“Definitely,” Connor says. “So here’s the question. Do we build an actual model? We don’t have a ton of time left. The presentations start tomorrow.”
“We can do it,” Erin says. “I’ll start on the revised business plan right now.”
“I’ll work on the specific design,” Natalia adds. “I’m thinking blue for harmony and yellow for imagination. Color is more powerful than people realize.”
Connor stands, stretches his arms overhead. “I’ll go see what I can dig up in the Zation room. Maybe we can at least make a rough prototype.”
I smile. “I’m familiar with rough prototypes.” Suddenly, as if on cue, I get a jolt of ESD. “I gotta take a break first, though.” I tell Connor I’ll find him in a few minutes.
I’m not sure if this is allowed, but I go out the front door. No one from the Z Team comes rushing after me. The fresh air feels great, and I decide to take a quick jog around the building. I turn to my right, then turn again when I reach the corner. The snow’s deeper on this side, and my shoes get filled with snow in seconds. Okay, why do I do these things? I don’t even think sometimes. I turn back and start jogging again; then, as I pass a window, I spot Z and Imani inside.
I stop and crouch under the window frame. Is that the room he went into in the off-limits hallway? I think it is! I slowly raise my head and peek inside.
I see a dry-erase board. Z and Imani are standing in front of it and pointing to things on the board. Their backs are to me. I squint. It’s hard to make out, but I think I see names, and next to the names are words. Hearing Aid. ER Robot. Drive-Thru Concept. Next to the words are . . . I peer closer. Dollar signs? And some have, what are those, red check marks?
Then I see my name and Natalia’s. And next to our names it says: Standing School Desk. There are two dollar signs.
Z puts a cap on a marker, then turns. In a panic I drop down to the ground and crawl through the snow until I’m at the front of the building. I run back inside and try to walk as calmly as possible to our table. When I reach it, I’m panting and sweating, and my shoes and socks and pant legs are soaked.
Erin eyes me up and down. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”
“I saw something,” I whisper, my eyes darting around the atrium.
“What are you talking about?”
Natalia stares at me. “Your energy isn’t good right now. I’m gathering a sense of unease.”
“Something’s weird,” I hiss. “Something suspicious.”
Erin raises an eyebrow. “Too many hours on Netflix, Ethan. Stop fooling around. We have so much to do.”
I lower myself slowly until I’m squatting next to Erin’s chair. “Listen to me, okay? Earlier in the week I overheard Z saying he couldn’t talk to someone on the phone, and hadn’t slept in weeks. Another time, he told someone ‘there’s no problem.’ He sounded nervous. Then, just now—”
Connor comes to the table, holding a metal pole. “What’s going on?”
I stand and motion for them to come closer. “I went outside to get some air. I was on the side of the building. I looked inside a room where Z and Imani had everyone’s projects listed on a dry-erase board.”
“So?” Erin says. “They’re probably keeping track of each group’s progress.”
“There were dollar signs by each one.”
Connor frowns. “Why would that be?”
“Exactly what I’m wondering,” I say.
“Not getting any red flags here,” Erin scoffs. “It could be anything. Like how much they think each project would sell for, or something like that.”
“But remember, that speaker said it wasn’t about selling your invention. So why the dollar signs? And there’s another thing,” I say. “Some of the projects had red check marks by them, and others didn’t.”
“What do you think that means?” Natalia asks.
I slip off my shoes, dump out some melted snow. “I don’t know.”
“Did you see yours?” Erin says, and I nod.
“Did it have a check mark?” she asks.
“Yeah, it did.”
“Did you see mine?”
“I only looked for a few seconds. I had to run. Z turned toward the window.”
She tips her head. “Was mine on there?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Look, maybe they just . . . ,” Natalia starts, but her voice trails off.
I stare in the direction of the off-limits hallway. “Something’s up.”
“I have the same feeling,” Connor says. “But what?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Suspicious
ERIN
I don’t know what Ethan thought he saw, but I’m sure it’s all part of what they do here. Why wouldn’t Z have a list of everyone’s projects, with estimates of their value? They obviously need to keep track of what the groups are creating. And I’m sure mine was on there; Ethan just didn’t see it. But anyway, it doesn’t matter now. We’ve got something better.
Ethan and Connor start working on a physical model of our digital standing desk from materials they gathered in the Zation room, while Natalia and I address the business end. Ethan keeps shooting me looks, but I’m ignoring them and his wild imagination.
I put together an estimate of how much it would cost to make our desk, while Natalia works on how we’d promote and market the product to schools. I try a few different production variables, but the numbers keep coming out higher than I’d like.
“I wonder if we could get financial sponsors to foot the bill,” I ask. “Companies would be all over this, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Natalia agrees. “But no advertising or anything like that, right?”
“We’re not even at that point.”
“I’m just saying. We should keep that in mind.”
“Most companies would want some sort of credit.” Natalia needs to get out of her Zen area and into the future. I’m just saying.
