The Winning Element

by Shannon Greenland

  Sissy carried all the supplies over to the desk. She unrolled a rubber mat, spread it across the desktop, and then placed a smaller one on the floor for her to stand on. Both would absorb any electricity created from her work.

  She put on her goggles and rubber gloves and got down to business. . . .

  As she poured the trosesineo into the beaker that held the coloride, her experiment consumed her. Her concentration mixing the two liquids held her total focus. Any other time she would’ve noticed the flame getting too high. She would’ve paid attention to the ciumdroxide she’d already put to heat bubbling too close to the edge.

  In her peripheral vision through her goggles, she caught sight of the ciumdroxide a split second before it boiled and foamed over the edge.

  She jerked her head up, accidentally bumping the flask of trosesineo. It toppled over, flowed straight into the boiled-over ciumdroxide, and both liquids immediately caught on fire. Sissy’s heart lurched as she reached for a fire extinguisher at the same time pink smoke preceded a bright flash. Then an explosion sent her flying backward.

  An hour later, sissy sat handcuffed beside some cop’s desk. How stupid could she have been? She’d never lost track of her experiments. If it weren’t for the gym mats she’d landed on, the explosion could’ve caused some broken bones.

  With a sigh, she glanced over to the left where a coffeemaker sat on a small table. Some old guy had just made a fresh pot, and it smelled heavenly. In front of her sprawled the station’s open workroom with desks placed here and there. Each desk had a phone and a computer. No walls separated them. Only three other cops were present this late in the evening.

  The cop beside her hung up the phone. “Your mom doesn’t want you.”

  Sissy could’ve told the cop that and saved him a phone call.

  His chair squeaked as he leaned back. His red hair and baby face made him look about the same age as Sissy. Sixteen. He probably had just got out of cop school.

  He folded his hands over his skinny stomach. “What about your dad?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have one? Everyone has a dad.”

  Where’d this guy grow up? “Well, I don’t.”

  The cop frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Sissy ground her teeth together and wished for a piece of gum. Why’d they take her gum anyway? It wasn’t like she could break out of jail with it. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know anything. Zilcho. My mom doesn’t even know.” How much more did Sissy have to spell it out?

  Sissy’s father could be any number of men. Of course she’d always fantasized that he was some famous chemist, that she’d inherited her talent from him.

  Whatever. Not like her mom would ever be with some famous chemist.

  The cop’s chair squeaked as he brought it back down. “What were you doing with those chemicals?”

  Sissy shrugged. “Nothing. Just playing around.” Little did he know, little did anyone know, the discoveries she’d made.

  The cop shook his finger at her. “If you were making a bomb, you better come clean right now, young lady.”

  She nearly snorted at his sudden authoritative tone.

  And a bomb? Puh-lease. She had better things to do with her time than make bombs. “When do I get my notebook back?”

  His desk phone rang, and he picked it up. “Officer Roman.” A few seconds passed as he listened to whoever spoke on the other end. “All right.” He hung up the phone and rolled his chair back. “Let’s go.”

  The cop escorted Sissy through the workroom and out into the empty lobby. He uncuffed her and nodded to the chairs. “Sit. Someone will be out.”

  “When do I get my notebook back?”

  “Sit.” He left and closed the door in her face.

  Way to ignore my one and only question, idiot. Sissy stomped across the tile floor and sat in the metal chair farthest away. Someone will be out. What did that mean?

  She looked across the lobby to where the front desk clerk sat. “Did someone make my bail?”

  “Yes,” he answered without glancing up.

  Who? Who would make her bail?

  Suddenly, the same door Sissy had come through opened. A chubby red-haired woman stepped out.

  Ms. Gabrier?

  A few minutes later, Sissy climbed into her teacher’s car. “Why’d you make my bail?”

  Ms. Gabrier cranked the engine. “You’re welcome.”

  Sissy rolled her eyes. “Thanks. Do you have my notebook?”

  Ms. Gabrier pulled from the police station’s parking lot. “Let’s wait until we get to my house.” She turned on a jazz station, and with that, they rode in silence.

  Sissy stared out her window, idly watching the buildings and houses they passed, everything dimly lit by streetlights. Since it was already after midnight, there was little to no activity.

  Why did her teacher bail her out? And why were they headed to her house? It didn’t make any sense. Ms. Gabrier didn’t even like Sissy.

