Pulse

by Patrick Carman

  He turned the pages of The Sneetches ever so slowly, and as he felt the coarse paper on his skin, he started to breathe a little easier.

  Chapter 4

  Wire Code

  It took Faith a long time to get to sleep that night, and even when she did fall asleep, it was more like a half wakefulness. She kept having dreams of things moving in her room. She dreamed the glass of water on her nightstand had tipped over; but instead of the water spilling onto the floor, it hung in the air and blew apart into a million droplets, then danced above her bed. Some of the droplets touched her lips, and she tasted the water with her tongue. It was cool and sweet, like spring, and she smiled in her dream. The drops came together again, returned to the glass, and the dream ended.

  In time someone would tell Faith Daniels the truth, but not yet.

  She wasn’t ready to know, but one day she would be told.

  What happened in her room was not a dream.

  Faith and Liz both awoke to the same message from Hawk on their Tablets and simultaneously realized they’d allowed a new person into their tiny, private circle.

  And he’s back! How you guys doing? Miss me? Let’s do some hand-holding, ladies!

  It was no longer just the two of them; it was the three of them. Hawk’s Tablet was back, and he was becoming a fixture in their lives. Faith and Liz didn’t talk about it, this idea that they’d let someone in; but they both knew it had happened. It was like they were afraid to bring it up for fear that the other one would disapprove. The little guy was definitely growing on them.

  By 8:00 a.m., when Liz met Faith at the front of the school, they’d both been messaging Hawk for an hour.

  “This is getting a little strange, right?” Liz said.

  “More than a little. I’d say it’s getting creepy. How does a Tablet just vanish and then reappear? Who does that?”

  Faith was thinking the same thing about the drawing she’d done, but she didn’t know how to tell Liz about it, at least not yet.

  “It was just there, too,” Liz repeated what Faith already knew. “Right next to his bed, like it had never left his side. Means someone was in his house. Now that’s creepy.”

  “Maybe someone figured out he’s hacking, and they want Hawk to do the same for them? He might have gotten himself in trouble.”

  “And us with him,” Liz reminded Faith. “We’re the ones wearing the jeans, remember?”

  That wasn’t quite true. They weren’t actually wearing them, because they hadn’t been shipped yet, but Faith understood what Liz was saying. They needed to get with Hawk and talk this whole thing through. She wasn’t sure nearly free jeans were worth the risk of real trouble.

  Miss Newhouse was on high alert in the morning lecture sessions, pacing the room like a vampire hunting for a victim. There was a rumor floating around the school that someone was peddling a Wire Code, which had been a problem at Faith’s other schools and was something she’d hoped wouldn’t make the leap to Old Park Hill. Wire Codes required a complicated hack that usually only worked for a few days before it was discovered and patched by programmers at the State.

  Wire Codes, Faith knew, were nothing to mess around with. They revealed things on Tablets in ways that were not allowed. They showed things people weren’t supposed to see. Staring into a Tablet where a Wire Code had been entered set the mind on fire; and once you were exposed, turning away didn’t matter. You’d done the equivalent of taking the hit or injected the needle. The Wire Code was in you. Its electronic rewiring of your brain had infected you. In the four or five hours that followed, a Wire Code provided a heightened sense of reality. Colors burned brighter, flavors intensified, feelings of happiness amplified tenfold.

  Faith had never tried a Wire Code, though she’d had opportunities at all her old schools. There was usually at least one floating around every few weeks on campus, and most of the students found out about them. They were made up of a sequence of numbers and letters, and they were always passed around in a very specific way. Like the drugs of the past, Wire Codes had their own culture of delivery systems and symbols. Marijuana had its joint, acid its tab, cocaine its pocket-sized cylinder tube. In the early days of Wire Codes the people who made them wrote them out on paper, but it was risky. Handwriting recognition had seen huge advances with the advent of the Tablets. Writing a number or a letter was like a fingerprint that could be traced. And Wire Codes were never passed from Tablet to Tablet, based on the widely held belief that the States were out there intercepting every questionable transmission. Somewhere in the very early days of Wire Codes, the method for delivery was chosen, and it just stuck: plastic beads on a chain or a string. Sometimes the chain of letters and numbers was short, sometimes long; but it was always strung in a loop with a series of cheap plastic beads, like a charm bracelet for a little kid.