I sit back and study what Ethan and Connor have made so far. There’s a thin rectangular metal piece about the size of a three-ring binder that’s secured to a pole. The piece slides up and down. Not so well, but it moves. The base seems pretty steady—it looks like it’s from a microphone stand—and there are small, open boxes fastened to each side of the top (for supplies, I assume). They’ve also attached a canvas seat to the middle of the pole. Sort of like a folding stool you’d go camping with. Not that I’ve ever used one, but I’ve seen pictures.
Ethan sees me and puts up a hand. “It’s rough. We know that. Don’t say anything.”
“At least there isn’t any . . .”
He grins. “Duct tape.”
“What?” Connor says. “Why would we use—”
“Inside joke,” I answer, then turn to Natalia. “We need a better name for this.”
She nods, then mouths, “Desk on a stick?”
At last she and I are on the same page with something. I roll my eyes. “I know. Let’s not go there. We need a name to reflect the”—I smile at her—“wholeness. Should we keep ‘desk of the future’ or think of something catchier? Desktopia? Techno-desk?”
She fingers a braid. “Hmm. Or should we be clear and straightforward? Just DSD, for Digital Standing Desk?”
I laugh. “That’s actually funny, because my dad calls Ethan’s fidgeting ESD. Ethan Squiggle Disease.”
Ethan leans toward us. “You talking about me?”
“What do you think of DSD?” I ask.
“Would people know what that is, though?”
Connor’s securing a bolt with a screwdriver. “I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me either.”
Connor stops and holds the screwdriver. “What we’re really doing here is making something to help students succeed. So what about . . . Desk for Success? A riff on ‘dress for success,’ get it?”
My mouth drops open. “Desk for Success! Connor, that’s . . . Oh my God, that’s perfect.” First Brian, now Connor. What
is happening in my world?
He bows. “Why, thank you.”
I’m about to suggest an idea for a logo, but I look up, and Z is standing by our table. Z, inches from me! Imani is next to him, holding a tablet.
“Greetings,” he says, towering above us like a skyscraper.
I’m not able to speak. Or move. Or, perhaps, breathe.
He waves a hand. “What have we here, Z people?”
Connor seems to be the only one who is able to function at the moment. “We’re creating a new, state-of-the-art digital desk for school.” He gestures to the model, perched unsteadily on the floor next to our table. “You can stand or sit. The top will have a space for a screen with assignments, links to teacher web pages, test dates. It can be a personal whiteboard too. You’ll have your own log-in. And you can’t lose it, like your phone or an assignment notebook. It’ll be right there in every class with you, part of the desk.”
“Interesting,” Z says. “Imani, weren’t these two separate projects? The desk and the study aid?”
“Yes,” she says, consulting her tablet.
“You’ve altered your concept, then?” Z asks.
Ethan narrows his eyes.
“Yeah. Jet said it was perfectly okay to combine our projects,” Connor explains.
Natalia shows him her tablet, where she’s drawn a model like Connor’s, but it’s in shades of blue and yellow. “Desk for Success,” she says, beaming.
“Expensive to produce?” Z asks. “What’s the profit margin?”
I clear my throat. “Um, we’re still working that out, but we think companies or foundations might be interested in helping with the cost. Everyone wants kids to do well in school and keep up with the latest technology.”
Z peers down at me, and I almost melt under his piercing sunglasses gaze.
“Please make a note of this, Imani,” Z says, then looks back at us. “Thank you. Continue.”
After he walks away, Ethan goes, “See!”
“See what?” I blink, trying to regain consciousness. “He just wanted to know what we were doing!”
“Didn’t it seem a little suspicious, the way he asked if we changed our concept? How he had Imani check? Asked about profits? Why would he care about profits!”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at. Why is that suspicious?”
Ethan drums his fingers on the table and looks toward Z, standing at another table talking to some kids. “The guy’s awfully concerned about money, if you ask me. That’s not what this is supposed to be about.”
Connor scratches the back of his neck. “He does have a creepy vibe up close. Why doesn’t he take off the sunglasses? Ever?”
Natalia puts her palms together toward her heart. “I did feel something off-center with his energy. And I’m pretty spot-on about these things. I can tell my brother’s mood just by looking at him.”
“Z is very well respected and successful,” I remind them. “Everyone knows that. Whatever you’re imagining about him, you’re completely wrong. There’s nothing suspicious going on, except him wanting to help kids and grow the future.”
“I can’t put my finger on it,” Ethan says.
“Well, put it out of your mind. And your finger. We need to concentrate. Tomorrow is the big day. Our presentation. We need to be completely ready. Mentally, physically, emotionally. No distractions. C’mon, back to work.”
ETHAN
That night I run over to Brian’s. It’s freezing, but I don’t even bother with a jacket. No one else is listening to me, except Connor, a little. I gotta get Kowalski’s take on this.
We can’t go into his room since his grandma’s living in there now. He motions toward his brother’s room. “John went to a movie. Don’t touch anything. He’ll know.” Brian shuts the door. “What’s the emergency? Did Erin murder someone at the camp?”
“Ha. Very funny. No, this is serious.”
“Yeah? Lay it on me.”
