAR lab was established to, quote, ‘pursue rigorous scientific study of the interaction of human consciousness with physical devices, systems, and processes common to contemporary engineering practice,’ unquote.”

  “These labs were a big deal in the Cold War, too,” Alex adds. “When the US government discovered the Soviets were spending a lot of money on ‘psychotronic’ research, they started investing heavily in it to keep up. It was like a psychic Space Race.”

  My eyes flash to Mara and Dan, then back to Alex. I’m baffled by these three, yes; but mostly I’m fed up. “ESP. Mind reading. Telepathy. I’m sorry, but this whole thing just seems like a joke to me.” I almost feel like I should be looking around for the hidden cameras our waitress couldn’t find. “So what’s my favorite color?”

  “Blue,” Mara and Dan say together.

  I point to my blue shirt. “Clever.” I refuse to acknowledge that they also happen to be right.

  “It’s not about guessing favorite colors,” Mara says. “That’s stupid and reductionist. It’s about having insight into things that occur at times and places that are otherwise inaccessible to you. It’s about harnessing the power of the brain and nurturing the sixth sense.”

  At this point, I figure I have nothing to lose by playing along. “Uh-huh. And you all think you have brains that can be ‘harnessed’?”

  “Maybe a little demonstration will help?” Alex reaches across the table and takes my hand. His skin is soft, but his grip is tight.

  “Excuse me?” I say. But I don’t pull away.

  “ You’d be impressed if I could tell you what you’re thinking right now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, feeling a prickle of heat run through me. “Go for it.”

  He stares at me, straight in the eyes, unblinking, as if he’s trying to hypnotize me. “ You’re thinking,” he says. “ You’re thinking . . .” He pauses. “ You’re thinking we’re all freaking crazy.”

  I laugh, and so does he. Mara and Dan go back to their plates. But it still feels like the joke is on me; I don’t know what to make of any of this. What I do know, however, is that if I want to fit in with this group—and my future does seem to depend on spending my summer with them—I’m going to have to make some sort of gesture or peace offering. But honestly, I’d also like to show the HEARs that I’m more than the loser niece of my great-uncle.

  “So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “what are you all up to after dinner?”

  “Nothing,” replies Dan.

  “ You have something in mind, Kass?” Alex asks.

  I nod. “Anyone interested in going to Dunning Street with me?” To those in the know, “The Street” is the heart of campus social life; it’s where all the Concord Clubs are located. Translation: it’s where all the cool kids hang out. In the forty-six hours between learning I’d be going to Henley and arriving on campus, I did my research. Like I said, detail-oriented.

  No one answers for a moment.

  “ You’re just planning to walk around Dunning Street?” Mara asks.

  I shake my head. “I was thinking we’d go to a party at the Hounskull Club.”

  “ You can’t just walk into a Concord Club,” she scoffs. “A member has to invite you.”

  She’s not wrong. Membership and its privileges are taken very seriously here. From what my parents told me, becoming a member of one of the clubs is pretty much a necessity. They’re not just the places where you eat and party; they give you an identity for your college years and beyond. Each of the twelve clubs has its own unique personality, a brand. Century is for the blue-blooded elites, McManus is for student-government types, Parker is the land of athletes and stoners, and so on. Even all these years later, when Mom and Dad meet fellow alums, they’ll ask, “Where did you take your meals?” It’s the coded Henley way of asking what the person’s all about and what he or she stands for.

  “I can get us in,” I say.

  They nakedly scrutinize me.

  Mara gives a half smile. “Well if Kass thinks she can get us into a party at one of the famous Henley Concord Clubs tonight, I’d be very happy to watch her try.”

  “I don’t have any other plans,” says Dan. “I’m in.”

  “We should try to find Pankaj,” Alex says with an eager smile. “He’s not going to want to miss this.”

  I smile back at him, hoping I don’t wind up looking like an idiot in front of the final HEAR. It’s too late for a first impression as far as the rest of them go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Hounskull Club—a white Tudor with dark wood accents—sits just off Dunning Street at the edge of campus. The block is packed with the college kids who’ve hung around for the summer, and they’re carousing, laughing, and drinking beer out of their Henley Nalgenes.

  When we left the restaurant, Dan said he had an idea where he might find Pankaj, and before any of us could stop him, he set off at a jog. “See you in front of Hounskull in ten,” he called back to us.

  Now it’s just Mara, Alex, and me. Mara looks a little nervous, which suits me just fine. She opens her mouth as we approach, and I feel like she’s about to chicken out, but before she can get a word out, we hear Dan’s voice.

  “Hey!” he calls to us from across the street. “Found him in the library.”

  He hurries toward us, accompanied by a boy with a leaner build. The boy’s shoulders roll forward with the movement of his legs, but there’s almost no up-and-down motion. His walk is a glide, leopard-like. He pushes his longish floppy black hair back with his right hand; in his left he carries a giant paper cup from Small World Coffee.

  “Coffee, Pankaj? You’re drinking coffee at night?” Alex asks.