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a neighborhood with small one-story houses, each with a tidy yard. A cookie-cutter place with nothing unique about the brick homes.

  Ms. Gabrier parked in her driveway and led the way up a mulch path to the front door. She unlocked it, stepped inside, and flipped on an interior light.

  She pointed to the right into the living room. “Have a seat. I’ll make coffee.”

  She strode down a hallway into a kitchen that lay straight ahead, and Sissy turned into the living room. A blue leather sectional sofa framed the back and side walls in an l shape. A circular wood coffee table sat in front of it. A bookcase ran the length of the other wall, with a stereo in the center and CDs lining both sides. There was no TV. And the whole place smelled . . . clean.

  It was just the sort of cozy living room she’d always fantasized about. She had the weird urge to ask Ms. Gabrier if she could stay. Forever.

  Sissy crossed the soft carpet to the bookshelves and began browsing. Some fiction, but mostly science manuals and chemistry journals lined the shelves.

  “It’s instant. But it’ll do,” Ms. Gabrier said, coming up behind Sissy and handing her a mug. “Have a seat.”

  Sissy followed her over to the couch. They settled on opposite sides of the l.

  “I have your notebook. The police released it to me.” Ms. Gabrier scooted back on the sofa, making herself comfortable. “It’s in some sort of cryptic writing. Will you tell me about it?”

  Only Sissy could decipher her personalized shorthand. “Can I have it back?”

  “Yes, of course. I’d like you to tell me about it first, though.”

  Sissy hesitated, sipping her coffee slowly, deciding how much to say. “Experiments. I like tinkering with chemicals.”

  “You’re doing more than tinkering. Tell me about coloride and trosesineo.”

  Sissy narrowed her eyes. “How do you know about coloride and trosesineo?” She’d personally created those chemicals.

  Ms. Gabrier’s lips curved. “I saw the terms in your notebook. ”

  Sissy studied her teacher’s mischievous smile. “Who are you?”

  Slowly, Ms Gabrier rotated the mug in her hands, studying the dark liquid. A few seconds passed, and then she glanced over to the doorway, making Sissy turn to see.

  A tall, dark man stood silently in the dimly lit entryway. His glacier eyes seemed to glow green in the shadows. He stepped into the room, holding Sissy’s notebook. “Hello, Priscilla. My name is Thomas Liba. Ms. Gabrier and I work for the IPNC, Information Protection National Concern, which is a special-operations division of the government.”

  Sissy jerked her eyes over to her teacher.

  Ms. Gabrier put her mug on the coffee table as Thomas Liba came into the room. He sat down on her side of the couch’s l.

  “I’ve worked for the IPNC for thirty years,” Ms. Gabrier said. “I’ve done a variety of jobs for
them, including training.” She nodded toward Mr. Liba. “In fact, Thomas was one of my trainees. Ten years ago, the IPNC placed me undercover as a teacher in the Jacksonville Academic Magnet School so I could monitor gifted kids like yourself.”

  Gifted kids like myself?

  “The government,” Mr. Liba picked up, “has had their eyes on you since last year. Since you aced the Florida state science test.”

  “You came out of nowhere with that one,” Ms. Gabrier put in. “I did some research and discovered you’d taken plenty of state tests over the years. You didn’t even try, though. Anybody could tell that if they’d taken a few minutes to actually review them.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?” Sissy asked.

  “In the IPNC,” Mr. Liba continued, “we have a group called the Specialists. They’re made up of young adults your age and a little older. They’re all system kids. No family. Or in your case, no family who wants to keep you close. No ties. Nobody wants them. Each Specialist is gifted in one particular area. Clearly, for you that would be chemistry. As a Specialist you are given a new identity and trained to one day go undercover.”

  Sissy didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her shock left her mute. She sat on the sofa staring back at both Mr. Liba and Ms. Gabrier.

  What is going on?

  Shifting, Ms. Gabrier crossed her ankles. “Mr. Liba is here for you, Sissy. He wants you for the Specialists.”

  [1]

  I stared at the picture on the conference room table as TL’s words replayed in my head. That’s a picture of you and David. You lived here and knew each other when you were children.

  There stood four-year-old me with six-year-old David beside me, our arms wrapped around each other as we grinned for the camera. We were both dressed in shorts and T-shirts.

  We looked happy. Truly happy.

  I recognized a sequoia tree that towered behind us. It stood along the back fence close to where we were a week ago with Wirenut and Cat diffusing the hematosis detector.

