Silent Symmetry (The Embodied trilogy Book 1)

by JB Dutton

  Chapter 1

  Dream #8: I’m floating in space. But space is white and all the stars are black.

  Twelve years later and it was raining again. This time it was the New York variety, the kind that washes away bits of garbage and gum, the kind that forms rivers that swirl beside the busy sidewalks while pedestrians wait to cross.

  I glanced at the dashboard clock inside the small Korean sedan. Horns blared. “Don’t worry, Mom – I’m super early,” I reassured her, sensing the tension behind her wire-rimmed glasses, a tightness in her forehead underneath the brown curls now flecked with a few stray, white hairs.

  “I think this is it, pumpkin,” she announced, squinting through the wipers at a gray building just ahead.

  “Maybe today’s the day we put pumpkin out to pasture, Mom,” I smiled. “New city. New beginning...”

  Mom opened her mouth to speak, somehow surprised at the request, then nodded earnestly. “You’re right. Of course.”

  “Thanks. How about just ‘Kari’? Or ‘honey’, in a pinch.”

  “Sure thing, pum... honey.”

  I shook my head and smiled wider. She was doing her best. She’d always done her best with me. For me. When the headhunter had called the lab two months before and told her about the job in Manhattan, she’d said no – it’s too far, it’s not what we know. But when he’d mentioned the salary and benefits, plus the paid tuition at one of the city’s best schools, she’d envisioned a future where I could run instead of walk. Maybe even soar if I put my mind to it. And now here we were – first day of school for me, and first day as ToT Chief Software Engineer for Mom.

  She swerved over to the curb and pulled up abruptly. “I can’t park here, so just jump out.”

  I undid my seatbelt, leaned across and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Later! Good luck!”

  I heard a fading “Text me when you’re done... Kari,” as I opened the door to get out.

  “Sure!” I yelled back above the din of the splashing traffic. I slammed the car door with one hand, the other holding my laptop backpack over my head as a makeshift umbrella, in a vain attempt to keep my long, unruly hair dry.

  I hopped over puddles that lay between me and the school gate, then walked through it to the gothic-style entrance where the words carved into the stone above the doors – Chelsea Preparatory School – forced one corner of my mouth up into an ironic smirk. Preparatory? After losing my dad so young, you could say I’m prepared for anything.

  Other bedraggled students bustled past me, hurrying to find shelter. I took my time, soaking up my new surroundings. Chelsea Prep had been around for seventy-five years and clearly liked to create the impression that it was a couple of centuries older. Faux-gothic gargoyles on the gutters: check. Oak panels with gold script listing the team captains back to the 1930s: check. Echoey stone slabs as a floor: check. But I wasn’t buying into any of it.

  Sure, an Ivy League scholarship would be great, but the reason I pushed Mom to accept the job in New York was her bed. Or, to put it bluntly, the lack of a man in it. I knew how hard she had worked to keep her career going and maintain a decent lifestyle after Dad died, but did she really have to sacrifice any prospect of romance? Maybe there were no eligible bachelors in the tri-state area that fit Mom’s idea of a life partner? She’d only gone on a handful of dates over the last decade. Over-fishing may be a global ecological disaster-waiting-to-happen, but I was positive that there were plenty more fish in the Sea of Manhattan. I mean, Mom’s Sex and the City DVD collection couldn’t have been all fiction, could it?

  I strolled down the hallways, musing about maybe a divorced staff member who I could engineer to bump into Mom at a PTA meeting. No, wait – aim higher – a vice-principal who, like Mom, had concentrated on his career and now in his late-thirties was off the romance radar. He would be kind and educated, but not a snob and – oh! – there it was: Room 8A, as per the email. My new homeroom.

  I entered and time slowed to a crawl.

  Then it jumped back twelve years to that fateful Saturday afternoon the cops phoned Mom with the news about Dad. Because I had the exact same feeling again. The second I walked through the door, I knew something was wrong.

  There were only two people in the room: a tall, slim guy my own age, and an older gentleman wearing a black suit and black dress shirt. So far, nothing too weird: student and teacher, right? But they were holding hands. Both hands at once, staring straight into each other’s eyes in front of the teacher’s desk. They stayed like that for several seconds, then both turned their heads slowly toward me before letting go of their hands.

  It was beyond creepy.

  The man walked past me, expressionless, without making a sound. He closed the door as he exited.