  “A rocket needs fuel, my friend.”

  The response makes me snort, which attracts the rocket’s attention.

  “Hi,” I say, mortified. “I’m Kass.”

  “Is it true you’re Black’s niece?” Pankaj asks.

  I nod. “Great-niece.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen,” he says with a wry smile.

  “She seems pretty great to me,” Alex says, then turns to me. “Okay, Kass, we’re all in your hands now. So let’s see if you can work some magic here.”

  There’s a beefy-looking bouncer standing at the front door, holding a clipboard. He’s in a bright-white polo shirt and jeans. He’s probably twenty or twenty-one: a wrestler, or he should be.

  “Hi!” I say, trying to establish eye contact. I have as much luck with him as I’ve been having with Dan.

  “Hi,” he replies flatly, not looking up from his clipboard. “IDs?”

  “ You know what? We don’t have them.” I keep smiling and he finally lifts his head. I motion for the HEARs to enter.

  “Stop,” he says. “Unless you can get a member to vouch for you, I can’t let your group in.”

  Playing my next card is a desperate move, but trying to get five people in limits my options. I have to do it. “My parents are Hounskull alums,” I tell him.

  The bouncer grins. “Ah,” he replies. “So you’re a legacy. And you expect because your folks give a lot of money to this institution that you shoul
d have special privileges?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” It is exactly what I’m saying.

  The guard moves his right arm across the doorjamb.

  “Tell you what. I’ll let you in, but not your friends.” He’s clearly enjoying his game. “That’s the best I can do for you, sweetheart.”

  I turn, dignity drooping. “Come on, guys. Let’s get out of here.”

  Alex claps me on the shoulder as we trudge away from the door. “If it’s any consolation, it felt like you were close there at the beginning.”

  Pankaj laughs. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  For some reason—maybe it’s because he’s so smug—I want to impress this kid even more than the others. “Oh, it’s not over,” I mutter.

  I direct them to the right, out of the bouncer’s sight line, and scan the building’s facade. I remember this place from when Mom and Dad brought me here as a kid. I also recall that in the back there’s a wraparound porch on the second floor. I slid down one of its support beams when my parents were deep in conversation with some of their old friends. (Mom was pissed, but Dad looked impressed despite himself.) If I could get down the beam at age five, I’m sure I could scale it tonight if necessary. We’ll call that plan B . . .

  Fortunately, I spot a side door on the ground floor. Bingo, plan A. “And we’re in,” I say, pointing to the pin-and-tumbler lock.

  Dan hurries to the door. He tries twisting the knob but it won’t budge. “Denied.”

  “Huh. You sure it won’t open?” I can’t help but smile as I fish my new keys out of my pocket. I almost feel guilty. Usually I don’t have such cool tools at my disposal, but from a certain perspective (mine), it’s criminal not to use a lock pick that was specifically given to me as my welcome-to-Henley gift.

  I slide Uncle Brian’s tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and apply slight pressure before inserting the curly pick—“the Bogota rake”—at the top. I keep twisting until I feel I’ve gotten all the lock’s pins into their gates. Within seconds, I own it. I swing the door open in front of me then turn back around to the others.

  “And we’re in,” I repeat, holding my hand out so that they can walk in ahead of me. Mara gives me a stunned look as she passes through the door.

  “Sometimes doorknobs can be tricky,” I say.

  Dan’s normally emotionless face registers something like appreciation. Or at least surprise. “That was really nice work, Kass. How’d you do it?”

  “Let’s just say I have a way with hardware,” I reply with a smile.

  He doesn’t return it, but Alex does. Pankaj just rolls his eyes.

  We’ve entered through the basement behind the club’s taproom. There’s a set of stairs on the other side of the hall, and directly above us we can feel the vibrations of thumping bass and pounding feet.

  “Now that seems like a pretty useful skill,” Alex says to me. “It’s no juggling produce, but it is a decent party trick.”

  I shrug. “No big deal. I do that kind of stuff all the time.”

  “Really?” says Pankaj with a snicker. “ You really pick locks all the time? Why do I doubt that?”

  I frown at him. Clearly I haven’t made the best first impression with this HEAR either. But whatever, it’s his problem now. I got us in. “Um, because you know nothing about me?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  It’s dark and crowded on the dance floor. There’s a staircase at the far end. I decide to ignore him and take charge, leading the group up two flights of stairs, to a room with a pool table and a big bay window at the back. To our luck and surprise, it’s deserted.

  “Let’s play,” Alex challenges Pankaj, who nods.

  Mara, Dan, and I sit on the maroon leather window bench. Pankaj sets the balls on the table while Alex grabs two pool sticks from the wall rack. He hands one to Pankaj.

  “ You break,” Pankaj says.

  Alex chalks his stick, his eyes on me until he lines up with the cue ball. The break sends balls flying around the table.

  “Okay, Kass,” Pankaj says, scoping out his first shot. “So enlighten us. What’s your deal? Why are you here?”

