“Oh hey.” I swat at Caleb’s shoulder and subtly gesture toward the sidewalk in front of Dr. Bright’s office. “Isn’t that guy one of Dr. Bright’s patients?”
“Where?”
“That one over there.” I gesture again, trying not to draw any attention to us. “The kind of shady-looking guy.”
I’m not sure I would have even noticed him if he hadn’t been wearing the exact same outfit and doing the exact same thing he was doing last time we saw him. He’s unbelievably average. Average in an almost weird way—like you look at him and the moment you look away, you’ve forgotten what his face looks like. But if you keep your eyes focused on him, you start to notice how incredibly out of place he looks. He’s dressed all in black—black Vans, black jeans, a black hoodie—and leaning against the brick building smoking a cigarette. It’s … a look.
“Oh yeah…” Caleb breathes. “We’ve definitely seen him here before.”
“What do you think his ability is?” I ask, suddenly excited by all the possibilities.
“It’s definitely not invisibility,” he scoffs. “God, could he look more conspicuous?”
“Seriously,” I laugh, “he’s really gunning for the role of ‘Shady Park Guy Number Five.’” Caleb laughs loudly and I smirk, satisfied. But the sound seems to catch the attention of Shady Guy.
“Ooh, whoops,” I whisper, turning my head to talk into Caleb’s shoulder, “I think he caught us staring. Quick, look like you’re talking to me.”
“I am talking to you,” Caleb says, amused. “I doubt he’s looking at us—”
“No, don’t look—” I say, but it’s too late. Caleb has already turned his body away from me to look at Shady Guy. I stay angled toward him, hoping that Caleb can pass it off as looking around the park and not us staring at some stranger, but Caleb is not always the most subtle person on the planet.
“Okay, he was definitely looking at us, because now he’s coming over here,” Caleb whispers frantically, turning back and leaning into my space.
“Shit,” I mutter. What did I just get us into?
“Oh god, what if he’s like, a crazy homophobe coming over here to try and save us from damnation or something?” Caleb says, complete panic on his face. That thought hadn’t occurred to me, but it is far more likely than what I’m imagining. And surprisingly, less terrifying.
“What if he’s a dangerous mutant coming over here to kill us?” I rasp, and Caleb gives me a dubious look.
“I seriously doubt that,” he says, and I’m about to rebut when I hear—
“Hey there.”
Caleb and I unfurl from the closed-parentheses position our bodies were making on the bench to see Shady Guy looming over us. He’s smiling blankly and we should just get up and leave like you’re supposed to when a crazy person approaches you in public, but I’m stuck.
“Um … hi?” Caleb’s arm moves slightly closer around me as he turns his body toward Shady Guy, and it brings me a modicum of comfort.
“Hi,” I say, for absolutely no good reason at all.
“Do I know you?” Shady Guy asks.
“No, I don’t think so.” Caleb shakes his head.
“Are you sure? I could have sworn I’ve seen you around before.” Shady Guy gives a broad smile and, against my better judgement, I’m a bit charmed by it. “Say, are you one of Dr. B.’s patients? Dr. Bright, that is.”
“Um, yes,” Caleb answers. “Yeah, I am.”
“Caleb,” I whisper, “what are you doing?” It’s one thing to make small talk with a stranger—it’s another thing entirely to tell him about your therapist. And any other information that having said specific therapist might imply.
Shady Guy invites himself to sit, settling down on the other side of Caleb, and I give a weak protest, hoping to end whatever this is before it starts.
“Oops, looks like your friend doesn’t want me to join you,” Shady Guy says, leering at us.
“Boyfriend,” I mumble, wrong-footed, and then I’m instantly angry and embarrassed that I chose this moment to say that word out loud for the first time, without even consulting Caleb first.
“Good for you,” he condescends. “Do you mind if I talk to your boyfriend for a moment?”