  The Wire Code alert meant Faith couldn’t talk to Hawk while her lectures were going on, which was probably for the best, because she was falling behind in Buford’s advanced English and she really needed to focus. Unfortunately, there was something else on her mind, something bigger and more exciting, and it was making Buford sound like a lawn mower as he deconstructed Henry V’s secondary characters. Her meet up with Wade was at noon, and no matter how hard she tried, Faith could think of little else as Miss Newhouse made her way around the room for the third time. She had a hawkish nose and dark eyes, she was thin like a pencil, and she leaned over sitting students with a frown on her face.

  Faith looked toward the back of the classroom as Miss Newhouse stopped in front of Dylan Gilmore. Newhouse leaned down, putting both hands on Dylan’s desk, and Faith slid one of her earphones off so she could hear what they were saying. One ear was filled with Buford’s weed-whacker–buzz voice; the other zeroed in on the far corner of the room, where Dylan was slumped in his chair.

  “Empty your pockets,” Miss Newhouse said.

  “Why would I do that?” Dylan had a whispery voice, low and heavy.

  “Because there’s a Wire Code in this school, and I’m looking for it.”

  “And you think I know something about that because . . . ?”

  “Empty the pockets,” Newhouse said.

  There was a pause, and Faith could sense Dylan sitting up straighter, putting his face right up in Miss Newhouse’s grille.

  “Miss Newhouse, can I offer you a mint? You could use one.”

  Faith laughed, catching herself too late, and quickly put the headphone back on her ear. She couldn’t hear anything outside the bubble of Professor Buford as she stared at her Tablet, watching him speak. Her heart was racing, but she didn’t dare look back and give herself away. There was a tapping on her shoulder, and Faith jumped, making a sound she couldn’t hear. When she looked up, Miss Newhouse was standing over her, motioning her to remove her headphones. She reached across Faith’s desk and paused the lecture as Faith caught a glimpse of Dylan in the corner. He had stood and pulled his pockets all the way out, where they lay against his pants like little white ghosts. Of course there was no Wire Code, no string of plastic beads, each bead with a number or a letter. On inspection, his pockets had proven very empty.

  “Are you having trouble focusing today?” Miss Newhouse asked Faith. “I can move you to a private room if it would help, though we don’t encourage it. Isolation doesn’t tend to improve results.”

  “I’m fine, just a little tickle in my throat is all.”

  Faith coughed for good measure, and Miss Newhouse, looking unconvinced, told her to get back to work.

  “Yes, ma’am. No problem. Working,” Faith said, then she put her headphones back on and tapped the screen on her Tablet before Miss Newhouse could object.

  She moved off, signaling Dylan to sit down and stalking other students; and Faith stole one more glance at the back of the room, where Dylan was looking bored and aloof. He pushed his pockets in, shrugging his powerful shoulders as he sat down.

  Cute, Faith thought. She allowed herself to linger on his big eyes a
nd dark brows for a moment longer, hoping he wouldn’t look up. Too bad he’s trouble.

  Faith couldn’t decide whether or not to take Liz with her to the gym in order to watch Wade be amazing and gorgeous or not, but the dilemma answered itself when she couldn’t find her in the lunchroom. Faith chewed on one of her nails, a habit she’d put out of its misery on nine fingers. The pinkie on her right hand was taking all the damage that had once been spread across ten fingers, but it was holding up. It was a tough little pinkie, only bleeding a little when Faith was extremely nervous and chewed right down to the skin.

  “Sorry, little buddy,” she said as she arrived at the gym. “Way to take one for the team. You done good.”

  Talking to herself helped; but when she entered the gym, she found someone she didn’t expect, and her nerves went back into high gear.