  His accusatory tone once again puts me on the defensive. My instinct is to say little and reveal less. But if I’m going to make it through this summer program, if I am going to earn that gold card, I remind myself that I need to fit in. Or at least get along with these people. Getting them through that locked door was easy; talking about myself is much harder. I take a deep breath and make the decision to tell the truth.

  “Right. So really, it all started a year ago. There was this girl in my class who was having a really rough time of it.”

  “Was her name Kass?” Pankaj asks dryly.

  I scowl. “Do you want me to tell this story? Because I really don’t have to.”

  His eyes remain on the pool table. He lines up for a shot and sinks a solid. “Sorry, sorry. Proceed.”

  “So the girl’s home situation was a mess. And this clique of girls—one in particular—started making her life hell at school too. They tortured her, called her names, never let her eat in peace in the cafeteria, and followed her into the bathroom to taunt her. Typical bullying crap, and she couldn’t defend herself. Once I noticed it, it started driving me crazy. So I decided to make it stop. I suggested to the clique’s ‘queen’ that if she didn’t knock it off, there would be consequences.”

  Alex takes his shot, sinking the purple striped ball. “I’m guessing you didn’t just sit this girl down and say that to her?”

  I shake my head. “I gave her the message by removing her birth-control pills from her locker. And I left a note saying she was on notice. If she didn’t stop screwing with other people, her life would become uncomfortable in the way she most feared. The bullying stopped that day.”

  “ You broke into her locker,” Mara says, with what might be a hint of admiration.

  “ Yeah, that wasn’t tough. School lockers are a joke. But don’t worry. I returned the pills. To her boyfriend’s locker.”

  Pankaj keeps staring at me. “So that was it? That’s all you did?”

  I can’t help but smile as I avert my eyes. “No.”

  Alex misses his shot. He shakes his head then leans against his stick. “So, what else did you do, you little scamp?”

  “There was a guy at my school who put up this ‘slut-shaming’ site. It was totally disgusting. A freshman girl tried to kill herself after her picture was posted.” I find myself twisting my ring as I tell these strangers the story, wondering what they’ll think. But this is who I am, and this is what I do, and if they don’t like it, we don’t have to be friends. “ You’d think that a suicide attempt might be enough to trouble this douchebag’s conscience. But he got off on it. He even wrote this pervy manifesto saying . . . Never mind, I won’t waste my breath repeating his nonsense. Anyway, I decided to do something to teach him a lesson in humanity.”

  Alex and Pankaj straighten. I now have the entire group’s attention.

  “Once I figured out who the guy was, I snuck into his house and swapped out the hard drive from his laptop. I left him with virtually zero functionality or memory. My only regret is that I didn’t hijack the laptop’s camera to film his reaction, because I programmed a message to pop up about a minute after the computer booted.”

  “What’d it say?” This from Dan. His eyes are glued to mine.

  “That unless the site disappeared, the police would receive his drive, and he’d be arrested and charged with child pornography. I might have additionally suggested he research how such sex offenders are treated by other inmates in prison. The results are pretty chilling. The site went down that day.”

  “I would have taken the hard drive to the police anyway,” Mara says. “Or at least mailed it anonymously to make him pay for his crimes.
”

  I nodded. “I thought about that. But if the police had the pictures, they’d look at them first, and then they’d call the girls in with their parents. That would have added two extra layers of humiliation. It would have given that asshole a kind of victory.”

  Her eyes linger on mine for an instant. “That’s really smart.” She nods.

  “So what’d you do with the drive?” Pankaj asks. “Do you still have it?”

  I shake my head. “I smashed it to pieces. I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to take a hammer to that thing.”

  Alex turns back to the game. “So you’re a vigilante superhero, huh?”

  “To whom much is given, much is expected,” Dan says, still staring at me.

  “Otherwise known as bored rich girl syndrome,” Pankaj grumbles under his breath, chalking his stick.

  My head jerks in his direction. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, come on.” Pankaj waits for Alex to finish, then leans over the table. “ You’re going to tell me your family’s not wealthy?”

  My stomach knots; this is not about my family’s money. “I mean, yeah. But both my parents work.” I say this as if it excuses our affluence. The truth is my dad runs a hedge fund, and my mom has a biotech start-up. The realer truth is that just before the US economy went down the toilet in 2008, my dad shorted the market. He bought and dumped stock, so when everyone else lost their shirts—not to mention in many cases their jobs and homes—he made close to a hundred million dollars.

  “What does it matter if her family’s rich?” Dan asks Pankaj.

  “Because all this ‘defending the powerless’ bull is being done out of a sense of liberal guilt. Out of paternalism.” He glances back at me. “Excuse me, maternalism. It’s about her own stuff. That’s always the way it is with people ‘to whom much is given.’ We all know the reason Kass is here. It’s because of her family connections, not because she has a talent for breaking and entering. Or for anything else, I’m guessing. Strip away that privilege, and then let’s see how things go for her. Let’s see what happens when there are real consequences, real jeopardy. But there never will be. Right, Kass?”