I pace around the room. “So, Zak Canzeri, he’s all successful and everyone acts like he’s king of the tech universe, but I think the guy isn’t what he seems.”
“How come?”
I tell Brian what I overheard and what I saw.
“I’m not sure I’m getting any criminal activity from that,” he says.
I wave my arms, accidentally knocking a picture frame out of place. Brian straightens it. “Erin thinks I’m crazy. Like I’m imagining stuff.”
“She always thinks you’re crazy. She thinks everyone’s crazy.”
“And the truth is, Z’s creepy. He wears dark sunglasses all the time and appeared in a puff of smoke, like a magician. I can’t explain it, and I guess I don’t have much to go on. Just, you know how you get a feeling about something and you can’t shake it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have that feeling.”
“What’s your gut saying?”
“I don’t know, but those dollar signs are bugging me. Why would he put those next to the projects?”
He shrugs. “My dad says money runs the world. They probably pick the winner based on who’s gonna make the most money.”
“That doesn’t make sense, though. All they talk about is TADA and the idea, right, not making money.”
“Yeah, and you believe that?” Brian says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Z sells kids’ ideas or something.”
I stare at Brian. “What did you just say?”
“I said I wouldn’t be surprised if Z—”
“I heard you. He couldn’t do that. Could he do that?”
“How would I know? I was just—”
My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. It’s a text from Zoe: Can we talk? I show the phone to Brian.
“Man, you got some heavy stuff goin’ on,” he says, laughing. “I’m really glad I didn’t go to that camp. And I’m kinda glad I don’t have a girlfriend. Way too complicated.”
I shove the phone back into my pocket. I can’t deal with it right now.
Brian goes over to the window, unlocks it, and cranks it open. A cold breeze hits the room. “I asked Gram what’s with the spitting. She has a pierogi for a brain, but you know what she answered? She said spitting clears out the cobwebs. I ask you, does that not make sense?”
“It makes sense, in a strange way.”
Brian pops out the screen. “When you don’t know what else to do . . .”
I grin. “Spit in the wind?”
He motions to me and I walk over. “On three,” he says.
We both gather the saliva in our mouths. Brian holds up one, two, then three fingers. We hurl two spits down at the snow, watch them land. Definitely respectable, actually quite massive spits.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Weirdly, I kinda do.”
He closes the window. “For the second time this week, you’re welcome.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Woodpecker
ZOE
I’m in my room, writing Dad a letter. I want to write, not text or e-mail. There are some things I need to say, and they need to be in ink, on paper. (Recycled paper.) And I don’t want to hear his answers right away. If they come.
Mom and Hannah are baking cookies. I can hear them in the kitchen. Mom: “If you eat too much of the dough, you’re going to get a stomachache!” Hannah: “I don’t care!” Mom laughs; then Hannah does too.
They call me, and I say I’ll be there in a minute.
Dear Dad,
I hope you’re happy with Dara. I would like to meet her one day. Maybe you can come and visit after the baby is born.
I was mad at you for a long time. I was mad you left, and mad you left us. But we’re doing fine now. I thought you might want to know.
Also, I wondered if you still love me. I don’t know if you do, but I want to tell you that I still love you.
Zoe
I put the letter into an envelope and seal it. Then I go downstairs and look out the front window. It’s clear, and the sky is th
at deep navy color just before it turns black. There’s an icicle hanging from the mailbox. I hope the woodpecker is warm and cozy inside.
I go outside and tiptoe toward the mailbox, then put my ear close and listen.
Nothing. It’s too quiet.
I slowly open the little door and peek inside. It’s empty. Just one black feather. I pick it up and feel the softness between my fingers.
Has the woodpecker left for good? I search the trees around our house, hoping to see him perched against a trunk or hear his rhythmic tapping. But I think he’s gone.
Why did he live in our mailbox for those few short weeks? Why was he here?
I look up at the sky and take in the stars at last. I’ve missed them. I remember something Dad told me on our last nature hike. “The universe holds mysteries that the human brain can’t begin to comprehend.”
I didn’t know it would be our last. Maybe he did.
That was also when he said I would be a great scientist one day. That I would discover a cure, or figure out a solution to slow climate change. That I would—and he laughed here, because it’s become such a cliché—make a difference in the world.
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he answered. “No doubt.”
I toss the feather into the air and watch it drift down to the snowy ground. Tiny and black against the vast whiteness.
I turn my face up to the stars and think about the mysteries of life. And the meaning of Zoe.
I think it’s okay to love someone without knowing if they love you back. Or if they used to love you but maybe forgot. If love is there, then it’s there for good.
A gust of wind picks up the feather, and it sails away. I watch until I can’t see it anymore. Then I hurry inside. Cookies are waiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Flying
ETHAN
When Erin comes into the kitchen on the last morning of ZCIC, she’s wearing gray pants and a dark blue suit-ish jacket, and Mom’s shoes. Her hair is completely straight, sort of pasted to her scalp, and she’s got a mean-looking bright red mark on her forehead.
Ethan Marcus Makes His Mark Page 12