“I guess not,” I say blankly. But I do mind. I know in my heart of hearts that I don’t want to be talking to this guy any longer. And I definitely don’t want him talking to Caleb. But the words leap from my mouth before I have time to decide on the shape of them.
“What’s your name, kid?” Shady Guy asks. It squeezes us uncomfortably, my body pressing into the hard metal armrest at the end. Shady Guy drapes his arm casually over the back of the bench and I watch it happen with detached curiosity. It doesn’t bother me. Why doesn’t it bother me?
“Caleb.”
“Nice to meet you, Caleb. I’m Damien,” Shady Guy—Damien—says. “And you are?” He leans around Caleb to look at me.
“Adam,” I say, my voice sounding small.
“Are you a patient of Dr. B.’s as well, Adam?”
“No.”
“Ah, okay. Shame.” He grimaces. “So, Caleb, what do you do?”
“Um … go to high school?” Caleb answers, a blank look coming over his face.
“No”—Damien rolls his eyes, exasperated—“I mean, what’s your ability? I assume you’re an Atypical. Dr. B. doesn’t have any normal patients as far as I know.”
“I’m an empath,” Caleb says, like that’s not the biggest secret he has. I want to speak up, grab Caleb’s hand and get up and leave, but the more immediate part of me wants to stay, see where this goes. Now that he’s sitting with us, Damien doesn’t seem so bad.
“Huh.” Damien looks thoughtful, his mouth twisting like a scar in the middle of his face. “That means you feel the emotions of other people, right?”
“Basically.” Caleb shrugs.
“Ah,” Damien sighs. “That’s a bit of a disappointment.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb says, and sincere and righteous anger flares up inside of me, cutting through the out-of-place contentment I’d been sitting in moments before.
“Wait,” I interrupt, “why are you apologizing to him?”
“I want him to like me,” Caleb says, like he’s in a trance.
“What?” I get that Caleb likes to be Mr. Popular, but this is ridiculous. Caleb is looking at Damien like he’s the greatest thing he’s seen all week, and suddenly I’m drowning in jealousy. I know I should say something, have a discussion with him about this, but … I want Damien to like me too.
What the hell is happening?
“Ooh, that’s an interesting turn of events.” Damien grins, settling into the bench, looking like the king of the world. He’s actually not as awkward and odd-looking as he first appeared. There’s something attractive about him, something seductive—
“Damien?”
We all turn to look toward the voice, and see a girl a little older than me and Caleb, staring incredulously at us. All at once, I notice how sunny it is in the park, how in public we are. I’d forgotten where I was, drawn in by Damien.
“Oh boy,” Damien mutters before raising his voice and turning toward the girl. “Well, isn’t this just turning out to be a party?”
“Why are you scaring a couple of teenagers?” she demands, walking toward us, arms folded. I’m uneasy—her chambray shirt is covered in paint stains, hair a mess, wild intensity in her eyes. Is this park full of weirdos all the time?
“What makes you think I’m scaring them?” Damien asks sweetly.
“How do you think?” she snarks, jaw twitching.
“Ah, right”—Damien nods—“that pesky mind reader.”
“Damien,” she hisses, looking around her and stepping closer.
Wait, what did Damien just say?
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says in a placating tone, “we’re in privileged company. Caleb here is a patient of Dr. B.’s. Just ignore the other one.”
“Hey!�
�� Caleb shouts as I eke out an offended “Excuse me?” My head is a mess. I can’t decide who’s a friend and who’s a foe and all I want to do is put my hand in Caleb’s, bury my head in his shoulder, but he feels so far away from me.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” Caleb says, snapped out of his reverie, and I start to feel the warmth of his body again.
“I think you should get out of here, Damien,” the girl says, more fiercely than her hippie appearance and small stature would suggest was possible.
“Don’t you want to catch up?” Damien says flirtatiously. “Shoot the breeze? It’s been a minute.”
“Seriously,” she bites, “or I’ll call the police.”