  Dylan Gilmore was shooting baskets, and Wade was nowhere to be found. The gym was empty and full of echoes as Dylan bounced a ratty leather ball. He’d shed his shirt and wore only jeans, skate shoes, and a necklace.

  “Excuse me,” Faith stammered from across the open space where she stood at the door. “Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of jumping going on in here?”

  Dylan shot from the far end of the baseline and missed everything, then stared at the floor and shook his head.

  “I would have made that. You distracted me.”

  “Try again. I’ll be quiet this time.”

  Dylan faced her from across the gym and smiled, which was the first time she’d seen him looking even remotely happy. It was a nice smile. She wondered how tall he was up close.

  Faith didn’t have much time to stare, because Dylan seemed to be done playing basketball. He picked up his T-shirt and put it on, then took up his Tablet in one hand and put it in his back pocket. He ran his hand through his thick black hair and started walking toward the far door.

  “Nice talking to you,” Faith said under her breath. She wanted to believe Dylan was a good guy; but he seemed so aloof, and Hawk had said he was trouble. For some reason she yelled a question across the gym, but it came out more like an accusation. “You’re not making Wire Codes, are you?”

  Dylan stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around. He looked down at his shoes again, which were black and scuffed on the brushed leather.

  “Not my thing,” he said, turning to face her. “Tried it once, that was enough.”

  Faith was thinking that using wasn’t any better than manufacturing when it came to drugs just as the sounds of Wade and Clara Quinn’s voices echoed into the gym. They were entering from the far door, where a standoff between Wade and Dylan quickly ensued. Wade was taller, but Dylan was bigger, more solid.

  “Still trying jump shots?” Wade asked. “Why bother when there are easier ways to get the job done?”

  Wade was around Dylan in a flash, picking up the basketball and dribbling between his legs and around his back. Clara Quinn watched and smiled with her arms crossed at her chest as Wade darted for the basket and leaped, slam dunking the ball with ease.

  “Whoa,” said Faith.

  “He doesn’t jump as high as it seems,” Dylan said as he moved toward the door. “It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “He’s just showing off,” Clara Quinn said.

  “Same Wade, different day,” Dylan added. Even from across the gym Faith could see that Clara Quinn was into Dylan Gilmore. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and it was pretty obvious that she was enjoying the fact that Dylan was willing to stand his ground against her brother.

  Dylan turned and put his hands out, calling for the ball. Wade laughed, then threw the basketball like a pitcher, firing it like a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball at Dylan’s head. Dylan caught it without difficulty and stared at the hoop Wade had just dunked on. It was way farther than a three-point shot; but Dylan sized it up, let fly a jumper, and hit nothing but net.

  “I’ll take a three over a dunk every time. Power only gets you so far.”

  Wade was surprised by the make but undeterred in his obvious dislike of Dylan.

  “Gym’s closed for practice, loser.”

  Dylan brushed past Clara, and she leaned toward him; but he didn’t stop as he made his way out of the gym through the far doors. Faith found the display of competition exhilarating and hoped it was for her benefit. She was about to walk onto the hardwood floor when Mr. Reichert, who apparently did triple duty as the principal, a teacher, and the Field Games coach, came into the gym behind Faith and scared her half to death.

  “Hi, kiddo, how’s Old Park Hill treating you?”

  Faith jumped nearly as high as Wade Quinn and made an unfortunate, high-pitched sound that sent Clara Quinn into a fit of annoying laughter.

  “Be nice, Clara. Faith’s still getting used to the place. Let’s let her believe we’re a friendly bunch for a little longer.”

  Mr. Reichert pulled on a janitor-style ring of keys attached to his belt and began unlocking a storage area. “How about you help me get this set up while they warm up, Faith? What do you say?”

  “Yeah, make yourself useful,” Clara yelled from across the gym where she was in the middle of a weird-looking yoga stretch. “We could use a team manager, someone to pick up the wet towels and fill my water bottle. Can you handle that?”

  “Pay no attention to her,” Mr. Reichert whispered. “Her bark is worse than her bite. She’s harmless.”