  David moved closer to me and leaned in. I slid the picture between us so we could both get a better look.

  I was the same back then as I am now. Tall, lanky, blond. David looked different. His boyhood chubbiness had transformed into athletic hotness, and his light brown hair had darkened to almost black.

  I glanced over at him. “Did you know about this?”

  David shook his head.

  We’d had numerous trust issues when we first met. In fact, he’d outright lied to me. But it had all been worked out, and there’d been no dishonesty since then. Still, sometimes I found myself questioning things.

  Like right now.

  Obviously, when TL recruited me for the Specialists, he’d known I’d once lived here at the San Belden Ranch for Boys and Girls. And obviously, he hadn’t told me; otherwise, I wouldn’t be so shocked right now.

  However, I’d learned over the months that TL always had a good reason for his actions. His job required a keen sense of timing, knowing when to do certain things, when to say other things. He was highly trained. Everyone knew they could trust and rely on him.

  He would die for any one of us Specialists.

  But still . . . why hadn’t he told me? Why hadn’t he told David?

  “David’s right,” TL commented as if reading my rambling thoughts.

  He did that a lot. Sometimes I wondered if he didn’t have a touch of Mystic, the Specialists’ clairvoyant, in him.

  “David was raised here. He’s always known that. This is the first he’s heard that you lived here, too.” TL folded his hands on top of the table. “The ranch used to be a safe house for the children of our nation’s top agents. Now, of course, the Specialists train and live here.”

  I knew the ranch used to be a safe house. David had told me that months ago when I first moved in. I paused and slowly brought my eyes up to TL’s. “So . . . are you saying my parents were government agents?”

  “Yes.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend fully what he just acknowledged. My parents used to be agents? It didn’t make any sense. My mom had been a kindergarten teacher and my dad an insurance salesman. I had very few memories of them, but I definitely remembered visiting my mom’s kindergarten classroom. I’d ridden a seesaw with a little Asian boy and practiced tying shoes on a big stuffed blue boot.

  How could I have such vivid memories if they weren’t true? “Did my parents live here with me?”

  TL shook his head. “No. They visited you here. You have to understand, GiGi, it wasn’t safe for you to be with them. They traveled constantly, sometimes together, sometimes separately.”

  “B-but I remember visiting my mom in her classroom. I remember going on a picnic. I remember . . .” Wait, did I really remember all that stuff, or had someone told me that had happened to me?

  “Your memories are true.” TL nodded toward the picture. “That was taken the day your parents picked you up from the ranch after they resigned from the agency. They wanted a normal life for you, a real family, which was why they moved you to Iowa. They loved you very much.”

  I closed my eyes as memories of my parents flooded my brain. My beautiful mother laughing. My father smiling. My parents kissing. My dad swinging me around. My mom brushing my hair.

  My lips curved with the tender memory of my dad teaching me to ride a bike. My mom had been there, too, clapping and cheering me on. They had loved me. Very much. Sometimes it was easy to forget that simple, wonderful fact.

  Suddenly, I recalled something Mike Share, David’s dad, had said to me months ago. You look just like your mother. I’d thought he’d seen my file. Now I knew differently.

  I opened my eyes. “Mr. Share knew my parents.”

  TL smiled and nodded. “Mike Share and your father were best friends. Like brothers.”

  David and I exchanged a small grin. How neat to know our parents had been best friends.

  Under the table, David put his hand on my knee, and my stomach swirled. One week ago we’d been making out in the pantry, and his warm touch now gave me a quick flashback of the encounter.

  He squeezed my knee. “How come GiGi didn’t come here to the ranch when her parents died?”

  TL sat back in his chair. “Legally, that wasn’t possible. Her parents had resigned. If they’d still been IPNC employees, GiGi would’ve come here. As it was, she became a ward of the state of Iowa.”

  And I bounced around between orphanages and foster homes for the next ten years of my life.

  I wanted to ask why TL kept all this from me, but I knew the answer. It wasn’t the right time to tell you, he’d say.

  He propped his elbows on the chair’s arms. “Your parents died in a plane crash.”

  I nodded and looked down, a wave of sadness passing over me at the memory of the crash.

  TL linked his fingers across his stomach and took a breath. “But that crash wasn’t an accident.”

  I got very still and slowly looked at him. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  He leveled serious eyes on me. “Your parents were murdered. ”