  “This is the right classroom, isn’t it?” I asked the boy. Stupid question – how would he know?

  “Yes,” he answered. The word was spoken ever so softly, but I heard it clear as a bell in a silent church, almost like the sound was coming from inside my own head.

  “I... I...” I was literally speechless. He was looking at me blankly, just like the man, but there was something fascinating about his face. Not classically handsome, with lips too full for a boy and a wide forehead beneath straight dark hair, evenly trimmed just above his shoulders. What was it about him that made me feel so strange and yet so attracted? He was dressed simply enough in a black long-sleeved tee and black jeans, but there was something I couldn’t decipher. Was it the chocolate eyes? His relaxed hands by his slender hips? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I must have been frowning.

  “Don’t frown,” he said, in the same soft tone.

  “Sorry – I... I’m Kari,” I stammered. “And you are?”

  “Noon.”

  “Like, as in, midday?” I ventured, totally not expecting the answer to be yes.

  “Yes,” he said, and I felt kinda silly.

  “So you were born right on the stroke of 12 p.m. to parents with little imagination?” I groaned inside. I was making a total ass of myself in the space of half a minute. “Crap, that sounded bad.”

  He smiled for the first time. And I felt a wave of eff-knows-what sweep over me.

  The door opened and three girls pushed past me as though I wasn’t there, chatting and taking off their raincoats. Noon continued staring at me with his soft-yet-piercing gaze. I felt other people swarm past me but I was mesmerized. The spell was finally broken with a bang when the teacher slammed his briefcase down on the desk and spoke to me. Even then, it took him two attempts to break through my bubble.

  “You must be Kari,” he said as he noisily unpacked his books. “Unless you aren’t Kari?” he continued, puzzled.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry, I was – ”

  “Don’t worry,” he interrupted, “I’m Mr. Jefferson. Welcome to Chelsea Prep. Take a seat at the back there, one desk in from the window.” He motioned with his head, and I finally felt like my legs were no longer rooted to the spot.

  The classroom quickly filled with students. The usual mix of shy and outgoing, stupid and smart, cool and geeky. Nothing too foreign, nothing I couldn’t get used to fast. The only anomaly was Noon, who said very little and moved even less. The guy next to me was cute, although kind of flustered. I soon found out why: his homework assignment was missing and he didn’t want to say what had happened.

  “You’ll need to come up with something more creative than ‘my dog ate my homework’,” announced Mr. Jefferson condescendingly, causing everyone to snicker at the unfortunate kid.

  “You try living in a daycare,” was the boy’s sullen response.

  “What happened, Cruz?” sighed the teacher.

  “A little girl got a hold of it and flushed it down the toilet,” he muttered, staring down at his desk. The entire class burst out laughing.

  “Yo, it ain’t funny!” shouted Cruz, turning red with embarrassment. Noon, who up until now had been an almost-invisible presence, sud
denly spoke. The laughter died down abruptly.

  “I admire Cruz for helping out at home with no father around.”

  “Thanks, bro,” acknowledged Cruz with a sideways glance in Noon’s direction.

  During the whole exchange, Noon had continued to stare straight ahead. There were whispers between the other students. Noon was obviously as disturbing a presence for the others as he was for me.

  “Okay, okay, take out your algebra textbooks,” said Mr. Jefferson. The whispering subsided. “Cruz, can you re-do it tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Alright. And maybe keep your assignments out of the reach of toddlers in future.”

  As Cruz nodded, he caught my eye. And his face spoke of barely-suppressed anger mixed with incredible sadness. I wondered what his story was. Did he lose his father in an accident, like me? Why was he at this school? He didn’t fit in here any more than Noon did, but for different reasons. You could tell that most of the other kids in the classroom had parents with money. I mean, of course they did – there was no way Mom could have paid for tuition on her own salary – but Cruz appeared to be lacking the others’ air of entitlement. Okay, I’ll just say it: he looked and acted like a poor kid. Threadbare tee, jeans faded from overuse (rather than distressed to look hip), crooked buzz cut, no-name sneakers.

  But at the same time, there was something honest about Cruz, a vibe that I can’t say I felt from the other kids in the class. I guess I must have been staring at him. He was seated between me and Noon, who, once again, slowly turned his head to face me. My face got super hot all of a sudden and I switched back to my textbook. I hope he didn’t notice. He’s so cute. I mean, they both are. I mentally slapped myself on the cheek and told myself to pay attention to the teacher.