  Faith had to rely on the principal for backup, because Wade had not come to her rescue. He was laser focused on warming up, acting like he hadn’t even heard what Clara had said. Faith’s Tablet vibrated in her back pocket, and she knew Liz was probably trying to find her. Or maybe it was her mother. She ignored it and began helping Mr. Reichert roll out the high-jump pits and set up the bar. A few minutes later, the Quinns were standing at the ready, and the bar was set at six feet.

  “So Wade is jumping first then?” Faith asked, excited to see him fly through the air.

  “No,” Mr. Reichert explained. “Clara will go first. She’ll only take a few jumps though. Today is her throwing day, outside. Now that’s something to see. You’d swear a shot put weighs about as much as a cue ball in this girl’s hand. And don’t even get me started on the javelin.”

  “And the hammer,” Clara said, inserting herself into the conversation from where she stood about twenty-five feet away. “That thing is wicked cool. Nothing on Earth like throwing the hammer.”

  She went suddenly quiet and closed her eyes, taking a bottomless breath that ended in a trance-like moan. And then she was moving with long, languid strides. When Clara turned sharply at the bar and jumped, it was like she’d gone into slow motion and weighed about four ounces. Six feet was nothing. The bar was cleared by at least six inches.

  A split second later Clara was off the mat and walking out of the gym shaking her head.

  “My head’s not in it today, feels off.”

  Faith was left to wonder how high Clara would have jumped if her head was in the game.

  “I’m going out to throw; don’t follow me.”

  “How high can she go?” Faith asked as Mr. Reichert motioned for her to get on one end of the height adjustment for the bar while he stayed on the other.

  “Hard telling. She’s only been at it for about a month. I’m guessing she could hit seven and a half feet if she gets focused.”

  The Field Games were the most important competitive events in the modern world. Everyone knew what the really big records were and who held them. Faith was nearly sure the woman’s world record stood at seven feet, four inches, which had been achieved on a windless day in the Eastern State by a German athlete four or five years before. As Faith watched Mr. Reichert move his end of the bar higher and higher, she realized that Clara Quinn, a high school junior living outside the States, might become the next world record holder in the high jump.

  “What’s she doing hanging out at Old Park Hill high school? It doesn’t make any sense. She’d be a celebrity on the inside
.” Faith was trying to get her end of the bar level with Mr. Reichert’s as she talked. It was way over her head.

  “Maybe she’s hiding out,” Wade said with a tone of seriousness Faith hadn’t expected. “Maybe we both are.”

  “Let me help you there,” Mr. Reichert said, coming to Faith’s side to finish the job of setting the bar for Wade. “And they’re not really hiding out, just staying under the radar, if you will.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Faith wanted to ask where Wade and Clara had come from and how long they’d been at Old Park Hill, but she was preoccupied by the new height of the bar, which had been set.

  “How high is that?” she asked, standing under the bar and staring up at it. She was tall at five feet eleven, but the bar looked like it was about two feet over her head.

  “Eight feet,” Mr. Reichert said. “It’s a good warm-up height for a full run-through.”

  “Warm-up?” Faith asked. “Eight feet is a warm-up?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t move,” Mr. Reichert said.

  Faith was standing at the middle of the bar staring at the pit, so she didn’t realize Wade was already heading for the bar until it was too late. She was staring up to the ceiling of the gym when she heard a tiny pop, like the sound of a tennis shoe tapping lightly on the wood floor. She saw his long, lithe body glide into view in the shape of an arc. He was so high over her head—it was like he’d launched from a hidden trampoline she hadn’t seen. The world record, if she remembered right, was only four inches higher than Wade had just cleared on a practice jump.

  When Wade sat up in the pit, his hair was a gorgeous mess, and a generous smile appeared on his face. Faith could only think of one thing to say.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Wade winked and pushed himself up off the mat. Their shoulders brushed as he went by. Faith wished she could touch his face and maybe kiss him. But she let him pass without committing a reckless act of love in front of the principal.