“Okay, okay.” Damien puts his hands up, rising from the bench. “No need to go nuclear. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon anyway, Chloe. I daresay the tides are turning for ol’ Damien.”
“Just go,” she sneers.
“Ta-ta, kiddos.” Damien waves as he walks away. “Nice chatting with you boys.”
As he walks away, my head starts to clear, revealing a swirl of frustration. I don’t understand what just happened, but all I know is that my boyfriend was giving priority to some strange, older guy while I was sitting here, clearly uncomfortable. Was I uncomfortable? I can’t even remember anymore.
I wait until Damien reaches the edge of the park to speak.
“Well,” I start, “that was interesting.”
“Wait…” Caleb seems to be recalibrating. “Why are you angry? And why is it the ‘angry at Caleb’ kind of angry?”
“You can tell the difference?” I ask, momentarily distracted by the finer points of his power.
“It’s a very specific kind of angry,” he explains. “Like, disappointed and pissed all at once.” Yep, that pretty much nails it.
“‘I want him to like me’?” I echo Caleb’s own words back at him.
“What?” His face scrunches up as he turns to look at me.
“Was that…” I don’t even want to ask the question but it needs to be asked. “… flirting?”
“Ew, what?” Caleb looks genuinely disgusted, which soothes me a little. “God, he’s, like, ten years older than us!”
I can tell we’re about to get into a dumb argument when I hear—
“Um, boys?”
Both our heads snap toward the girl, still standing over us. Her hand is raised awkwardly in an effort to gain our attention, and I feel foolish having this fight (if that’s what it is) in front of her.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m Chloe.” She sticks out her hand for us to shake it. “Nice to meet you.”
* * *
A mind reader. A mind reader and a fucking mind controller. Or, no, that’s not what Damien is, apparently. He … pushes thoughts onto people? Emotions? That’s what Chloe—the mind reader—said.
I wouldn’t have guessed that getting coffee with a mind reader would be one of the least insane parts of my day, but it actually shed light on a lot of things. Chloe is a patient of Dr. Bright’s too, and she explained Damien’s power. How it wasn’t Caleb’s fault that he wanted Damien to like him. That’s how it works—Damien wants something and you want it too. And because Caleb is an empath, Damien’s want was doubled. He took the brunt of it for us and I feel horrifically guilty over my momentary jealousy.
Whatever you want to call what Damien does, it’s pretty terrifying, and I’m wondering if the name is a self-appointed moniker or a nice piece of prescient work on the part of his parents. Oh god, it really could be psychic parents, couldn’t it? That’s the realm of reality in which I now exist.
I need to lie down.
No. What I really need is more information. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is king. Knowledge can help me prepare for whatever crazy thing is going to get thrown at us next. It’s what’s going to help me be a good boyfriend to this incredible, unusual, strange, wonderful guy I’m dating. I need knowledge.
I hop off the kitchen counter, where I’d been sitting, staring blankly into space, and walk into my parents’ office to find my dad standing in front of his filing cabinet, flipping through folders.
“Dad?” I ask, feeling like a little kid, “can we talk?”
“Of course.” The filing cabinet drawer clicks shut as he turns to face me. “What’s on your mind?”
“You and Mom…” I start, twisting my watchband around my wrist. “You guys—what you do—your work, I mean—”
“Adam, are you okay?” He interrupts my nonsensical rambling, taking a step toward me with concern in his eyes.
“Do you want some tea?” I blurt, suddenly intimidated by my parents’ office in a way I haven’t been since I was small.
“Sure, kid.” He smiles, patting me on the shoulder, leading me out of the office and into the kitchen.
I go about my familiar tea-making routine in a heavy silence. Paranoid thoughts run around my head—does he know about Caleb? How could he know? What would he do if he did know? Should I tell him?
No. It’s not my secret to tell. And it’s not that I don’t trust my parents, but there are things I don’t know about them. That thought scares me more than any other.
“So,” my dad says as he hands me a mug, “what’s going on?”
“I’ve just been…” How do I ask him about Atypicals without telling him Atypicals exist? “I guess I’ve been curious about what you and Mom do.”
“Okay…” he leads.
“Yeah, so,” I flounder, “what exactly do you guys do?”
“What?” He smiles a bit, like a seventeen-year-old asking his parents about what they do for a living is silly and strange, which I guess it is.
“I get that you’re neuroscientists, but what do you actually do?” I ask again.
“Mostly research, these days.”
“You realize how vague that sounds, right?” I scoff, and he sighs heavily.
“Adam, we’ve been over this: a lot of our work is confidential,” he explains.
“But why?” I press. “You’re scientists, you’re not spies. And don’t give me any of that crap about brains being secret depending on whose brain it is, I get plenty of that from Mom,” I add when it looks like he’s going to feed me some company line he and Mom have predetermined.
“Son,” he starts, and it instantly puts my guard up, “we still know so little about the brain. We’ve made more progress in the past twenty years than the previous two thousand, but we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“Knowledge is important,” he says, as if that phrase isn’t used so much in this house that it might as well be embroidered on a pillow, “but sometimes more knowledge means more danger.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What danger?”
“Some people use knowledge as a weapon,” he says calmly. “The more we discover, the more opportunity there is for the wrong people to exploit that information for their own gain.”
Everything he’s saying makes sense. In his rational, warm voice, it sounds like the end of the discussion. But I’ve lived with my father for seventeen years. I’m his son. He can be as much of a closed book as anyone—other than my mom—but I can still tell when he’s hiding something.
“Is that all it’s about?” I push. “Hiding information from bad people?”
“What else would it be about?” he asks, and for a brief moment my dad is gone, replaced by some cold-blooded scientist examining a specimen.
“Well, like you said, there’s things we don’t know about the human brain,” I say, thinking of Caitlin and debate and throwing someone’s words back in their face to make a counterargument, “so isn’t it possible that there are some dangers in the brain itself?”
“Many would argue that there’s nothing more dangerous than the human brain.” My dad nods and I just barely resist rolling my eyes.
“Spare me the philosopher platitudes,” I groan. “You know wha
t I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” he says innocently. “What do you mean, boychik?”
Part of me wishes I could get the cold scientist back—I might get more out of him than my constantly concerned dad.
“Just…” I start, frustrated. He’s better at this than me. He knows how to argue and counterargue and keep me distracted, and all I want to know is if my boyfriend is in danger because his therapist has sketchy clients, and I have no idea how to get that information.
“Is there a chance that there are people out there with brains that … well, that are dangerous?” I ask. “And not just in the ‘people have the capacity for evil’ kind of way,” I continue, “but in, like, their brains are actually, physically dangerous.”
My dad leans back against the counter and fixes me with an inscrutable look. Oh god, he’s onto me. But how could he possibly be onto me?
“Physically dangerous in what way?” he asks lightly.
“Like, okay,” I say, hating how imperfect my speech is in this moment, “like, a mind reader would be an extreme example. And obviously that stuff isn’t real—”
My dad has tensed just slightly, and both my arms are immediately covered in goose bumps.
“But if we don’t know a lot about the human brain,” I continue, ignoring all the unspoken things that are hanging between us, “then it’s possible that the human brain can do, like, inhuman things, right?”
He stares at me, head tilted, before putting his mug down and crossing his arms.
“It’s certainly possible,” he says to the ground, his voice still in that casual “this is all hypothetical” register that never struck me as odd before now, “but, while there’s been plenty of speculation, nothing has ever been proven.”
We’re getting somewhere now, and I realize I need to be economical with my questions. I want to ask about Damien and Chloe—find out if my dad knows about mind control and telepathy (holy fuck, I still can’t believe those things are real)—but the most important thing is Caleb. He’s always first priority.
“Okay, so, let’s speculate.” I try to match his casualness. “If someone could do something like read minds, how would you deal with that?”
The Infinite Noise Page 24
